The Mongoliad: Book One

CHAPTER 24: THE BRAWL AT THE BRIDGE

Hans’s deputy told them the priest was not going to visit the Shield-Brethren alone, but in the company of two Livonian Knights. Their destination lay across the river and past the battlefields where the armies of Christendom had been defeated by the Mongols—a route that, even after a few months, was not safe for a solitary priest. As they were making the trip on horseback, they would have to travel to the west—to reach the bridge that had been built over the river—before they could swing north.

If they wanted to intercept the priest, they would do well to do so before he reached the bridge. Hans, with a smile, informed Kim that he knew a shortcut.

Hans led Kim on an utterly confusing footrace through the seediest of the seedy places that filled the bulk of the makeshift slum: past impromptu drink houses (so denoted by patchwork roofs of canvas strung haphazardly between the remnants of ruined walls), slipping and dodging the pools of filth and waste strewn in the back; through fields of ragged tents, laid nearly atop one another; across blackened fields that were still nothing more than mud and ash, filled with piles of detritus and scrap that were the refuse of the refuse diggers.

Kim was not surprised such routes existed through the city; all natives quickly learned the most expedient way to travel from one location to another. He knew many similar routes through Byeokrando, in fact, and had surprised a number of rough characters on several occasions by suddenly appearing in front of them when they thought they had left him behind. He followed Hans closely, trying to step where the youth stepped, matching the handholds as they clambered over piles of trash and rubble.

Before long, Kim began to get glimpses of Pius and the two knights through the clutter of tents and lean-tos. The escorts’ mounts were less bowlegged than the mule Pius was riding. Beneath their surcoats—emblazoned with the red cross and sword they had seen on the standard—the knights wore mail shirts that extended past their waists. Their gauntlets were stiffened leather, and their helms were short cones of metal with crosspieces running across the front and extending down over their noses. They wore swords on their belts and each carried a long spear—a pole longer than his staff and topped with a pointed blade several inches long.

Kim nudged Hans as the young man slowed down, pointing ahead of them toward where the slum thinned out. The bridge, exhibiting all the hallmarks of Mongolian engineering, was a choke point controlled by the Khan. Kim would not be surprised if there was a levy collected on all travelers who used it; Onghwe Khan knew that most travelers would submit to parting with a few coins versus fording the narrow river on their own. Such methods of taxation had become an integral part of the Great Khan’s empire. And anywhere money was collected, there would be security—at least an arban of Mongolian troops who would be much more rigorous in their duties than the lazy soldiers guarding the camp.

If he was going to catch up with Pius, he had to do it before the priest reached the bridge.

Hans nodded, understanding the need, and altered his route accordingly. After leaping over a foul-smelling trench of shit and piss, they skirted a copse of scraggly pine trees that ran close to the road. The road kinked slightly at the trees, and there was a small stretch of ground where the view from the bridge was partially blocked.

Useful, just in case the conversation wasn’t entirely peaceful.

Hans hung back, hiding among the trees, while Kim stepped into the path of the oncoming riders and planted his staff on the ground. “Pius,” he called. “A word, if you please.”

The three riders were startled, and Kim noticed that the knight on his right had trouble controlling his horse. The animals were skittish, not bred for combat.

“Ki…Kim,” Father Pius said. “I have not completed my errands.” His eyes tracked back and forth between the two knights flanking him.

“Yes, Pius, I know,” Kim said. “When we met, I asked you to deliver my note to the men who wore the red rose.” He took a few steps closer to the trio as he used his staff to point to the knight on his left. “While that mon is red, it is not a rose. It looks not unlike that cross you wear about your own neck.”

“They…ah…” Father Pius nervously played with the reins of his mule. “They are my escort. Not every road is safe for a man of God.”

“I see,” Kim said. He was even closer now. If he stayed too far from the knights, they could charge him, and while the ground was open enough that he might be able to evade the thrusts of their spears, a running fight against a man on horseback was a foolish battle for a man on foot. It was much better to be in close, where the benefit of being on a horse was lessened. Especially a horse that was not trained for combat. “And when you went to these men, did you only ask for their aid, or did you discuss another matter?”

From the way Father Pius blanched, Kim had his answer, but he gave no outward indication other than to relax his grip on his staff. The one on the left, he thought.

Pius flapped his reins. “Out of my way,” he snorted, trying to goad his mule into motion, but the animal showed no sign of budging.

