The Mongoliad: Book Three

Mongols had decided the height of the walls was security enough, and the presence of men on the walls would only attract archers.

In which case getting up this side of the wall was the easy part. Once at the top, Styg and Eilif could take a quick peek. Hopefully they wouldn’t be peering into a nest of suspicious and angry Mongols, waiting for foolish knights to do exactly what they were doing.

Using a wooden mallet and tent stakes, Styg cautiously ascended the mud-brick wall, leaving behind a trail of hand-and footholds for Eilif to follow. Hans sucked in his breath and held it as Styg reached the top of the wall and- very gingerly-eased his head up until he could peek over the top of the wall. Styg risked a quick glance, and then raised his head slowly to take a longer look at the Mongol camp. Hans half expected the Shield-Brethren’s head to snap back, a Mongol arrow in his eye, but nothing happened. After a slow and methodical examination of the compound, Styg retreated down the stakes to join Eilif at the base of the wall. He looked toward Hans and Maks’s hiding place and flashed them a quick smile.

The route was clear. All they needed was a distraction.

“That’s it,” Maks breathed. “They’re ready.” Letting out a huge whoosh of pent-up air, he clapped Hans on the shoulder. “Let’s go, my friend. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Hans hesitated, staring at the series of stakes pounded into the wall. Maks’s hand tightened on Hans’s shoulder, as if he sensed the direction of Hans’s thoughts. He held Hans back like one would hold a hound back from a downed bird.

Hans stared at the stakes. In his mind, he was already scaling them…

Dietrich felt no pain from the arrow, and the fletching bounced in response to the motion of his horse and not in time with it, suggesting that the head of the arrow had failed to fully penetrate the maille of his chausson. He grasped the shaft, and without applying much pressure at all, worked the arrow free. Mongol arrows were shorter than those used by Christian archers, and the tips were less uniform in construction. This one was a ragged shard of white bone lashed to the wooden shaft, and the very tip of it was stained with blood.

A more religious man would have attributed his safety to the hand of God, slowing the arrow’s flight so that it barely creased his flesh, but Dietrich recognized that his luck was more due to the animal between his legs than divine intervention. He threw the arrow away, and squeezed his legs more tightly around his horse’s barrel.

His thoughts went to Father Pius for a moment, and he wondered as to the priest’s fate. There was no point, however, in dwelling on what had happened to the priest. He’s with God now.

What had he said to Tegusgal earlier that afternoon? God willing, he wouldn’t die today. So far, God appeared to be listening, but He was certainly taking others to His breast. How long do I have? Dietrich wondered.

His horse crossed fallow farmland at a gallop. Hopefully the open terrain and his charger’s stride were increasing the lead he had on the Mongols. He glanced back once, but his horse was running so hard that it was difficult to judge distances with the constant juddering motion of the horse. Far enough for now, he thought. As his horse leaped over a narrow streamlet and reached the rougher ground along the river, Dietrich made up his mind and turned his mount south. Back toward Hunern.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

One of Our Khans Is Missing

It was hard to sit and wait. Riding across the endless steppe had been trying for many reasons, and each of the company had dealt with the exhaustion and hardship of the journey in his or her own way, but there was no good way to pass the time while sitting still in enemy territory and waiting.

The Shield-Brethren were camped a half day’s ride from Karakorum, the capital of the Mongol empire. The city sat on a wide plain, not far from a river left shallow and sluggish after a dry fall, its course a deep cut across the flat plain. At night they could see the glow in the south of the many torches, lanterns, and fires from the city, and during the day they walked the horses in the narrow depression where they made their camp, cleaned their gear, and kept watch for any movement on the plain.

They spoke little. They had been in each other’s company for many months now and were all comfortable enough with each other that none felt the need for making idle chatter, which left them alone with their respective thoughts. Some, like Yasper and Istvan, found a great deal of entertainment there; others-and Raphael knew he was guilty of this as much if not more than the rest-dwelled on the past.

The last entry he had written in his journal had been the night at the rock when Feronantus had turned down Benjamin’s offer to guide them to Karakorum. Feronantus had used an old maxim inflicted upon all the trainees during their first year at Petraathen as his rationale, but Raphael suspected Feronantus had said it for the company’s benefit as well.

Each of our lives have no meaning, except that which we give them by our deeds, and by how our comrades remember us.

He had written it down that night, when he had been unable to sleep. Since then, every time he had opened his journal, those words quelled any desire he had to continue the record of his journey.

He did not want to be one upon whom it fell to record the deeds of his fallen comrades.

He had been holding a piece of charcoal for some time, his fingers now black with dust, when his endless reverie was disturbed by a tiny motion on the plain. He propped himself up on his elbows, shading his eyes. Two horses, one rider. Riding north. He waited until he was sure, and then he slid down the bank to tell the others that Cnan was coming back from Karakorum.

Whatever he had meant to write could wait, he decided.

Yasper was ecstatic when he realized the second horse was laden with supplies. In fact, he was so overjoyed that the others stood back and let him single-handedly unburden the horse of its saddlebags, caskets, satchels, and boxes. He arranged everything on the ground beside the horse and proceeded to open every bag and container and take stock of the supplies that Cnan had procured. “By Aristotle’s hairy knuckles,” he swooned as he opened a lacquer box and discovered tiny sugar-glazed cakes. “They’re still warm.”

“What’s the bad news?” Feronantus asked.

Cnan offered him a rolled scroll, and went to sit on the rough-hewn bench that Eleazar and R?dwulf had constructed the other morning in an effort to stave off boredom. Stiffly, she began to unwind the dirty wraps wound around her lower legs. “He’s not there,” she said.

“Who?” Percival asked.

“Where?” R?dwulf asked at the same time.

Feronantus started to unroll the scroll, and waved Raphael over to help him. Together they unwound the long piece of cloth and revealed the map Cnan had acquired. It was beautifully done in watercolor, with the intricate markings that Raphael knew were Chinese. Delicately drawn white and pink blossoms scaled up one side of the map, and nestled in a bramble at the top were three long-beaked birds with red streaks on their wings.

“Ogedei is not in Karakorum,” Cnan explained as she pulled off her boots and wiggled her toes. “He left over a week ago, heading north into the mountains.”

Raphael peered at the map, trying to figure out locations from the few geographical details that were present. He thought he found the Orkhun River, the one that lay a few hundred paces to the west of their current location, and along its bank was Karakorum. He tapped the map, and Feronantus nodded, concurring with his guess. He ran his finger toward the end he held, the top of the map, trying to make sense of the lines and markings.

“Is that where his winter palace is?” Feronantus asked.

Cnan shook her head. “He’s not going to his winter palace. Not yet. He’s off on a pilgrimage.” She finished flexing her toes and looked over at Feronantus with a tiny smile. “The good news is that he didn’t take all of his Imperial Guard with him.”