The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

The reflection in the horse trough was a hollow-eyed phantom. Ripples in the water added lines, distorting his mouth into a quivering frown that split his face in half. Dietrich slapped the water, disturbing the image even further, and turned away from the wrecked face staring up at him. He dried his face with a rag that was probably dirtier than he was. As much as he tried to push the matter out of his mind, he could not avoid the truth. It kept creeping up on him-staring back from the water in the horse trough, leering from behind the eyes of his men. Doubt. Fear. Panic.

He had lost his way, and he was leading the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae to ruin. Had Heermeister Volquin suffered this same realization shortly before the battle at Schaulen? Dietrich recalled the fury in Kristaps’s eyes when the knight had revealed the ugly scars of his failed Shield-Brethren initiation. That same fervor had driven Volquin, and he had been blind to the trap at the river. The Heermeister’s obsession had nearly destroyed the order; the Teutonic Knights had taken pity on the survivors of Schaulen, welcoming the lost Livonians into their ranks. Many of the Sword Brothers wore the black cross rather than the red, and were content to leave the past buried along the muddy banks of the Schaulen River.

But some had strained under the Teutonic yoke. These men-veterans of the Northern campaigns, survivors of Schaulen-secretly spoke of taking the red cross again, of taking their own lands, of regaining their old glory. They chose him to lead them, and all they had needed was a sign that their purpose was just and right.

And they had been given that sign by the Pope himself. The Sword Brothers found an unexpected patron in Rome, and once Dietrich had sworn himself-and the order-to serve not just the Church, but the men who secretly ruled the Church, they could wear the red cross again.

But the memory of Schaulen proved difficult to shake.

Dietrich sat on the bench beside the trough and stared at the tumbledown wall of the barn that was the extent of their holdings in Hunern. Was this all that he, Dietrich von Gruningen, the fourth master of the order, had accomplished? Would history even remember him?

He shuddered, shaking himself free from the grip of this tenacious melancholy. Such weak-mindedness! This would not be the legacy of his command. He would right himself; he would find honor and glory for his men. The rest-the ones who still wore the black cross-would come back. He knew they would.

The Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae will survive, he vowed. Whatever storm threatened, he could not shrink from his duty: his order must survive. No matter the cost, no matter the danger, he must not shirk his responsibility.

Having dispersed the phantom of failure, Dietrich whistled for his squire and began the slow, deliberate ritual of donning his armor. As his squire ensured that maille was fitted properly over gambeson, that surcoat hung properly, and that sword rested at the proper angle on his hips, Dietrich von Gruningen, fourth master of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae considered his meager options.

He had been given one order by his master in Rome, and after securing the safety of his men, that was his only other responsibility. Destroy the Shield-Brethren.

His squire offered him his helmet, and Dietrich shook his head. He would not need it. Not where he was going. His dressing complete, Dietrich strode out into the main compound, hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Burchard and Sigeberht were waiting for him. Constant companions, their devotion was absolute. With a hundred like them, we would be strong, he reflected as he looked at their stoic faces.

“Is my horse prepared?” he asked.

“As you asked, Heermeister,” Burchard murmured. “Where do we ride?”

“The Mongol compound,” Dietrich answered. “I must speak with Tegusgal.”

The tree had never had any leaves, as far as Hans could recall; to an outsider, the tree was a scraggly ash, grown from a wind-tossed achene that had sprouted in the unkempt wilderness of a neglected alley. It would never get enough sun. It would never get enough water. But it refused to die, and Hans and the other boys-the Rats of Hunern-adopted it as their own. It was their standard, and beneath its twisted arms, they felt safe. Protected. Sheltered from the cruelty of a world gone mad.

Axis mundi, Andreas had said of the tree when he had last visited the tiny shelter. It is the pillar of your world, he had explained. He had reached up and touched the highest branch of the stunted tree. Though it has some growing to do before it can hold up Heaven, don’t you think?

Andreas was dead. But the tree still lived. He still lived. Hans wrapped his arms around the tree and pressed his cheek against the rough bark. Only then would he let himself cry.

But he had no tears. He was as dry as the tree.

“Hans.”

He jerked upright at the sound of his name, and instead of fleeing he only hugged the tree more tightly. When his name was spoken a second time-the tone of voice filled with compassion and tenderness-he dared to look around for the speaker.

His uncle, Ernust, peered under the dirty tarp that hung over the narrow entrance to the tree’s tiny enclave. Ernust’s face was streaked with dirt and soot and a stain of something darker-blood? Hans’s brain offered an idea-and then refused to speculate further-about the source of the smear.

“Boy,” Ernust said. “Are you hurt? You came running in here so fast, it was if the Devil were…” He dismissed the rest of his observation. “Are you hurt?” he repeated.

Hans shook his head.

