The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) (22 page)

The man returned his gaze, equally unflinching, daring him to reply. Fuming, Dietrich considered his response. This man was undoubtedly one of those arrogant Shield-Brethren bastards,
and his question was nothing more than a blatant trap.
He already knows the answer
, Dietrich thought.
If I agree with him, then I will be confessing to sowing discord. If I deny his words, then he will call me a liar in front of my men.
The net result would be the same either way: the Shield-Brethren would have an excuse for enmity between the two orders.

This trap aggravated Dietrich more than the theft of his stallion. He raised his shoulders, took in a bored, long breath, and then dropped them, as if vexed by a wayward child. Then he struck a nonchalant, almost careless pose.
How is that for an answer, you sanctimonious bastard?
Despite this, however, his eyes darted about, searching for archers. He liked swift arrows no better than the next man.

The rider smiled, as if he had anticipated such a response. “A word of advice, then,
Heermeister
,” he called. “Pick your battles more wisely than did your predecessor.”

Dietrich clenched his sword’s pommel and pulled the blade a finger’s width from its scabbard. “You presumptuous whore’s son,” he spat.

The rider laughed. “Look to your men,
Heermeister
. I think we are done exchanging pleasantries.” His arm snapped forward, quick as a willow branch, and the arming sword flew through the air and embedded itself in the earth at Burchard’s feet.

The man then dug his heels into the barrel of his newly acquired mount and pulled the reins, bringing the horse about. “My thanks for the fine destriers,” he shouted as the stallion leaped into a gallop, mud and grime spattering in the horse’s wake.

“
Heermeister—
” Sigeberht had come up behind him. Dietrich whirled on his bodyguard with such violent motion that the tall Livonian took a step back.

“Let them go,” Dietrich snarled. “All of you will walk back to our compound, and that one”—he pointed at the man lying in the mud—“keeps that arrow in his arm until he arrives.”
Perhaps the shock of
the walk will kill him
, he reflected bitterly.
It would be the only excuse I’d need.
As it was, this incident was only further humiliation.

He stalked toward The Frogs, rudely shoving past his bodyguard. “I will be here,” he said, “awaiting your return.”

“But,” Sigeberht began, “what of your safety?” He stood awkwardly in the street, hands hanging loosely at his sides.

“If the Shield-Brethren had wanted me dead,” Dietrich pointed out, “I question whether you would have been able to defend me. So why don’t you do something
useful
and
fetch me a horse
?”

He slammed the door behind him, cutting off the sight of his worthless men. Sinking into his private chair, he pressed his fingers against his forehead and massaged his hot skin.

Without a word, the tavern owner scuttled over and rooted around on the floor for Dietrich’s discarded tankard. Finding the vessel, he put it on the table, and with a trembling hand, he poured a full measure. Dietrich waited until the man had finished before he swung his arm and knocked the tankard flying. Ale spattered the nervous man, and his tongue flickered against his flaccid lips.

“Do you really expect me to drink from a dirty tankard?” Dietrich inquired, a deadly stillness in his voice. Shivering with fear, the tavern owner darted off to find a more suitable drinking vessel. Dietrich sank back in his chair, fingers on his forehead again.

* * *

Returning to the chapter house on horseback was both swifter and more exhilarating than a slow trudge through the woods, and Andreas caught up with the younger members of the
Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae
not far from the ruins of Koischwitz.
This
was what they were meant to do, and what the order excelled at: decisively besting better armed or armored men in combat, riding wild across open lands on the horses taken from their defeated enemies, and
reveling in the intoxicating freedom that came from openly defying a foe who thought their order weak and complacent. Such a victory as they had accomplished would restore the morale of the others and would serve to remind them all what their roles in this world were. The assembled mass of their enemies could rise against them, and all it would take to beat them back was a strong arm and a strong will.
We have been idle too long
, Andreas thought, laughing into the wind.
We have forgotten who we are.

