Much Fall of Blood-ARC (43 page)

"What's all this about?" asked Manfred, wondering just what trouble his innocent—in many of the ways of the world—friend, bodyguard and mentor had got himself into with the woman. He'd not seriously thought Erik would get himself involved with any woman again, let alone write letters to her.

"Something to do with Borshar," said Erik, holding up a soothing hand. He picked up the roll of parchment, and said something to her, which Manfred could only assume meant 'slowly'. Erik unrolled the parchment as Bortai began speaking again. Slowly. Too loudly, as if to a half-wit. After a few moments she got that under control too. She plainly had the sort of iron control that made wise men afraid. Manfred peered at the parchment in Erik's hands. It was in some foreign script, and most probably in some foreign tongue. He was fairly certain Erik hadn't written it, unless the boy from Jerusalem was a much better teacher than he'd seemed to be.

"She says," said Erik incredulously, "that this is a letter from the tarkhan to Nogay. One of the orkhan's generals. Her slave was given it to deliver to him. I am not following exactly why or how, but she did tell me earlier that he was going scouting in the camp for her." He paused. Listened to some more of Bortai's explanation. "Ah. The slave used to be in the service of this General. The man who gave him the message did not know that this was no longer true. So her man brought her the message. He almost forgot it. He did not know that it was important, as he does not read."

"We can't read it either," said Manfred. "But I gather the Ilkhan are not as out of contact with the Golden Horde as they would have had us believe, if they are sending notes to prominent Generals. Or is he their spy?"

Erik spoke to her. She shook her head. Spoke some more. "She says the Golden Horde and the Ilkhan have exchanged emissaries in the past, yes, but not for five years now. But she says this," he tapped the parchment, "is treachery. They plan to kill us all."

"What? Explain. I thought they respected envoys and their escorts," said Manfred.

"Except that we are described by another word," said Erik.

"And that is?"

"Hostage takers," said Erik. "She says this note says it must be made clear to the men of the Blue horde, that we are holding the tarkhan hostage."

"What!" came from several of the audience.

And now it was not just Bortai who looked furious.

Eberhart shook his head. "We have a writ of safe conduct, appointing us escorts to emissary of the Ilkhan."

"It seems it will not be worth very much. If we ever get a chance to show it to anyone . . .

"The lady would have had to be one of the greatest actresses under heaven to have played that as well as she has," said Erik.

Manfred nodded. "True. But she could have been duped. I mean to get such a piece of evidence . . ."

"Which we can't read," said Eberhart.

"That I could very easily solve, in part," said Erik. "The little book of Mongol-Frankish translations that Benito gave me, gives the words in Mongol script—based on the chinese I believe. Even a few words would do to verify the document. But someone else will have to do it. I need to scout. And I think I am are going to need Kari."

Erik's expression was as grim as any Manfred could remember seeing on his face. "I am afraid I can no longer promise, Eberhart, not to kill anyone in our preparations."

"What do we do about the tarkhan?" asked Von Gherens.
"He'd
do as a hostage, damn his eyes. Let him be what he claims to be."

Erik looked at Manfred. Who nodded, slowly. "Bring him here. Now. Do it with respect but with fairly massive force. I could use some explanations, if nothing else. It is our duty to escort him. We're going to take it very seriously."

Erik pointed to one of the knights. "Von Meul, take thirty of the knights, in full armor, and bring him and his entourage here."

But when they got to the large ger, the customary Mongol guards were not there. And neither was the supposed occupant. A slit in the rear, and darkness, had allowed them to slip away. It did look as if they planned to return—all their possessions were there. A guard of twenty knights was left, waiting.

* * *

"No," General Nogay said rigidly. "I did not get your message. I simply was warned by . . ."

He shuddered slightly. That happened quite often, when he thought of Grand Duke Jagiellon and his steel eyes. "The voice from Vilnius, of your coming some weeks ago. I was told, and passed the message onto Gatu that your escort were toi die, barring a select handful. I was told that you would arrange a suitable pretext. The men will be unhappy about this."