“Yesterday…” his uncle began. The portly man sighed, at a loss for how to finish his thought, and ran his hand across the rounded dome of his head. His eyes flicked over Hans-head to toe and back-and the boy read all the unspoken words in his uncle’s restless gaze. “It is time to go, Hans,” he said. “There is nothing left for us here, and the Mongols won’t wait for the mob to find its strength. They’re going to ride out-soon-and kill all the knights. Not just the Rose Knights-though they will be first-but every man who can possibly lift a sword. It will be just like-”

“A Livonian killed him.” Hans barely recognized his own voice-flat, echoing with exhaustion. He wanted to lie down beside the tree and cover himself with one of the dusty blankets used by the Rats. He wanted to lie down and let the bleak despair of his words flow throughout his body. Let it fill him until he drowned. “Not one of the Mongols. He was killed by one of us.”

“No, boy,” Ernust said sadly. “They’re not like us. None of them are. They fight for their own causes, for their lords and at the whims of their lords. Never for us. We are nothing to them. We board their animals. We feed them. We give them shelter. We care for them, and they do not think of us. They think only of themselves.”

“Andreas didn’t,” Hans countered.

Ernust shook his head. “The others are preparing to leave. There will be no one left to drink our brews-no one who will give us coin for it, anyway. We have to go with them. Back to Lowenberg.” He let loose a hollow laugh. “Not that we’ll be safe there for-”

“I’m staying,” Hans said, tightening his arms around the tree. His fervor surprised him, as did his certainty.

His uncle’s face lost its doughy softness, and he fixed Hans with an intent stare that was supposed to be intimidating. “He’s dead, Hans. I know he offered to take you with him, but he can’t. And the rest won’t keep his word. If they even survive. We have to survive, and that has little to do with waiting for a hero to rescue you.”

Hans flinched at his uncle’s words, but his initial reaction passed quickly, and he stared silently at his uncle. Ernust sighed, and ran a hand across his head again, looking down after at the smear of dirt and blood on his palm. Neither said anything, and the narrow sanctuary filled up quickly with a portentous silence.

His uncle was a prudent and savvy man, the sort who could see past the tragedy of the Mongol invasion and realize the opportunities present in the ragged tent city of Hunern. During his short stay with Ernust after his mother’s death, Hans had heard stories about why his uncle had left the family enclave in Legnica for the untrammeled landscape around the new settlement of Lowenberg. The forest needed to be cleared, fields planted, and houses built: all thirst-making work. The same was true for Hunern, albeit work of a bloodier sort. And what his uncle said was true: the brewers-as well as the carpenters, millers, smiths, leatherworkers, cooks, whores, and all the rest-served at the whim and mercy of the knights. When the knights were gone, the rabble dispersed as well.

Think of the living, boy.

Why wait? This was his uncle’s sensible suggestion. There was no shame in leaving. They weren’t combatants. They were merchants, brewers of ale and spirits. The market in Hunern was drying up. Why wait to be the last to leave?

Andreas’s face came to Hans. Not the gap-mouthed rictus nailed to arena wall, but the calm visage that the Rose Knight had worn as he had walked onto the sand. The knight had not been afraid. He knew his duty, and he approached it with honor. In the end, when he had turned his back on the Livonian to throw his spear, he had not hesitated. He had not fled. He had not turned away from his true purpose.

“No,” Hans said quietly. “I can’t leave. They need me.”

Ernust closed his eyes. Overhead, the sun slipped out from behind a cloud, and the tree’s shadow reached across the sanctuary, the branches seeming to grab for his uncle’s feet.

“You’re daft, boy,” Ernust said, squinting at Hans. “Who needs you? The knights? They already know they are in danger.”

“The others-the ones the Khan keeps in cages-I can help them.” I need to help them.

“What can you possibly do?” Ernust asked.

He had had a lot of time to think about what Kim and the Rose Knights were up to. The messages passed back and forth had been purposefully cryptic, but it had been clear to him that their plan was to defeat the Mongols. He wasn’t sure how killing the Khan would have accomplished that goal. As important as Onghwe was, he was only one man; the rest of the Mongols wouldn’t simply run in terror if their Khan died.

“The knights are going to fight back,” he explained. “They don’t have any other choice. They won’t run. It is not in their nature to run.”

Ernust raised his shoulders and sucked at his teeth. “That is why they’ll die,” he said with some frustration. “That is why everyone will die. That is why we have to go.”

“But they’re not alone,” Hans said. “They have allies.” He smiled. “Friends who can strike at the Mongols from behind.”

“No,” Ernust shook his head, understanding what Hans was suggesting. “You can’t do that, boy.”

“I have to,” Hans insisted. “Otherwise-” his voice broke, and he shook his head angrily. “I can tell them where the cages are. I can tell them how to free their friends.”

The city was eerily quiet. The aftermath of the riot following Kristaps’s fight with the Shield-Brethren had imbued the entire settlement with the gravid sense of an impending storm. A stillness hung over every street, ramshackle house, and building like a smothering blanket. Even the priests and monks remained hidden as he and his men had stopped by the church to retrieve the terrified Father Pius.

It would not do to find himself unable to communicate with the Khan’s commander when the need was most great.

They did not reach the Mongol compound. Dietrich heard the horses coming before he saw them, felt his own steed stir at the vibrations that were sent through the earth when many hooves pounded it in unison.