The knight closest to Kim leaned forward and jabbed his spear at Kim, lending a martial imperative to the priest’s command. Kim whipped up his staff as he took a deep step forward, batting the tip of the spear to the outside. The knight’s arm was above Kim’s head, an unnatural and exposed position to be in during a spear fight, and Kim jabbed the tip of his staff deep into the mounted man’s exposed armpit.

The knight recoiled, his spear flopping in his suddenly weak grip. He tried to bring the point back to bear on Kim. Kim whipped his staff to his left, smacking the knight’s arm hard, and then flipped the tip to the right—left hand forward and down, right hand drawing back—connecting solidly with the side of the knight’s head.

The whole exchange happened so quickly that it seemed to be one fluid reaction to the knight’s thrust with his spear. Pius’s mule, still being reluctant to respond to its rider’s commands, started in surprise as the knight fell off his horse with a chingling thud. The other knight swore and kicked his own horse in the ribs, trying to get into a better position. He charged Kim, thrusting with his spear, but Kim was already moving to put the riderless horse between them.

The knight charged off into the fallow pasture beside the road, getting enough distance from Kim that he could turn his animal safely. Far enough to generate some speed on his return, making his mount an effective weapon as well. Not a bad tactic.

Kim picked up the fallen knight’s spear and took a moment to turn and poke Pius’s mule with the tip. Not enough to wound the animal, but enough to make it react. The mule reared, dumping Pius on the ground, and Kim turned his attention to the remaining knight.

The knight’s horse was still skittish, and when he didn’t charge immediately, Kim glanced over at the knight he had unseated, and seeing he was conscious, he stepped over and smacked the man in the head with the butt of his spear. Stay down.

The knight abandoned his horse. The animal was too uncontrollable, and Kim was surrounded by supine bodies and other animals. There was no advantage to charging into that mix. On the ground, at least, they would be more equally classed. He approached Kim cautiously, his spear held in a grip that positioned the weapon across his body—butt near his head, point directed at the ground. It didn’t seem that aggressive of a stance, and so Kim remained still, the tip of his spear pointed at his approaching adversary. Waiting for him to make a move.

As the knight came closer, he raised his tip slightly, and then he came on in a rush, beating Kim’s point aside to clear the line for a thrust. Kim, moving more quickly, stepped into the man’s attack—past the lazy point that would have struck him had he remained still. He brought the butt end of his spear around in a quick smash to the man’s head. The knight pulled up short, yanking his head back, and only caught part of Kim’s butt against his helmet. His eyes widened as he realized where his face was, and he tried to pull back even farther as Kim drove the end of the spear into his nose.

Cartilage crunched and blood spewed out of the man’s broken nose. Kim stepped back with his left leg, putting some distance between them now, and he brought the tip of his spear up and around, smacking the other man’s spear down so that the point buried itself in the ground. The man tried to hang on to his weapon. His face was a mass of blood and snot, and his teeth were bared as if he could scare Kim off with his monstrous expression.

Kim—centered, coiled, calm—looked him in the eye and then snapped his hips forward, driving all his energy up his trunk, into his arms, and into the arc of the moving spear. The impact—high on the knight’s chest, above the red cross on his surcoat—lifted him off his feet.

He landed in a heap and made no move to rise. Kim tossed both spears toward the cluster of trees, far enough away that no one would think of them as readily accessible, and returned to the fallen priest.

Pius was senseless, more from nerves and shock than any obvious blow to the head, but he was still breathing. Kim didn’t waste any time trying to revive him; he had had enough of the priest’s scurrilous behavior. He rummaged through the man’s satchel and found what he was looking for. In fact, he found more than one.

Hans was at his elbow suddenly, pulling at his sleeve. “The guards,” the young man said, pointing. A handful of Mongolians, astride their short ponies, were coming in their direction from the bridge. “We need to go.”

Kim fumbled with the pair of small scrolls. Neither was sealed, though it looked like one had been at one time—there were still bits of wax stuck to the edge. They both seemed to start with the same letters. Kim Alcheon, Last of the Flower Knights, to Feronantus…he imagined the words read. The unsealed one appeared to have been written more hurriedly, though what it said he could not divine.

“There is no time,” Hans said, trying to get his attention.

