The Mongoliad: Book Two

27

The sky over Hunern was overcast and gray but no less hot for that.

Kim experimentally flexed the hand that had taken Andreas’s blow a week ago. The fingers still ached. That he could move them at all was fortunate. They would take a little longer to heal completely, and he hoped he would not have to fight before then.

Slavery could be endured, but slavery with no chance of escape-due to his own mistakes-was more than he wanted to think about right now.

He stood in the shadow of a canvas awning propped up on two wooden stakes, watching as Two Dogs sat opposite a massive, heavily scarred wrestler with dusky skin and thickly callused hands. The pair was too far away for Kim to hear what they were saying, but their intent expressions and nods said that at least Zug had managed to find a way to speak to the man most of the camp referred to as Madhukar.

The large, dark-skinned wrestler abruptly raised his thick hands and gesticulated wildly. Zug neither flinched nor fled in alarm when the giant of a man began flailing about. Few have seen as many violent men as Two Dogs, Kim thought with a tiny smile.

The progress of their plan had been slow. Onghwe was sharp-eyed as a tiger, and evading his notice took meticulous care. Each person they approached was carefully considered beforehand. If the group was sufficiently large, they could tip the Circus into chaos and rouse the complacent to fight with them. If the conspirators were few, they would be put down like dogs before the others even noticed. The fighters of the Circus were a varied lot, and some of them were more comfortable in their captivity than others. Worse, some had learned long ago that being spies for their master was a quick way to gain extra comforts.

So far, their judgment had held; their choices were solid. None of the fighters they approached languished in the comforts of the Khan’s graces. Every one of them longed for freedom-better yet, for revenge.

Leaning against the post, Kim averted his eyes from the conversation, not to be seen paying too much attention to the exchange. Tegusgal had expressed his displeasure once again in the aftermath of the fight on the First Field, and Kim knew it was a lucky thing he was still able to fight at all. Silently, and not for the first time, Kim vowed that he would live to see Onghwe’s henchman scream and squirm in a muck of dirt and his own blood. Few men so deserved a miserable death as that one.

Deep down, he knew that the plan was itself a sign of madness; they would all be killed. But if their defiance was great enough, their sacrifice might mean something. At least, it might bring the arena crashing down on Onghwe’s sick games of murder and slavery.

Letting his eyes flicker back to where Zug and Madhukar talked, Kim wondered if Two Dogs’s own enthusiasm hadn’t infected him at last. Or perhaps we have all been asleep, our souls driven into slumber by the oppression of our slavery, Kim thought, and only now are we awakening.

But unlike a first breath drawn at dawn, this waking would not be pleasant. It would be bloody and horrific, and likely their last. Somehow that realization did not sadden him. Far better to die on your feet than waste away on your knees.

Zug rose from where he sat, and the other man waved him off. First glances often lied, but their parting looked congenial enough. Straightening, Kim waited for Zug to walk past his tent and remained there for several moments before taking a different route back to where they had agreed to meet.

In the shadow of the camp wall, they sat and shared a jug of water.

“Success?” Kim asked.

“I understood his barbarian tongue as well as any here,” Zug said. “He is eager to fight the Mongols, and if we rise up, he will join us.” He paused, snorted, and then looked aside, smirking. “Or he thinks I am a gardener and wishes to share my love for this land’s exotic spices.” Kim was often unable to tell when the fighter was joking. “But I think it went well. Who is next?”

“There are many,” Kim answered. “Nearly all are discouraged. They may not believe what we plan is even possible.”

“They lack courage,” Zug spat. “When the day comes, if a man has no bravery, I will give him some of mine.”

“They’ll only join us if they think we can win,” Kim said. He took up the waterskin and drank deep. His arms still ached from the exercises he’d made himself do after his fight.

Cheers rose from the arena as two fighters threw themselves at one another in a wrestling match. The prowess of the Rose Knights had intrigued the Khan, and now the proving fights were again underway. The arena’s gates were open, attracting crowds, and the blood sports had once again commenced.

