Much Fall of Blood-ARC (54 page)

Soon they were making their way into the wooded gorge. The dream of a cave to hold more than a hundred men and horses was a wild one, but the soft rock did provide a long—several hundred yards—of shallow overhang. There was even some reasonably dry dead-wood that had ended up there. "Small fires. Hidden behind a screen of rocks," ordered Erik. "And we'll have hot mulled wine and some bread for everyone. The horses need to picketed in the shelter if possible. We don't have much in the way of oats for them, but we may as well use it all. Nose-bags, Ritters. And see them rubbed down first, before you see to that armor," said Erik singling people out for orders. "Proctor Kalb. See to a guard roster. We will not spend more than half the night here. We'll need someone outside the gorge, hidden."

"Well, not as good as an inn," said Manfred. "And no beer, and I'll bet scanty rations of wine. But at least the rain is letting up."

"I hope it is with us tomorrow."

Manfred nodded, his face serious. "I hope so. And now I'll see to the burials, Erik. It's a small honor and a sad duty. But these men died, and died bravely, for me."

It was a side you did not often see of Manfred. But it was side that had grown, and grown a lot, since Venice. Manfred would make a good Duke of Brittany. He might even make a good emperor. People followed that kind of honor. Erik nodded. "We will come together for the final laying to rest, Manfred."

"And I owe you an apology, old friend. You were right. We should not have crossed the river."

"No man really knows that, until he crosses the river," said Erik, somberly.

"I have a feeling that that is not just the wide one we crossed you refer to. Well, I'll leave you to philosophy. I have graves to help dig."

He would, too. And the knights—being the kind of men they were, would appreciate the signal honor he gave to their fallen comrades. Erik, for the millionth time, found himself thinking of Svan. Trying to recapture their moments together, in their too short idyll. He felt guilty, a little later, when he found that he had transposed her face with someone else's.

* * *

Bortai realized that the tengeri must want her little brother to survive, to encourage this madness. The weather that given them shelter was clearing. She knew the signs. If they rode hard, now, they could probably reach the Iret by dawn . . . this stop would slow them, even if it rested those large horses of theirs. They were magnificent beasts, but not as tough the Golden Horde ponies. Look how they were pampering them . . . It was a good thing, really. They'd not manage to graze much in this situation. And, unlike the Golden Horde horsemen, the knights had few remounts. There were going to be some very unhappy ponies used for carrying all that steel when they rode on. But once she and Ion and the boy from Jerusalem had seen to Kildai—given him some Kumiss and seen him slip into what was hopefully just exhausted sleep, she had work to do. There was no time for her to rest. First she must find some white fabric somewhere. And then some charcoal sticks.

She had never felt less artistic in her life.

* * *

David, for the first time in his not so long life realized that there were, maybe, more important things than just getting back to the streets of Jerusalem. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was something in this Knightly honor business. His eyelids prickled with unfamiliar tears as the five knights were laid to rest, a simple cross of tied sticks at their heads, the last salute of their comrades as a final farewell. The flight, the river crossing, the fight, Kildai sagging against him . . . It was a sea of experiences that he found was overwhelming his small world. Exhaustion took him to sleep, still questioning the values he'd always thought true.

All too soon—an instant after falling asleep, he was sure—Kari roused him. Maybe more gently than usual. By shaking, not with his usual toe in the ribs. "We need to saddle up, boy."

"What happens today?"

Kari shrugged. "We run. Probably get killed."

David looked at the crosses above the earth mounds. The moon was out and the rain had stopped, and he could see them clearly. He bowed his head slightly to them, feeling a little odd, but as if it was owed to the dead.

Would the knights salute him? Would there be any of them left to do so? All his life had been spent knowing that the one thing you did not do was to openly defy Mongol power. Now it would seem that he was going to die doing so. "Have you got a sword for me?" he asked quietly.