Passing into the sanctuary of the woods, their horses slowed to a steady trot as the track became narrow. Andreas inhaled deeply, sucking in the scented air of the woods to calm his racing heart. Though the thrill of besting the Livonians was still bright in his blood, it was dangerous to let such enthusiasm guide him completely. He must retain some clarity as to what might follow from this victory. It was a minor skirmish in a much larger campaign, and his enemy—for all his clumsy senselessness—would adapt to his plans.

As his heart’s rapid drumbeat slowed, Andreas took in the richness of the forest. An endless number of drifting motes outlined beams of sunlight that cut between the trees like blessings from Heaven.

We are these specks of dust
, he reflected,
and it is the design of the Divine Light that brings us together. We cannot see the whole of the Light, but in our passing, we give it form.

It was an idea not unlike an old story he had once heard at Petraathen, one of the oft-told tales that spoke of the Shield-Brethren’s origins.

Andreas paused near the jagged trunk of an old tree, felled long ago by ill weather. Even from the height of his saddle, the place where the crowning branches had been snapped off rose well above his head, and the stump carved a gnomon’s shadow out of the sunlight flowing through the hole in the forest canopy above. Even
dead, the old tree seemed eternal, and Andreas was a minute speck drifting in its sheltering shade.

Folk legends made the forest a fearful place, home to evil spirits, and only the truly capable or the desperate braved the woods. In daylight, staring up at the ragged trunk, Andreas was reminded of the wonder and the fear he’d not felt for years; the tree, though no longer growing, was still alive, covered in a stippled pattern of moss, its jutting, broken heartwood the host to all manner of small creatures. Insects buzzed in the shade, a low thrum beneath the celestial chorus of hidden birds. Andreas closed his eyes, and this world of faint voices opened up to him, a mystical realm that could only be heard when all the voices spoke at once.

Styg’s horse ambled past him, the young man’s leg brushing his as the horses jostled, and Andreas put aside his meditative calm. As he flicked the reins, his eyes fell on the roots of the jagged tree. They lay exposed, contorted like a mass of thick vines around a piece of aged granite too massive to be sundered by their persistent and perpetual grip. He saw the tree now as a pillar of stone, retained by loyal roots. In his thoughts, stone and tree coexisted.

As they rode on, he locked away the image in his heart.

They would soon be at the chapter house. Perhaps he would tell Rutger about the tree and the stone—maybe even speak of the hidden sanctuary that belonged to Hans and the other ragged boys of Hünern. Though, he suspected Rutger would be more intent on castigating him for the encounter with the Livonians and the horses.

But they were very nice horses.

Ö
GEDEI STIRRED AND
opened one eye fully. His hand unconsciously started to grope for the low table on his immediate right. The enormous cup Gansukh had given him stood on the table, half full of pale wine.

“You wanted me to tell you about the caravans from Onghwe,” Gansukh reminded the
Khagan
.

Ögedei sat up, licking his lips. He squinted at Gansukh as his questing hand found the cup. “What did my son send?” Ögedei’s hand shook slightly as he gulped the wine. Gansukh ignored how the
Khagan
’s eyes twitched in his direction.
I am making him aware of his weakness.

“Tribute,” Gansukh said. “Spoils from the lands of Rus and...” He hesitated, unsure how the
Khagan
would react to the news. “He sent fighting men, captives from some competition that he holds.”

Master Chucai had given him a brief explanation of the arena that Onghwe would erect during the months when the Mongol army was laying siege to foreign strongholds. While he understood the strategy of such an activity, and part of him was even curious as to what it would be like to compete in such a tournament, he found the idea unbecoming of a Mongol. A sure sign of the Empire’s
increased dissolution and its departure from the true path given to the Mongolian people by the Blue Wolf.

“How many men?” Ögedei asked.

“Twelve, and the guards say the red-haired one is bigger than two men. Bigger than General Subutai, even.”

“Not likely,” Ögedei laughed. “And even if he were, his talents would be unlike the General’s. Subutai’s genius is not in hand-to-hand combat.” He raised the cup again, but then he changed his mind and lowered it without drinking. Stealthily, he glanced at Gansukh’s hand, the motion of a nervous and guilty child. Gansukh’s hands were empty; he hadn’t brought a bottle with him. “What of the others?” he sighed, sinking his chin into his chest.

