The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) (42 page)

The archer stalked out from cover, pivoting to and fro with a nocked and half-drawn arrow, trying to make out where his foe was.

The Mongol broke free, vigorously kicking his horse, and galloped into the open with his own bow fully drawn and aimed, but drew up and faltered before loosing his arrow. Cnán thought she knew why: he had seen Rædwulf for the first time and was
astonished by the man’s outlandish appearance, his incredible size and coloration.

The Mongol’s arrow sang harmlessly over Rædwulf ’s head. Immediately after, the Englishman loosed a shaft that buried itself in the horse’s chest. Screaming, the pony reared—and died, head straight out, falling over as a deadweight. The Mongol dismounted adroitly, landing on his feet, but dropping his bow. He quickly hid himself in a stubble of scrubby bushes that might, in a few years, grow up into more trees.

Rædwulf calmly returned to his arrows and grabbed another. Then he seemed to think better of it. The brush might deflect his shot. And the Mongol, with saber in hand, would be a serious problem if all Rædwulf had was a bow.

He set the bow down, undid his belt, and, before dropping the scabbard, drew out his sword.

Just in time. In a crackling of sticks and brush, the Mongol burst forth into the small, cleared space and swung a scything blow at Rædwulf. Rædwulf stepped forward and deflected the Mongol’s saber to his right, then crashed his left fist into the Mongol’s nose, spraying blood all over and planting him on his arse. Before the Mongol could recover, Rædwulf moved in and with a quick, sidewise cut, slashed the man’s throat, producing a fountain of dark stuff from which Cnán averted her eyes. Just as well. She needed to think about getting out of there.

Only a few paces away, the pony of the first Mongol to die had moved to a clear patch of grass and begun nosing around for forage.

The plan, she knew, called for Rædwulf to recover all of the arrows he could. They were too valuable to waste. But she could not bring herself to approach the bleeding corpse that, only a few moments ago, had been riding with a grin on his face, sharing memories with his brother or cousin—who was dead now as well.

She walked up to the pony instead, speaking to it in the language of the Mongols, making the sounds and saying the words that they used when they wished to put a horse at ease.

This task was not made any easier by terrible noises emanating from the gully below. Finn was harrying the two outriders through the scrub with his bloody lance.

But by the time she had reached the pony, and made friends with it, then clambered up onto its back, Finn and Rædwulf had finished their work in the gully and were riding up the slope on the mounts they had tethered back in the trees. They were coming to collect Rædwulf’s arrows, speaking to each other in low conversational tones. Their calmness had the opposite effect on Cnán.

As they approached, Rædwulf intercepted her piercing glare. He slung his bow over his shoulder and returned her look. “What?” he asked, then glanced at Finn, who was equally puzzled. Finn wiped streaks of blood from his face and hands. “We’ll need a quick sluice,” he observed.

With great difficulty, Cnán managed to bridle her urge to scream.

T
HE SKY OVER
Hünern 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 Grüningen 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.