The Mongoliad: Book Three

I go. If we can free the prisoners, then the Mongols will be fighting on two fronts. There are-how many? Two dozen?” He glanced at Hans, who nodded. “Was this not the reason Andreas wanted to make contact with them? They have the same enemy. Given the chance, I know they will fight at our sides.” Styg gestured at Hans. “He knows as well. These men are our allies. We can trust them.” He thrust his chin toward the sprawl, away from the Mongol camp. “What if the others do not come?”

“By the Virgin,” Rutger swore, “you are going to haunt me forever, aren’t you?”

Hans did not follow Rutger’s speech, and as he glanced at the other Rose Knights, he saw that many of them did not understand their master’s question either. Rutger passed his hand across his face, covering his eyes for a brief moment. His fingers were bent and crooked, and they shook. “Very well,” he sighed, lowering his hand.

“But not the boy,” he amended, cutting off Styg’s enthusiastic reply. “The boy stays on this side of the wall, with someone to watch over him.”

Styg nodded, curbing his tongue.

“Go,” Rutger said. “Before I change my mind. Wait for us to draw their attention.”

Before he saw the chapter house, Dietrich expected to smell it: the burning fragrance of green wood, the crisp tang of smoldering meat, the hearty aroma of baking bread. But as his horse trotted along the narrow path, he smelled none of that. There was only the scent of wet ash in the air, the morning dew still damp on partially burned logs that had lost their heat during the night.

Concerned, he snapped his reins against his horse’s neck. There was only one reason why he would be smelling cold fires, and as he broke through the edge of the clearing, he quickly saw that his fear was well- founded.

The chapter house was deserted.

The central building of the old monastery was a pile of rubble scattered across the northern verge of the clearing as if the chapel had been knocked over a half century ago by the idle hand of God, and an arc of roofless outbuildings abutted the ragged front porch of the chapel. A small graveyard bounded with a low stone wall lay to the east, and the forest encroached from the west, taking over what had once been the monastery’s pasture; Dietrich spied a number of stout trunks arranged along the leading edge of the birch and oak trees. Archery stands, he noted, his eyes picking up other signs that the ruins had recently been inhabited. A thin strand of white smoke curled up slowly from one of the circular fire pits on his left. Picket stakes, minus the rope between them, had been driven into the ground next to the graveyard. Other bits of wood sticking out of the ground indicated where the tents had been, and a long scrap of dirty cloth still clung to the jagged stones of a large gap in one of the walls of the chapel.

The Shield-Brethren had been here recently, and they had not been gone long. The midafternoon sun shone down on a camp that had been hastily and recently abandoned, put into disarray by the chaos of a rapid departure.

Through the breach in the forest, the Mongols poured into the camp. Dietrich’s charger snorted and pawed the ground as the Mongols flowed around them as if they were a stone in the midst of the torrential flood that had just broken through a dam. Dietrich tried to calm his horse as Tegusgal passed nearby, barking orders at his men. Mongols slid off their horses and disappeared into the old stone ruins.

Tegusgal pointed at Dietrich, snapping more orders, and Dietrich didn’t need Pius to translate. The Mongol’s displeasure was readily evident on his face.

“Wait,” Dietrich shouted, holding up his hands. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw several Mongols raising their bows. He was out of time. “The Shield-Brethren were here,” he said, “But they haven’t run away. They aren’t cowards.” When an arrow didn’t immediately pierce him, he paused long enough to take a breath and look around for the priest. He had to make them understand. If even for only a few minutes more. Long enough for him to…

Pius was still alive, huddling on his horse like a wet rag draped across a saddle. Dietrich waved his hand at the shivering priest. “Tell him,” he snapped. “Tell him what I just said. Our lives depend on it.”

Pius began to translate, but his voice was so soft that Dietrich could barely hear him and he shouted at the priest to speak more loudly. Pius flinched, nearly fell off his horse, and started again.

“Your mighty force outnumbers them,” Dietrich continued when Pius’s translation elicited no arrows. “They would be fools to simply wait for you here. How defensible is that chapel?” He pointed at the broken building behind Tegusgal. “How long could they keep your men from breaching its walls? The history of their order goes back many, many years, and it has never been their way to lie down and die when confronted by hardship. They are at their most dangerous when you think you have them cornered.”

Dietrich glared at Pius as the priest faltered in his translation. Under Dietrich’s insistent gaze, the priest shuddered and then continued translating.

While the priest spoke, Dietrich let his reins go slack in his hands, and he tightened his right leg against his charger’s barrel. The horse flicked its ears and shook its head as it started to perambulate.

Tegusgal frowned, turning in the saddle as the men he’d sent to search the old building reemerged. The look on their faces was all Dietrich needed to see. They tried to make a report, but Tegusgal cut them off with an angry wave.

“He’s going to kill us,” Pius hissed, and Dietrich waved him quiet.

As his horse ambled in a wide arc, Dietrich used the animal’s motion to indicate the ring of trees surrounding the ruined monastery. “Where would you hide if you had fewer men?” he asked.

Tegusgal’s eyes flickered toward the tree line as Pius translated the question. In that instant, when the Mongol commander’s attention-as well as the attention of most of his archers-wasn’t on him, Dietrich snatched up his reins and drummed his heels against his horse’s barrel. He was pointing in almost the right direction-the narrow breach in the woods that was the path they had followed to the Shield-Brethren camp.

If he could make it that far, he might have a chance.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The Night of the Fish Gutter

Night came quickly in the mountains, and as the sky bled to black, the warmth of the day vanished. A half dozen bonfires were built, crackling piles of orange and yellow flame, and their light and heat summoned everyone to the center of the camp. A wooden platform was raised for the Khagan so that he could watch the festivities and all of his subjects could watch him eat and drink. Beside the platform, a gladiator ring had been erected, and already there were clusters of moneylenders haggling over bets.

The festival would last a good part of the night.

Master Chucai prowled along the periphery of the long fire pits where the Khagan’s numerous cooks worked furiously. They didn’t have the luxury of the permanent kitchens of the palace at Karakorum, but they were managing to craft an endless variety of baked and stewed and sweetly charred victuals. Occasionally, Chucai would stop a servant, loaded down with a steaming tray of food, and sample something off the top of the plate as he reiterated his desire to speak with the leader of the Darkhat.

The servant would nod, scurry off to deliver his tray of hot food, and upon his return, he would tell Chucai the same thing as all the others before him: the Khagan was in a most jovial mood and was enjoying Ghaltai’s company; the Darkhat commander felt it was unseemly to excuse himself at this time.

Chucai chafed at being denied, and what irritated him even further was the fact that he could not simply interrupt the Khagan’s meal and demand to speak-privately-with the Darkhat commander. Ogedei was annoyed with him, and it was likely the Khagan would simply berate him for interrupting the dinner party with what Ogedei-in his addled state-would think was nothing more than Chucai’s constant meddling in the affairs of the empire.