Kari paused. "You'd probably cut your own ears off." He looked thoughtful, then bent down and pulled a small wheel-lock from the top of his left boot, and straightened up and held it out to David. "Here. And I've got a decent spare knife somewhere." He felt around in a saddlebag, while David still looked at the small heavy wheel-lock pistol in the moonlight. "Ah." He pulled out a scabbarded hand-and-a-half blade. Passed it hilt first to David, who stood with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other, wondering what to do. "The scabbard has belt slits," said Kari, taking the pistol from him. "Put it on, and don't try and get clever with the knife. Never threaten anyone with it. If you need to use it, take it out and push it into them. Knife fighting takes more skill than a sword, and we don't have time to teach you, but 'just thrust' sometimes works." He then showed David how to use the pistol. "It's intended for the boot-top. Put it there. Use it if you have to, not for fun. Remember, just point and squeeze the trigger. She kicks like a mule. And now we need to get a move on."

In the darkness when the moon was obscured by scudding cloud, the emptiness of the big world outside Jerusalem seemed even bigger. But David felt the new weight in his top-boot and the blade on his belt. It seemed a little less intimidating.

The knights' night ride towards the Iret ended all too soon, as Bortai had feared, with the dawn, bloody fingered, and they were still the better part of a league from the river. There had been less clearing of the forest here—they could see the Hawk lands across the river where trees had been cut and burned for more grazing-lands. Here there were several old oxbows thick with willows and more copses than open land, before the braided bed of the Iret. And, as was inevitable in relatively flat landscapes, they soon saw that they'd been spotted. Bortai could see two groups of riders—at least a Jaghun—a hundred men—each, coming up from the east, and another, coming down from the west.

The column of Knights formed a defensive phalanx, with their triple crossed shields giving some shelter . . . But if the forces of Gatu Orkhan were moving so openly in relatively small numbers here, they must have little fear of the Hawk clan. The constant attrition of the mounted archers would slow the knights, and more and more of the orkhan's men would arrive. The horses would tire, they would be forced to make a stand, probably be cornered, and eventually be killed. It was the nerge hunt way. Bortai had cut a rough lance and attached her handiwork of last night to it. She unfurled it and put it up into the rising light of mother sun. The charcoal hawk stood out against the dun—the nearest to white she been able to find—of what had been a spare shirt taken from one of those they had overcome.

Tulkun looked at it. And beamed. The knights around them merely looked puzzled. The knight Erik was somewhere else in the tight, disciplined column, but Bortai jockeyed her way closer to the huge man she had at first concluded was their battle-shaman. She wished that he had some magic up his sleeve. Perhaps it had been magic that had allowed the knights to survive this long, to know where the ambush lay. She searched for her few Frankish words. "Sky flag?" she said. "On lance?"

He frowned and then obviously got it. Shrugged—quite something to do in the angular plate armor. Gave an instruction to the knight next to him. "When we stop. Cannot do it in gauntlets." He tapped a steel clad glove."

"Give for me?" she asked.

"Von Gherens. Can you tell the lady where to find one?" said the Prince.

He nodded.

A little later a furled envoy-truce pennant was handed along the tight formation to her. It was less than easy while they were on the move, but she managed to attach it to Tulkun's lance, just below the head. Soon that fluttered in the breeze, next to the charcoal Hawk.

An arrow clanged against armor.

* * *

From the rearguard, Erik watched the Golden Horde Mongols closing on his pitiful little column. He'd spotted the first scouts just after first light, before the dawn. Since then he'd watched the arrival of a first company to the east, joined by a second company, and then a third coming up from the west. The Mongols had been ahead of them. Well, he'd expected that when he'd rested the knights. The Mongols knew the country. They would have ridden through the night, changing horses, and there would be more men behind them. The knights could not outrun them. They needed a refuge, or place to stand. Erik had gambled on them finding one. It had been a forced gamble. Yet . . . They'd needed to rest the horses last night.

It seemed as if luck had not favored him, this time.

His keen eyes had picked out the best spot to make a stand. It wasn't very good. A low bluff near the river, still holding some trees, near a big swampy looking oxbow of the old river channel. If he read it right, the oxbow would limit the fronts on which they could be attacked, and, given his second plan, might allow them to retreat on the river at nightfall. Like nightfall, that was still a long way off.

The company now closing from the west dispatched a party of ten riders, galloping in to fire at the knights and retreat.

