The Mongoliad: Book Three

blade that had sprouted from his chest. He jerked and collapsed to his knees as the curved sword was savagely pulled out, and his friend fumbled for his own sword. He got his blade half out of its scabbard when the bloody sword sliced his throat open. He stumbled and fell, landing on his stomach, head turned toward Styg-staring, his mouth gaping like a dying fish, blood spurting from the mortal gash in his throat.

The sword-wielder who had saved Styg was the fighter he had freed from the post. He was shorter than Styg by half a head, but compactly built, thick muscles crisscrossed with pale, white scars. His face was a study in brutality, like a weathered chunk of wood carved with a dull chisel.

After making sure that the skewed Mongol was expiring, the scarred man shoved the dying man over, and offered Styg his hand. Styg grasped the man’s rough hand and was hauled upright. “Thank you,” Styg said. He made a fist and put it over his heart. The fighter stared at him for a second, searching his face with his dark, emotionless eyes, and then he made a noise in his chest and made a similar motion.

Little more needed to be said.

Styg’s legs shook slightly as he picked up his longsword, the proximity of his death starting to sink in. When he stood up, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he tried to breathe slowly through his nose and mouth. Deep, calming breaths.

The scarred warrior was striding toward the orange tent.

Styg shook himself like a dog, trying to shed the last remnants of the death fear that had nearly gripped him, and then he hurried after the other man.

Tegusgal forced his mount into the river, ignoring the sporadic arrows that splashed nearby in the water. The current rode up on his legs as his horse struggled to keep its footing in the deepening water. Nearing the center of the river, his horse would be forced to swim, and he peered through the acrid haze from the burning barrels, trying to find a flat stretch on the opposite bank where he could drive his mount ashore.

His men were scattered. Trapped against the river and hammered by a ferocious host, his men had fallen back on their traditional tactic of splitting and flowing around the force assaulting them, but there had been nowhere to go. Splitting meant fracturing into smaller groups, and those groups had little chance against the mounted knights. They were being chased up and down the river bank, cut down like wild dogs as they fled. Tegusgal was one of them-a dog running for his life. He struggled to stay in his saddle as the current sloshed angrily around his horse, trying to scoop him free of his mount.

If he let the current take him, his armor would drag him down. The river was too deep and the bank too far. His horse lost its footing and began to swim, and the current pulled him under the bridge, the rushing roar of water blotting out every other sound. A body rushed past him, slamming into one of the wooden piles. The man was still alive, his mouth gaping in a rictus of terror as he tried to hang on to the bridge, but the river threw water over him and he slipped under the surface.

Tegusgal and his horse shot out from under the bridge, buoyed along by the increased churn of the river. His horse struggled, its head straining toward the opposite shore. It needed no encouragement from him. He held on to the reins, and a heartbeat later, he felt the animal’s movement stutter beneath him as its hooves found the bottom again. With a mighty surge the horse rushed the bank and emerged from the river.

He could not think of a more beautiful sound than the noise of hooves against stones. His horse grunted and strained as it clattered up the bank. Water streamed out of his armor, his clothes, and his saddlebags, and he wished it would run out faster. As soon as the horse reached level ground, he pulled back on the reins and forced it to stop. He didn’t want to look, but he had to see what was left of his men. Humiliation and outrage at what he saw ignited a fire in his gut. The knights were massing near the bridge, having completed their destruction of his men. They were moving the barrels already, pairs of men rolling them off the bridge. In a few minutes, the host would ride across the bridge, returning to Hunern.

Tegusgal had little doubt where they intended to go, and he dug his heels into his horse, urging it toward Hunern. He wouldn’t be able to get to his master soon enough to warn him of the coming assault, but he would be able to help Onghwe escape.

Escape. He spat, trying to clear his mouth of the bitterness of the word. If he survived, he would summon the wrath of the entire empire. He would make these knights pay with their lives.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The Company, Divided

They followed the Khagan’s caravan. The track of hundreds of men and horses, along with an endless number of carts, was easy to follow. After two weeks of constant riding, they left the steppes behind and followed the tracks into a forest around the base of a tall mountain. The following day, the forward riders found sign of an extensive camp, and the company sequestered themselves in the forest while Cnan slipped into the camp to find news of the Khagan’s plan.

R?dwulf and Yasper were on watch, and they were surprised to see her so quickly. As she rode past their hiding place, they continued to eye the forest suspiciously. “Were you followed?” R?dwulf asked.

“No,” Cnan said breathlessly. “There is something else I have to tell Feronantus.”

“What?” Yasper asked.

“I found Haakon,” she said.

“Haakon?” Yasper was incredulous.

She nodded. “He’s a prisoner in the Khagan’s camp.”

The others, when they heard the news, immediately began to discuss plans for rescuing the boy. Feronantus cut that discussion short with a chop of his hand. “The Khagan,” he said. “What of his plans?”

“He is going to hunt a bear,” Cnan said. “In a valley north of here. They had an enormous feast last night, which means they are planning on heading out soon. Probably in the morning.”

“Then we leave immediately, and find the bear first,” Feronantus said. “That will be our opportunity-our only opportunity.”

The company fell silent, and though Cnan could tell that Feronantus wanted them to be moving, to be getting on their horses and riding north to find the bear and lay a trap for the Khagan, she had been with the Shield-Brethren long enough to sense why Feronantus was waiting. The company would ride faster once they were all thinking of the same goal.

Right now, there was another matter still on their minds…

“What about Haakon?” Raphael asked.

Feronantus stared at him, his gaze hard and unflinching, as if he was disappointed that it was Raphael who had finally voiced the question.

And yet, at the same time, Cnan knew Raphael was the only one who would have voiced the question on everyone’s mind. It wasn’t insolence that led Raphael to question Feronantus’s orders, it was a different quality entirely.

“Our mission is to kill the Khagan,” Feronantus said softly. “How does risking ourselves and exposing our presence aid our mission?”

“What happens after?” Cnan asked, surprised that it was her voice that broke the somber silence.

“After?” Feronantus asked her in return.

“Aye,” Raphael said. “After we kill the Khagan.”

Yasper groaned. “Do we really have to talk about this now?”

“We should never talk about it,” Vera said, her face hard. “It only creates fear. We all know what happens.”

Yasper stroked his beard. “Well, if you’re going to put it that way, now is the right time to talk about it.” He peered at Feronantus. “What does happen after we kill the