Kim grabbed the young man’s shirt and thrust both scrolls at him. “The Shield-Brethren,” he said, holding Hans’s attention. Is there someone you could trust more? “Are they honorable?”

Hans squirmed in his grip, clearly more concerned about the approaching Mongols than a conversation about honor.

Kim held him tight. “Will they protect you?”

Hans stopped and met Kim’s gaze. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, they will.”

“Go, then,” Kim said, taking a quick glance at the approaching riders. “Take them these messages. One of them is true. One is not. Both may have value to them. They will understand.” They have to; my time has run out. He shoved Hans toward the trees. “Run, Hans. Run all the way.”

One last glance over his shoulder was all Hans needed as encouragement, and he grabbed the scrolls from Kim and darted away, running like a rabbit for the security of the slum’s maze.

Kim watched him go and then let out a long breath, letting all the tension flow from his body. He bent to pick up his staff, and as he stood, he pushed back his hood. The sun felt good against his face, and he waited until the leader of the Mongol group shouted at him before he turned around.

When they heard the signal—the distinct weeka weeka weeka of the black-tailed godwit—Andreas and his students stopped their sparring. After the last unannounced visitor, they were more sensitive to the appearance of strangers in the wood surrounding their Brethren chapter house. Weapons in hand, they moved toward the front of the ruined monastery—not aggressively, but with a clear unfriendly disposition.

A hooded figure emerged from the tree line, guiding a small figure. The sentry’s name was Eilif, a blond-haired phantom of the woods, and his captive was a scrawny lad, yet lithe and active—this boy wasn’t like the typical urchins who seemed to spring out of the ruins like weeds growing in an unplowed field. “Said he has a message for Feronantus,” Eilif said as the group of Shield-Brethren gathered around.

“Does he now?” Andreas said, appraising the boy. It was not lost on him that the boy seemed to know a little Latin; he tried to seem bored and without a care, but his eyes tracked them too well. He was listening intently to their words. “Was he alone?” he asked Eilif.

“Been following him since the river.”

Andreas nodded. Eilif took that as a dismissal and faded back into the trees, vanishing once again to his phantasmal role as the chapter house’s watchful eye.

“Boy,” Andreas said, catching the youth’s attention, “what message do you bring?”

“For the leader of the Red Rose,” the boy said, haltingly. He pointed to the standard flying over the ruined monastery.

“I’m their leader,” Andreas said. “You can give it to me.”

The boy screwed up his face and shook his head. “Feronantus,” he said, holding steady to his demand.

Andreas squatted and looked the boy squarely in the face, intrigued by the youth’s persistence. The youth didn’t know Feronantus wasn’t here, but he knew enough of the Shield-Brethren master to know that Andreas wasn’t the man he was looking for. “Who sent you?” he asked, wondering whom the boy had been talking to. Haakon? The Mongol camp continued to rebuff their inquiries about the fate of their missing Brother. It had been more than two weeks since the young fighter had gone through the Red Veil, and no one had been able to discover what had happened. The mood among the Shield-Brethren was turning more and more murderous, and Rutger had his hands full with their tempers in check.

“Flower Knight,” the boy said, and when that name failed to produce any response from Andreas, he performed an exaggerated pantomime—whirling his hands around.

Like he is swinging a staff, Andreas realized. The boy had no real training, and the technique was raw and unformed, but clearly he had been watching someone whose skill had made a deep impression on him. “The Flower Knight sent you?” he asked.

The boy stopped and nodded. “Feronantus.” Back to the beginning again.

“You can tell me or not,” he said with a tiny shake of his head. “But you will come no closer to our camp.”

The boy was shaken by this statement, and his tough mien threatened to break. He glanced at the woods behind him and then back at the standard again. When his gaze returned to Andreas’s face, his expression had softened, and some of the ferocity was gone from his eyes. “Protect…” He pointed at the standard and then made a circle with his fingers. He held it over his heart. “Protection?”

The men muttered amongst themselves. “By the Virgin,” one of them swore, and Andreas kept his expression neutral as he glanced at the man next to him. “Go fetch Rutger,” he said, using the Northmen tongue the boy did not know. “And some food,” he added, noticing how the boy’s ribs pressed against his ragged shirt.

“He said Kim—this Flower Knight—sent him?” Rutger continued to pore over both of the messages. They were both written by the same hand, and both were addressed and signed the same. The difference lay in what they actually said.