"There is a guard commander that I will see flogged to death," said Borshar furiously. "I sent one of my men out to give him the message to be delivered to you. I did not want to be seen speaking to him myself. This may delay our plans a little. I had discussed the matter with General Okagu—who escorted us this far. It is necessary that the rank and file be told that they have taken me hostage.

"But I have been told that they have a writ of safe conduct."

"A forgery," said Borshar. "A tool to gain close access to the orkhan and kill him. They do not wish him to become Khan of the Golden Horde."

Nogay shook his head. "But they would surely die if they did that? No one would believe it plausible."

Borshar shook his head. "They are religious fanatics. They believe themselves secure in the promise of paradise if they die in the service of their God."

Nogay snorted. "I have heard of such madmen. Some of those out of Alamut were supposed to hold that mad belief."

He wondered why Borshar stared at him like that. But as the man's dilated pupils barely seemed able to focus, Nogay ordered food and kvass, and sent a messenger to the ger of the orkhan. He cursed mildly the loss of the slave he had used for such errands. Ion had been reliable and quick thinking, unlike this clod. He had a moment's regret that he had ordered the man killed. At the time it had seemed justified.

Neither of them noticed that one of Borshar's bodyguards, fat Tulkun, had slipped away.

* * *

When Bortai had heard Ion's declaration that there was a massacre of the foreign mercenary guard planned, she had taken it for the usual slaves talk. Exaggerated and wildly fanciful, manufactured out of half-heard rumors. She had wanted more certainty about the disposition of horses and guards. He had told her what he could, and she'd regretted that he was no trained warrior. He missed things they would have noted without a second thought. Still, she knew more now . . . And then he'd remembered the roll of parchment he'd been given. Naturally he gave it to her. He could not read it himself.

She'd had to read it twice to believe it. At which point all her planning for their escape had gone for a long run out of the ger door—not as fast as she had, heading for the ger in which the foreign Orkhan and his knights met. She'd been too furious to think about what she would do when she got there. It never occurred to her that anyone might not believe her. She was Bortai, Princess of the Hawk Clan.

She'd been a little taken aback that they had not instantly sprung to arms. It had taken a while to work out that the old white-haired foreigner doubted the truth of the entire matter. But Erik Orkhan, and his second in command Manfred—who was perhaps a war-Shaman—did. Bortai wondered why it had never occurred to her before that the big man might be a foreign Shaman. It would explain why he was always so carefully guarded. Enemies would stop at nothing to kill such a one. But the foreigners were different to the Golden Horde. Such a breach of honor, such a deception, would have had the Mongol onto their horses first and thinking and planning later. These lesser people were also less inclined to precipitous action. She bit her lip. It might not actually be a bad idea to behave thus, sometimes. Being cooler-headed was perhaps not a bad thing, when they were plainly facing a terrible war.

Such betrayal and insult would have to be repaid with a bloody finale. She'd been told as much by Tulkun, and seen it in their conduct. They had been an honorable escort, for mercenaries, drawn from lesser peoples. There was honor, and then there was Mongol Honor, and this Tarkhan certainly had not lived up to it. At the same time, it occurred—belatedly—to her that a bloody death-battle was not going to help her in her stern duty: to get Kildai back to the Hawk clan, back to the White horde.

Erik came over to her and bowed. "Lady, we thank you for the warning. It was an honorable thing to do."

She found herself coloring slightly. "I am Bortai." What more explanation was needed?

He nodded. "We need to get Manfred out of here, and keep him alive. We'll be riding right through the camp in about three hours time. We will have to abandon our pack-train, and much of our gear."

"You flee?"

"We have a task ordered us. Manfred must be guarded. This does not appear worth much." he held out a piece of parchment with the royal seal of Ilkhan on it.

"May I see it?" she asked, meaning the seal. She was disappointed in their flight . . . and yet this Shaman must be of great value, that they would put him before bloody revenge. They did not seem cowards.

"Certainly. Eberhart wanted to check it for loopholes. There are none in the Frankish," said Erik.