Any one of the plotters might die out there before they could act against Onghwe. The victories that had made all this possible had also doubled the risk.

They watched the gray clouds roll on, struggling to hold back their rain. Kim’s eyes were drawn to where a small cluster of flowers grew wild, not yet trampled by the many feet that trod paths between the tents of the camp.

“You’re certain we can trust Madhukar to stand with us?” he asked.

“I am certain,” Zug said, as if addressing the gloomy heavens.

“I didn’t understand everything he said, but the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. He is like us-glad to die fighting.”

A gleam appeared in Two Dogs’s eyes, a faint stirring of the courage absent or deeply hidden in the man when they had first met. Perhaps a warrior still dwelled within, waiting for the right moment. Kim wondered if any of them would live long enough to see what that inner spirit was now capable of.

And what of me? he wondered. Living so close to death for so long, forcibly made aware that each day might be their last…strange to see how, given sufficient leisure to dwell on things, to imagine over and over what he could lose in any attempt to be free, fear could corrode great holes inside a man.

It was not the thought of this world and the people he might be leaving behind that unnerved him. Kim had known he was living on borrowed time since the death of his brothers. But once the possibility of the Khan’s death became real to him, all the old pain of his buried longing for freedom rushed forward-even while he had to maintain total control, keep his accustomed demeanor, or risk arousing suspicion.

Watch the birds take wing, he thought. Let that be enough. Perhaps some will survive and live new lives out there, away from this hell.

He stood and walked over to the cluster of flowers. Reaching with a callused hand, he plucked one from the dirt and held it high to the slate-gray clouds, like an offering, but the storm did not listen.

The hot grayness continued.

Dietrich von Gruningen stood beneath the barn’s thatched roof and fumed at the insult he had been forced to endure. He certainly knew mockery when he saw it-in his own way, he was a master of that art-and the kindness of leaving the horses for his men to run after like fools sent a message worse in its own way even than the humiliation he had endured outside The Frogs.

We give back what is yours, out of charity, since you are obviously too weak to take it back by force or guile.

Burchard had been run nearly in circles attempting to recover their mounts. One more black mark against a Livonian legacy that had already been hideously battered at Schaulen.

Would Volquin ever have allowed such petty affronts to their honor? Dietrich thought not. He suspected his men had made the same judgment, though they had the sense to keep it to themselves. Order required unquestioned power vested in authority, and in an ideal world, every man knew his place in that chain of command that passed from God to the Pope and down, down, down in every direction from there. And in reverse, from the lowliest cur slinking through the muck and mire to peasant to Pope-to God Himself.

In the service to the Pope, Dietrich was technically the highest Christian authority in this wasteland of decay rucked up around the bones of Legnica. Yet the Shield-Brethren had defied him once and insulted him twice. They had taken these offenses to the very border of what might be allowed to pass without calling down a distracting and violent response.

Dietrich could not himself shed the blood he felt was owed for these indignities. Had these arrogant sons of demon spew kept the horses, had they been foolish enough to kill one of his men-had they done this or done that, he might have been granted satisfaction. But now, instead of revenge, he had only the taste of ash in his mouth.

Ash not at all diluted by bad ale.

As with the aftermath of Schaulen, all Dietrich could truly call his own was this seething anger, and so he held it close to his breast like a disappointed lover clinging to a wilted flower, hoarding it to keep the flame of an all-too-often hopeless passion alive. He was God’s servant, selected by his highest-chosen emissary, and his task was holy in the eyes of the Almighty. Vengeance taken against those who defied God was justified in every sense of the word. He had merely to deduce how to accomplish it without risking his own sacred task. They’ve left me precious few options, but there is always something one may do.