The Mongol host flowed through the streets like water around rocks, blending together in a mass of maille and lamellar-armored bodies, the fletching of innumerable arrows protruding from quivers in a plethora of varying colors. Dietrich also saw spears and curved swords, as well as many, many faces glaring at the four of them with naked hatred.

Dietrich raised his arms away from his weapons as they approached and quietly instructed Burchard and Sigeberht to do the same. Pius trembled beside him, and he hissed at the priest, telling him to remain still. “Translate what I say,” he instructed.

Tegusgal rode at the front of the host, a tall banner rising from the back of his saddle. His lamellar armor was painted red, and around his neck was a thick necklace of gold links, the only marking that distinguished him from the mob of mounted warriors.

“I am not your enemy!” Dietrich called across the open space between them, and he waited nervously, his right palm itching to touch his sword hilt, as Pius stuttered a translation.

Tegusgal stared flatly at Pius, giving no indication he had understood the priest’s words. Pius started muttering under his breath, a Latin prayer, and just as Dietrich was about to command him to be silent, the Mongol commander responded.

“He says that with so few men, you could hardly hope to be,” Pius translated. The priest swallowed heavily as Tegusgal continued. “He asks if you have come here to beg for your life with more gold.”

Dietrich refused to be riled by the comment, even though he felt a somnambulant sense of pride struggle to awaken in the back of his mind. “Tell him I have something of infinitely greater value,” Dietrich said. “I know he rides to battle with the knights. But does he know which are the ones he seeks?”

Tegusgal laughed when he heard the priest’s words, and his men guffawed and howled with laughter in the wake of his response.

“He doesn’t care,” Pius said. “He says you are all going to die.”

Dietrich smiled. “God willing,” he said with a nod in Pius’s direction. “But not today.”

Pius hesitated.

“Tell him,” Dietrich thundered.

Shivering, Pius stuttered a translation of Dietrich’s words, crossing himself as he spoke the words.

Tegusgal rose up his stirrups, his face darkening, and several of the warriors in the first rank behind him reached for their bows.

Dietrich lowered his hands, resting them on his saddle. He waited, impossibly patient, a tiny smile on the edge of his lips. Burchard’s horse nickered nervously, and the big Livonian made a tiny noise with his lips to calm the animal.

Finally, after an eternity of staring at each other, Tegusgal barked a short question.

“He wants to know why,” Pius translated.

“Because I know his Khan is angry at him. The Shield-Brethren knight nearly slew his master. He failed to protect his liege, and he’s out here today with”-Dietrich ran his eyes over the host of Mongols, trying to get a quick count, and giving up after a few moments-“with more men than he needs to curry some favor.” He waited while Pius translated, and before the Mongol commander could reply, he continued. “He needs to slay the Shield-Brethren first, otherwise his Khan will know that he doesn’t know who is the real threat. Tell him that I can show him where the Shield-Brethren are. I can tell him how they hide themselves. I can tell him about their sentries, about their fighting techniques, about how they’re waiting to ambush him.”

Father Pius’s voice droned in the morning air, filling the space between them with words that Dietrich could not understand but hoped were the ones that he had spoken. Everything rested upon this opportunity. I must not waste it.

Abruptly, Tegusgal snapped his fingers, cutting Pius off. His spoke savagely in response, angrily gesturing for Pius to translate.

“He wants to know why he should trust you. You are betraying your own people.”

“They aren’t my people,” Dietrich said. He leaned forward. “Were the actions of my man in the arena not clear enough?”

Tegusgal regarded him coldly as Pius translated. The Mongol commander grunted as the priest finished, and glancing over his shoulder, he said something to the men behind him.

“What did he say?” Dietrich demanded.

“I–I don’t know,” Pius responded.

Tegusgal spoke again, and with a gulping hiccup, Pius translated, his voice quivering. “What do you want?”

“Safe passage for my men,” Dietrich said without hesitation. “Kill all the knights you want, but me and my men are leaving this shithole.”

“Hai!” Tegusgal barked when Pius finished translating, and before any of the Westerners could react, four Mongols raised their bows and loosed arrows. Dietrich flinched, but the arrows were not intended for him.

Sigeberht fell back, toppling off his mount without a word, and Dietrich caught sight of an arrow jutting from his left eye socket. Another was buried in the maille around the base of his throat.

Burchard groaned and leaned forward, remaining-for the moment-in his saddle. He fumbled with a pair of Mongol arrows-both had struck him high in the chest-and tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a spatter of dark blood. His hand slipped, leaving a red smear across his horse’s mane, and then he too fell to the ground.

Tegusgal spoke, and Pius translated, his voice a quavering whisper. “He’ll kill all the knights he pleases. It is not for you to tell him otherwise.”

Dietrich ground his teeth and stared at the Mongol commander. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his longsword, and a number of Mongol bows creaked as their owners drew them back.

Tegusgal held them off with a raised hand. He spoke again, his voice brusque and commanding.

“He will consider your proposal,” Pius whimpered, “While you show him the camp of the Shield-Brethren. Should he be victorious there, he may grant you-”

“What?” Dietrich demanded as Pius faltered to a stop.

“He may grant you a head start,” the priest wailed.