Andreas nodded. “He” said there was only supposed to be one message. Kim told him to deliver both. One would be true, the other false, and we would know which was which.”

Rutger looked up and glanced over to where the boy— Hans, as Andreas had managed to learn, finally—was still hungrily working on the wings and thighs of a grouse given to him. “Do you think he knows what the messages say?”

“I don’t think so. He said something about a fight. Near the bridge. Between Kim and a couple of bodyguards.” He indicated his chest. “He said they were Livonian Knights, but when I asked him how he knew, he said they wore a red cross and sword on their surcoats.”

“Shit,” Rutger said. “I thought they gave up the cross and sword after they merged with the Teutonic Order. Why are they wearing those colors?” He glanced at the message in his left hand—the note they had decided was the false one. “You think they wrote it?”

“I do,” Andreas said. “Why would they be escorting a messenger unless they wanted to make sure we got this message?” Your Brother is dead, the message said. I saw the Mongols kill him, after his victory.

“You think they know something about Haakon?”

“Perhaps,” Andreas shrugged. “Maybe not. They could just be stirring up trouble. We won’t know until we go down there and find out.”

Rutger shook his head. “We can’t risk it. That may be exactly the sort of reaction they’re hoping to provoke. The boy came here looking for Feronantus, and he knew enough to know you were lying to him. We have to stay here; we have to protect the secret of Feronantus’s hunting party.”

Andreas made a noncommittal noise in his throat. And when Rutger repeated his last statement, he roused himself as if from a trance. “Yes,” he said somewhat curtly, “I know. But these Livonians are another matter, especially if they are wearing the red cross and sword. They aren’t hiding in the Teutonic ranks. Who is leading them? Is it someone who truly knows Feronantus on sight? What if they decide to pay us a visit?” He waved a hand at the chapter house behind them. “And what of them? How long can we keep them here, pretending that a few more days of training is all they need to be ready?”

Rutger crumpled up the false message. “I don’t know.”

“The Khan is going to get bored, if he isn’t already,” Andreas said, “and he’s going to order his army to move on. We can’t keep hiding here, waiting for a miracle to happen.”

Rutger whirled on him. “What would you have me do?” he snarled, his voice low and harsh. “Throw them all against the horde that outnumbers them ten to one? It’s going to happen eventually, so what is the point of waiting any longer, is that it?”

“No,” Andreas said quietly. “It is always better to avoid a fight than rush into it. But that does not mean we sit idle.” He looked over at Hans. “Kim wants to meet us.” He smiled. “From the boy’s description, it sounds like he might be one of the Khan’s champions. We need to issue a challenge. There are still qualifying fights going on, even if the main arena is closed. We need to draw the Khan’s attention to those fights—offer some sort of exhibition bout, even. I’m sure it won’t take much to convince the Khan to try another of his fighters against us.”

Andreas rolled his shoulders. “Besides, I want to meet this Flower Knight. He sounds like he might be a challenge. I’m getting tired of smacking your charges around.”

When the guards threw him in the same cage with Zug, the Nipponese man hauled himself off his mat and came to inspect the bruises on Kim’s face. “You trusted the wrong man,” he grunted as he sat back on his haunches.

Kim rolled onto his back and lay still, staring at the rusty ceiling of their cell. “Yes and no,” he said enigmatically. He worked his tongue around his mouth, checking his teeth. The Mongols hadn’t roughed him up too much—they had, after all, noticed and appreciated that he had downed two knights from one of Christendom’s fighting orders—but they had had to inflict some punishment on him for being so close to the river.

“Was it worth it?” Zug asked.

Kim shrugged. “I’m stuck in here with you now,” he said. “I should have given that more thought.”

Zug grunted and kicked him lightly as he shuffled back to his mat. His strength was returning, albeit too slowly for his—or Kim’s—liking.

Kim ignored Zug, closing his eyes and letting his breathing slow. He had some pain in his lower abdomen and would probably be pissing blood sometime in the next few days, but it would all pass. He could be patient for a while; he had waited long enough.

“Two,” he murmured as he started to relax.

“What?” Zug grunted.

“I took down two armored Franks.” Kim smiled. “They never touched me. When you’re feeling strong enough, maybe I’ll show you how it’s done.” He drifted toward sleep as Zug unleashed an elaborate string of Nihongo curses.

He’s definitely getting better…