He’d only finished drilling against Burchard and Sigeberht a short time ago. Training against two men at once was a habit he’d maintained from his early years in the order, and it had benefited him both in the skills it had granted him as well as the understanding of how to balance two conflicts in one field of vision. Even so, all he felt now was a weak spark of discouraged anger-not the flame he needed.

And tired. So very tired.

He took off his gambeson alone as his squire saw to the maintenance of his maille. The water he splashed on his face was as warm as the rest of this damnably hot place and brought little refreshment. Resting his hands on both sides of the raised trough that served as the basin, he breathed in and out, filling his lungs with fuel for the fires.

It was not a question of whether he would make them pay but of how and when. To that task, he turned his mind to a long-accustomed meditation of strategy, arranging his key plans in verse and ordering those verses in an elegant, memorable sequence-then analyzing and parsing both structure and logic, to find deeper meaning, alternate interpretations-treating the vengeance he and his brothers were owed as he would a piece of the Holy Scripture.

Necessity demanded subtlety, or at least something that would not provoke an obvious response from them. He could not very well raid their chapter house, and one of his men knifing one of theirs was out of the question; bodies had a way of turning up.

No, the formalities had to be observed in doing God’s work, and this was the work of the Almighty. Of that, he had reassured himself countless times.

Dietrich seated himself on a long bench against the back wall of the barn. The smell of animal feces and straw was overpoweringly pronounced, even this far back, and the crowding of his brothers around and inside the ramshackle structure had made him ever more grateful that his rank afforded him the right to demand a private space to call his own. Heaven’s hierarchies served his purposes well. He could not attack the men of Petraathen overtly, which forced him now to contemplate the options available to him. They took something of value from me-my dignity. Returning pilfered horses does not begin to wash away their crimes. Prudence dictates that I take something of greater value from them. And that would doubtless be their own self-regard-the greater, more shining, infinitely precious pride of a glorious and damnable arrogance.

His stomach twisted unhappily within. Strategizing and hating always knotted his innards. He was hoping for a silent way to release some pent-up gas when the door opened. Clenching his buttocks, Dietrich raised his eyes to see one of his knights standing in the door, an initiate named Gelther.

“I gave instructions I was to be left undisturbed,” Dietrich growled.

“Forgive me, Heermeister,” Gelther murmured, “but a runner has arrived, and I thought you should know-the arena has been reopened. The Circus has begun anew.”

* * *

“What about the Persian with the club?” Zug suggested. “He’s immense and dangerous, and the guards are afraid of him.”

Kim sat across from him in the tent, face set with a frown.

“He’s also been a beneficiary of the Khan’s favoritism before,” Kim said.

Zug thought the Flower Knight was far too picky, too discerning in his opinions of whom they should and should not approach in their endeavor. Zug feared that if his friend had his way, when the time came, their group would not be nearly large enough.

“As was I,” Zug said, his expression drawn into a tight grimace. “It is a cage, and a trap, and I would have been glad to be rid of it at any time.”

The Flower Knight looked haggard in a way Zug had not seen him appear since the early days of their captivity, before acceptance of their situation had settled in and allowed him to keep the calm for which he’d become known since. “Different favoritism, and you know that,” Kim murmured.

“You don’t like his fury,” Zug added. “It’s no different from my own.” He smiled wryly. Every so often he couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke at his friend’s peculiar sense of honor.

Kim was a good man-a better one than him, perhaps-but he had also not endured the shame that Zug had carried since even before Onghwe Khan had taken them.

“Fair enough,” the Flower Knight murmured. “I don’t like it. Too much fervor is a risk, even if the heart behind it is loyal and longs for freedom.”

“There is the one who fights with the hatchets and the knives,” Zug said, letting the previous remark slide. “He has more than enough calm to balance a fiery temper. And thanks to you, we have enough hotheads already.”

“Will he talk to us?” Kim asked, lifting his brows.

“Not to me. Our fight was painful. Honor. Strength and youth…skill.” The world had taken some time to come into focus as the lasting effects of the liquor departed from Zug’s body. He mulled all these points while prodding a broken tooth with his tongue. “But he might speak with you.”