At this stage all they could do was to rely on their shield-wall and armor. To react would slow them down. Soon the Mongol would begin darting in to attack the tail of the column. Then the rearguard would have to deal with it.

Erik heard the pops of Kari's guns, saw a skirmisher, made confident by the lack of response and thus come in too close, almost fall from the saddle, and race away, clinging to it. Erik smiled grimly. That would keep them a little further off. Emeric had his Magyar knights carry horse-pistols. It was high time the knights of the Holy Trinity did the same. If they lived through this, Erik was determined to see that Manfred's guard at least carried them.

Kari had put them off more thoroughly than Erik could have hoped. They plainly were less used to firearms than most western troops. The Mongol kept a great deal further off. But eventually, as Erik known they would, a charge was made by one of the groups of pursuit. Von Gherens and thirty knights peeled off and turned. The clash was a brief one. The light, mobile Mongol knew they had no need for head-on conflict, yet. They turned and retreated and Von Gherens and his three squads galloped back.

The enemy knew that they could do this all day . . . And that the knights could not. It was a contest of stamina against strength, and Erik was sure the enemy numbers would increase too, as the day wore on.

They'd lost another Knight by the time they gained the low bluff. It was further to the river than Erik had hoped, a little less than a mile. The bluff itself was not more than thirty five feet higher than the surrounding land. It just appeared bigger because it still carried a good stand of oaks.

* * *

At the end of the bluff was a small knoll, with a few left-over boulders that had helped this little spit of land resist the erosion to the valley below. Erik had formed an outer defense line, still mounted, on the edge of the trees. The other knights he had dismount, at least while the enemy themselves regrouped. They'd be foolish to try a frontal assault, and the spreading branches of the trees would help deflect arrows lofted at the knights. The oxbow, still half-full of stagnant water, and densely fringed with willow made a natural moat of sorts around two thirds of the bluff. The enemy would send men across it of course. The Mongol were lightly armored and used to rough terrain. But they'd probably wait until they had a lot more men. They only had, by his estimate, four hundred now, to the hundred and seventy odd Knights of the Holy Trinity. No, first they'd surround them and then send men along the ridge line using the trees for cover. Erik found bombardier Von Thiel. "They need a few little surprises, on that ridge, Von Thiel" he said.

"I've enough powder to plant a few charges, Ritter Hakkonsen. In some of this loose rock—it'll be like shrapnel," said the man cheerfully.

Erik was glad not to be on the wrong side of his cheeriness. "And we'll be needing some intervention when it comes time to get out of here, Bombardier. Maybe, when you've finished that, you can rig us a mangonel of some sort. And there's your little cannon. We need to keep them from easy bowshot, and clear a path when it comes to charging out of there."

"They don't seem too familiar with black powder," said the bombardier. The expression on his blue-pitted face said he intended to teach them all about it, the hard way.

"Well, save the lesson for when they need it most."

It was all they had. Erik had the feeling that it would take magic, prayer, and the intervention of decent sized force to survive here for long. If they had another five hundred men, this would not be an easy place to take by anything but overwhelming force or siege tactics . . . but he didn't have five hundred men, and it was quite possible that overwhelming force was coming. He went to study the terrain, and to consult with his proctors and Manfred.

* * *

So this was how it would all end, thought Bortai. In sight of the ancestral lands of the Clan. Not that a final run would have taken them to safety . . . but it would have been good to be there. The ancestral Tengeri would have been pleased that they had come to die among them. The Hawk Clan could, drawing on the sub-clans sept to them, had at its height have raised three Tumens—thirty thousand men. And now . . . here on the borderland, in plain sight, Gatu Orkhan dared to bring his ragtag Jahguns to pursue the Hawk banner. There would have been more dishonor if it had been on the other side of the Iret, she supposed.

The man with the blue-pocked face came to her. She understood only one word in ten. But then Ion came along, and by gesture, she understood that he wanted Ion for some digging. Well, Ion, poor slave, at least not done as much carrying of armor. She went along. The pockmarked faced foreigner was burying some bags. Treasure? Why? And why did he want Ion? Unless he planned to kill him. That was not going to happen, or at least not at the hands of these foreigners! But if they were meant to be hidden . . . . why was he was laying trails of powder?