“Christians and one Muslim. I do not know what countries they call home. One has yellow-white hair and very pale eyes. A Northerner.”

“Fighters?”

“Yes, my Khan, that is my understanding. Some of them were victorious at your son’s arena.”

“Fights to the death?”

“All but one.” In response to Ögedei’s raised eyebrow, Gansukh explained. “The Northerner fought Onghwe’s
ronin
. At the end of the fight, the Northerner had taken the
ronin
’s
naginata
and could have killed him with it, but chose to spare his life instead.”

Ögedei stared at the Spirit Banner. “Interesting,” he murmured.

Gansukh had heard stories of the warriors from the islands that lay beyond China. More demon than man, the stories went, so impervious to fear that even the Chinese would think twice about facing even a modest army of these skilled swordsmen. A
ronin
was a disgraced warrior, a man who had lost his lord and who wandered those islands like a ghost, beholden only to his blade. That Onghwe had such a man in his stable of fighters was almost too incredible to believe; that the pale Northerner, almost a ghost himself, had
apparently bested the man further beggared belief. Gansukh was inclined to dismiss everything he had heard from the caravan guards as wild rumors, the sort of exaggerated storytelling to which men, bored into foolishness by the tedium of their long journey, would fall prey.

However, the detail that the Northerner had shown mercy to the
ronin
had piqued his curiosity as well.

“What else?” Ögedei said, his attention drifting. “What other tribute has my son sent? Wine from foreign lands?”

Gansukh nodded, his heart sinking. “Yes, my Khan.” As far as he knew, Ögedei was honoring his wish about the cup—restricting himself to but a single full vessel a day—but he worried that such self-control was a tenuous arrangement, one that could be put aside in an instant. Gansukh wished they would leave Karakorum already. The journey to Burqan-qaldun would offer many distractions—including these fighters. While they remained here, Ögedei had nothing to do but brood.

Gansukh did not know how to fight
brooding
. Nor, he feared, did the
Khagan
.

* * *

Lian sat on her sleeping platform, knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees. On the floor of her room was a large leather bag, half filled with clothing and other items she should take. But the task had become overwhelming, and she had retreated to the safety of her bed. She stared sightlessly out the tiny window of her room, oblivious to the changing colors of the clouds as the sun set.

She was reliving the night of her failed escape. Everyone had been swept up in the celebration of Tolui’s memorial, and she had tried to slip away. But she had run into the guards in the alley, and the experience had made it all too clear to her that her plan had been incredibly foolish.

Running into the guards had been a fortuitous accident. Only after she had escaped them and returned to her chambers had she realized how much a blessing their drunken advances had been. Had they been less—or more—besotted, she could have been raped; had they realized her plan, they probably would have killed her. While her quick thinking and courage had played a large part in saving her from such a horrible fate, she could not ignore how the threat of Master Chucai’s displeasure had helped as well. If she did escape to the steppes outside Karakorum, she would lose the privilege of that security. She would be even more vulnerable, and in some ways, being attacked by marauders would be the most
pleasant
fate she could hope for.

Lian let her chin drop to her knees. The memory of the men in the alley had vanished, swept aside by a tumbling flood of older memories. Sights and sounds and sensations from when she was a child, when her family was still alive. She wiped angrily at her eyes, shoving aside the memories and the tears that threatened to spill.
No, I must think. I must plan.

She needed an accomplice, a warrior who could protect her. But could she convince Gansukh to help her? Could she convince him to betray his
Khagan
and his tribe? He was fiercely proud of being a Mongolian warrior, and she admired how fervently he clung to the hoary principles of his culture, but she had seen flaws in his devotion. He was beginning to wonder what part he played in the changing Empire. Could the sparks of his discontent be fanned into outright rebellion? How far would he be willing to go for her?

Could she...seduce him? Would that be enough? There was a certain amount of pleasure in that idea—pleasure that had little to do with the actual necessity of her plan—and she toyed with the idea for a moment.