“He doesn’t know me,” Kim said with a shrug.

The splitting pain in Zug’s head that had racked his every waking moment in the aftermath of the loss to the Rose Knight had dulled weeks ago to a low ache that was finally fading in the warming prospect light of the task he and Kim had set for themselves. “That’s exactly why you stand a better chance than I do,” he grunted irritably. “I’m not convinced he likes anybody.”

Kim raised an eyebrow. The bruises on his face had not completely faded, and they gave it a motley look. “I didn’t know he detested others that much. But I will talk to him. Quiet is good, and he’s one of the best at that. I wonder how the Khan managed to take him in the first place?”

“Carefully,” Zug replied. “We shouldn’t waste time, so we’ll do it like last time. You find him, bring him, and I will wait.”

To hold at bay, for now at least, the false solace of wine required that he focus every moment on the task at hand. The instant that focus was lost, the longing for the wine and the memories he’d used it to suppress would return like an angry, winged spirit clawing at his heart, shrieking in his dreams, tugging at him to seek out the old ways of forgetting past shame, long-ago failure.

“Agreed?” he asked.

“Agreed.” The Flower Knight rose and exited into the gray day.

Dietrich had armored himself and now sat astride his recaptured horse with a new sense of purpose. The reactivation of the Circus was a development that had slowly but surely filled his thoughts, outlining a path to greater successes-and ultimately to the vengeance he craved. When the news had first arrived, his reaction had been the familiar indignation borne of Mongols pitting captured Christians, even heretics, against pagan warriors, but that had rapidly cooled as he saw the possibilities. He would soon set about the task of choosing one of his better fighters for assignment to the lists.

First, however, he had to see where the other soldiers of Christendom stood.

Riding through Hunern, Dietrich took only passing note of the city’s sad state. He took care to ride past The Frogs en route to his destination. There, he paused and regarded the site of his embarrassment with cold, heavy-lidded eyes, searing this miserable place into his memory. Another marker in a long list.

It helped to remind oneself of the tally of foes in need of punishing.

Then he swiveled the horse aside and trotted ahead, Burchard and Sigeberht coming up swiftly behind to keep pace with him. People dashed out of his way, throwing themselves to the side of the road to avoid the pounding crush of hooves. Dietrich paid them no more heed than he would ants beneath his boot, glad only that they at least remembered the respect that was appropriate for one of higher station.

They passed out of Hunern and rode across open lands toward where the Weidlache wound through the landscape. There was an old estate near the riverbank that dated back to Roman times. The Mongols had put the entire place to the torch when they passed through, after killing the occupants, whoever they had been-doubtless wealthy nobles who refused to join or cooperate with them.

This estate had stood gray and mostly empty-there were always half-starved squatters around-and no doubt haunted, until another order had moved in and made it their chapter house.

It was here that Dietrich and his men rode to find the commander of the Knights Templar.

The Templars had made good their fortifications, Dietrich reflected as they approached the makeshift stronghold. It was not a castle and could not repel a siege, but of all those orders that had staked out compounds around the ruins of Hunern, the Templars had made the most of their position and would perhaps evoke at least some hesitation in the mind of an ambitious brigand or tax collector.

A pair of sergeants stood guard at the gate, spear tips gleaming and prominent. They glowered as Dietrich and his small group approached.

“I am Dietrich von Gruningen, Heermeister of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae,” he said, his voice friendly, calm, and casual, rather than demanding or threatening. Let them think we are equals. “Who commands here?”

The guards inspected them and decided they were no immediate threat. “Leuthere de Montfort commands our brothers,” the leftmost guard said. “He is currently in conference with Emmeran of the Knights of St. John. Pass, sirs, but watch your arms, that you be not mistaken for goads or agents. You will be met.”