It was written in two scripts, neatly and with artistry, as such a document should be. She could not read any Frankish but the Chinese-Mongol script was clear and familiar. It was in every detail a writ of safe conduct for the escort of the tarkhan Borshar, and carried the seal of the Ilkhan. Bortai had written similar documents for her father. How dared anyone violate such a document? It would mean war.

And then it struck her. It would mean war.

War between the Hordes, as had nearly happened before Orkhan Berke's death three hundred years ago. War between clans as had happened after Ulaghchi Khan's death. It put a different slant on the need for flight. There would be time for revenge—once this piece of treachery—because it could be nothing but treachery—was dealt with.

As to why: she could see why it would be of great advantage to a power to the north to have the Golden Horde at war with the Ilkhan. Many unlikely alliances had been made by common enemies.

"We can offer little in the way of security for you and you brother now, I am afraid," said Erik. "We will happily take you along, but you will have to leave your cart and everything that cannot be carried on horseback. And is your brother fit to ride?"

"I think so," said Bortai, seriously. "If we stay we will be killed. And now that I understand this," she tapped the paper. "It is vital that you should not be killed. That you should present this—and the letter from Borshar to Berte at the great kurultai."

"I thought that was over and broken up."

"Yes. But we will hold a new one. Gatu Orkhan and his men will find themselves under the carpet."

"Under the carpet?"

"Yes. Nobles are put to death thus. Rolled in a carpet and the horses stampeded over them," she said, relishing the thought. "I go to prepare Kildai to ride."

"Better put both David and him together on one of our spare mounts," said Erik. "They're a little bigger and better conditioned than yours, even if they probably don't have the stamina, and those two don't weigh much. David can keep him in the saddle. And Kildai can handle the horse better than the boy can."

He paused. "I would tell your brother that he does it for the Jerusalem lad's sake. David is not the rider that Kildai is. He'll be more willing to do it then."

Bortai smiled. He was a good commander of boys, not just men. She knew this break had a very poor chance of success and that the orkhan's Tumen would follow them like relentless wolves. But survive and defeat them they must. Or the Blue and White Hordes—that now made up the Golden horde—would split, diminish and be eaten by the power to the north.

The ger flap swung open . A pair of knights stood there, escorting plump Tulkun, the Ilkhan Tarkhan's bodyguard. "He keeps saying your name, Ritter Hakkonsen. He came back like a thief in the night. We don't understand another word he's saying."

To say that Vlad found Elizabeth Bartholdy's joining of his little army an unmixed blessing was not strictly true. She and those that she brought with her—a selection of minor nobles, and a handful of retainers who seemed to do little more than minister to their masters. They professed to be loyal to his cause, and expected more than he and his army could offer, it seemed. He could quite understand that Elizabeth was too frail and delicate a beauty to sleep rough under crude canvas shelters and eat the rations that his quartermaster had managed to gather for the men. But every other man could do so. The idea of sharing a rough bivouac with common peasants turned soldiers, and having to train with them, let alone share their food, was enough to rouse protests from the boyars. Vlad found himself being very short with that. He'd eaten with the men, bivouacked with his men . . . huddled in the pouring rain without any more shelter than their cloaks with them for that matter. "When you bring me a regiment of cavalry or even a whole troop of knights, I'll see you are quartered and fed with the men you bring. In the meantime . . . "

"But this is an affront to our honor! To eat and sleep with the commoners!"

Vlad might possibly have felt that way himself, eight weeks ago, during his captivity. But now . . . well, he'd run with the gypsies, slept and fought side by side with his peasant army. They had given him loyalty and support when that was a rare thing. "It may be an affront to your pride," he said coldly. "I have noticed people confuse their pride with what honor is. It is an honor to serve in this army. My soldiers will conduct themselves with honor, or feel my wrath. Honor here is earned with combat and loyalty. It is not conferred or earned by others on your behalf. What you have is pride, and a false pride at that. Not honor. Not yet. Do you understand me?"

The florid-faced boyar, so lofty in his ornately frogged outfit a few moments back, almost cowered. "M . . .my Lord Prince. I did not mean . . . I mean the honor of my ancient house . . . "