Dietrich smiled, nodded, and then sucked in a breath and rode through, Burchard and Sigeberht keeping pace. The two guards watched them closely, and Dietrich saw one call over a squire and send him running toward the compound.

Shortly thereafter, other squires took their horses and they were escorted inside.

The interior of the place gave testament to the fires that had gutted it, but here and there amid the blackened stones, bits of old finery could be seen, like rare flowers poking through the floor of a burned forest. Dietrich and his men waited quietly just inside the entryway in the company of a stern-faced knight in the unmarred white surcoat and red cross of the Templars. So close, Dietrich felt the old bitterness rising in him once more. His own order had it in them to be as great, if not mightier, than the holders of this ruined house.

After Schaulen, who could say how far back that ascendancy had been pushed?

Burchard was also watching the Templar, calm assessment in his eyes. God’s hierarchies demanded a certain competitiveness, Dietrich reflected, and even allies sharing his great cloak could feel a certain animosity. At least his bodyguard was paying attention now. That was encouraging.

Dietrich’s contemplation was aborted by the approach of another Templar, this one older and harder faced. “Leuthere will see you now,” he said and gestured for Dietrich to follow.

Leuthere de Montfort was known to Dietrich only by reputation, but that was sufficiently lively and widespread to merit respect. He came from nobility, though in lieu of dedicating himself to the family name, he had opted instead to devote himself to the martial orders in the service of Christ. He was known for courage, zealousness, and an almost holy imperturbability in the face of adversity.

Sitting opposite him now, after having seen him but a handful of times at a distance, the man up close was precisely what Dietrich had expected.

“I am honored to meet you in person, Leuthere de Montfort,” Dietrich said, all casualness subdued, lowering his voice and deliberately intoning respect. As this man obviously warrants.

“Dietrich von Gruningen,” Leuthere replied, his face as stolid and almost as gray as a chunk of battered stone. “The honor is mine.”

They sat upon wood stools before the fire-blackened stones of a large hearth, its once-fine carvings now reduced to charred, grotesque mockeries. The whole interior was redolent of recent scouring fires, and perhaps even burned bodies. The Templars did not seem to mind-or even to notice.

Dietrich was directly opposite Leuthere. The third point of the triad they formed was occupied by Emmeran, commander of the contingent of Hospitallers in Legnica. He was of taller stature than Leuthere but projected less strength. In the present company, whose devotion was supposed to be absolute, Emmeran seemed strangely removed from the affairs at hand.

“We were discussing the matter of the Circus of Swords when you arrived,” Emmeran said more quietly. “You have heard the news?”

“I have just assigned one of my best fighters to the lists,” Dietrich replied. “I had hoped to speak with you both on the subject.” He paused and folded his hands in his lap. “What do you believe our purpose is in being here?”

“Something I myself have wondered,” Leuthere said with impenetrable calm. “When we came here, it was with the understanding that our swords were needed to keep this accursed Khan from laying waste to Christendom. Until the Shield-Brethren of Petraathen had the audacity to challenge the silence of the arena, my brothers and I were contemplating departure. After all, we are not sufficiently strong to lay siege to the Mongol encampments, and without the arena, we have had little reason to remain.”

Was that a faint hint of admiration in Leuthere’s voice for the Shield-Brethren-or consternation at their actions? Dietrich could not tell. Damn the man’s calm! Medusa herself could not render him more unreadable.

In the absence of certainty, he tried to steer their opinions toward concern, perhaps even alarm.

“The Shield-Brethren are not to be trusted,” he said. “They have already committed assault against my own order, and their actions at the First Field were rash-exceedingly rash. They have given us an opportunity to stall this Khan through bloodshed in his arenas, true enough, but that does not mean they are deserving of our support.”

“The matter of the horses, I had heard of that,” Leuthere said and looked aside placidly, as if discussing a matter of hounds and hares. “They were returned to you, were they not?”

This man is a veritable wall, Dietrich thought. I cannot tell what wheels turn behind his words. Is he a friend or a foe?

“Yes,” Dietrich replied. “Albeit in a manner that did little to demonstrate common courtesy, much less respect. There is also the matter of my battered men. But I am more concerned with the immediate matter of the Circus of Swords and knowing where the other orders stand than with seeking restitution for a possible insult,” Dietrich lied. “My words should be taken as caution against putting too much trust in the overly impulsive. It would behoove those of us who prefer a more disciplined plan to show solidarity rather than follow a trail left by the rash and the audacious, don’t you think?”

“Fairly asserted,” Leuthere said. He turned his cold eyes to Emmeran, seeking his counsel.

“I am not convinced this ordeal is more than a mummer’s farce,” Emmeran told them in softer tones. The Hospitaller seemed in all ways a man possessed of less verve than Dietrich and Leuthere.

God in Heaven, Dietrich thought, you are a warrior in the service of the Almighty. Where is your passion?

“We cannot leave now,” Dietrich replied more sharply than he’d intended. “The Pope has called upon us to be here. We cannot back down from such a command and such a charge.”

Emmeran raised his eyebrows. Leuthere was silent. “Forgive me, Heermeister Dietrich,” Emmeran said, “but I would have thought that, of all of us, you would understand the value of discretion and caution, given the tragedy that befell your predecessor.”

Schaulen. It is always about Schaulen. Dietrich felt the rage building inside like boiling water over an open hearth. “That was different,”

he said. He could not, must not, lose control in front of these two men. He had several leaders yet to see, and if word should get around that he was rattled and could not hide his anger, he would find himself truly without allies in a place that was already unfriendly to his order.

“Nevertheless, your point is well taken,” Dietrich said, laying his gaze on Emmeran. Coward. Sit and contemplate, if you like. Muse on the weak and the sick, while the Mongol host rolls over Europe and the Shield-Brethren bring our efforts to naught. I and mine will be doing something about it.

He cleared his throat. “Caution and discretion are not without their place.”

“You and yours mean to stay, then?” Leuthere asked. Whatever motivated Leuthere de Montfort, try as he might, Dietrich could not see behind the Templar’s mask.

“Yes. Somebody must encourage a different direction than that taken by our rash, so-called knights of the Virgin Defender. If others will not step up to that task, then I and mine will fill the void. If God wills it, others will then follow. It is a blessed path, and righteous.”

Whom God favored was not even a question in Dietrich’s mind. The Shield-Brethren had not, he strongly suspected, abandoned their pagan roots. A weed with beautiful branches was still a weed. Pull it from the earth and the roots would appear the same. Somehow, someway, Dietrich would do just that.

“I encourage you to speak to the other orders,” Leuthere said, indirectly indicating that the conversation had reached its conclusion. He extended a hand to Dietrich. His grip was powerful. “I thank you, Dietrich, for conveying what information you have. You have given me much to consider. I pray you find the way you seek. If God favors you, others will surely follow in your track.”

“Go with God,” Emmeran murmured and extended his own hand. This grip was also surprisingly strong.

“His will is always foremost in my thoughts,” Dietrich added, bidding both men farewell. Burchard and Sigeberht awaited him in the fire-blackened entryway, faces lighting with curiosity as he approached. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand as their horses were retrieved. His mood had sobered somewhat as he climbed into the saddle, but the humiliations continued to rankle, and the relative lack of progress here was unsettling.

Still, it had not been without its benefits. If he could show the worth of his own course, Leuthere had implied, the Templars might follow, and they would be a great strength to have at his back. Nevertheless, the battlefield could change rapidly in a short time, taking away one’s advantages and handing them to his enemies.

Dietrich remembered Emmeran’s words, much as they galled him, and now took them to heart.

As they rode out of the compound and headed back to their own chapter house, he silently vowed under the eyes of God that here and now would not be another Schaulen.

Come blood and fire, disaster or storm, he would triumph.