The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) (44 page)

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.

F
IRE RAINED FROM
the sky.

Munokhoi’s alarm had created a chaotic surge around the
Khagan
’s
ger
as guards tried to push their way through the confusion of concubines, ambassadors, and other guests. Many of those gathered at the feast were too stunned to do anything more than stand with mouths agape, like herds of simple-minded oxen. As the burning arrows began to fall, they began to react, but for many, it was too late. Munokhoi’s voice was quickly drowned out by the shrieks and screams of the injured and dying.

A courtier with a flaming arrow jutting from his left eye grabbed at Gansukh as the young warrior fought against the buffeting panic of the crowd. The courtier gibbered at Gansukh, his words lost in the sizzling cackle of the fire devouring his face and hair. Gansukh shoved the man away before the fire could leap to his own robes, and the courtier spun away, scattering flecks of flame.

In the distance, a tiny spray of orange light leaped into the sky.
The hill
, Gansukh realized, his pulse hammering in his ears. The enemy was on higher ground, using the difference in elevation to increase the range of their archers. Not too far from where he had set up his tent. His shoulders tightened, and he cast about for some shelter as the lights in the sky grew brighter.

Hissing, the fiery rain fell again, but the arrows landed among the vast sea of tents that lay behind the open area where the feast had been arranged. The archers had shifted their assault, and Gansukh grimly noted their efficiency. The fire arrows were meant to cause confusion and to divert the efforts of the
Khagan
’s guards toward saving the tents and supplies.
Split your enemy
, he thought,
divide his strength
.

A trio of concubines ran from a nearby tent, the hems of their robes on fire, and they stamped a frantic dance in an effort to put the flames out. Guards were still streaming past Gansukh, jangling and clattering as they jostled one another in their rush to protect the
Khagan
. Munokhoi’s alarm was now being carried by many voices, counterpoint to the crackling roar of a half dozen fires. Gansukh spied a few soldiers wrestling barrels of water toward the burning tents.

At this point, it was closer to a riot than to a camp.

Gansukh found himself looking for Lian. Munokhoi and his men were surrounding the
Khagan
, and he had no place with them; the rest of the Imperial Guard would either be protecting the
Khagan
’s entourage or taking the battle to their attackers. He might be useful in helping stem the spread of the fires, but that sort of threat could be dealt with by anyone who could lift a bucket of water. His duty lay to the task given upon him by Chagatai and Master Chucai. Part of that duty was...
Lian
.

He thought he saw her, a flash of that long black hair he often dreamed about. Shouting her name—even though part of him knew there was no hope of her hearing him—he started to run after her, but a large tent nearby erupted in a billowing column of fire. The heat was intense; coughing, he retreated from the inferno of the great tent, his arm raised as a desperate and pathetic shield against the heat.

The leather walls of the tent cracked and shriveled, pulling back to reveal the glowing shafts of the wooden framework. Several
of the poles had already begun to crumble, leaving only bright coals that hadn’t yet fallen into ash. The grass around the tent that hadn’t been trampled was starting to burn, tiny crawlers of fire eagerly seeking out other tents. A lost ox, confused and terrified, balked at the burning grass. It stood still, lowing plaintively, and waited for the fire to claim it.

Gansukh veered away from the raging bonfire of the tent, tasting the acrid smoke on the back of his tongue. Nearby, horses—tied along a picket line—whickered fearfully and pulled against one another as they tried to flee in different directions. Gansukh caught sight of someone moving among them—the flash of a silk robe—and he stumbled as quickly as he could toward the terrified beasts.

Lian was trying to untie one of the horses from the picket, a sturdy chestnut mare. Her hair was wild about her, a spray of blackness against the muted colors of her robe. The horse’s reins were tied tightly to the leather strap snaking across the ground, and Lian fought to keep the line under control so that she could undo the reins. Each time the mare bucked and strained, all her work was undone.

“What are you doing?” he shouted. “We’re under attack.”

She ignored him, though she had clearly heard him, as she left off trying to undo the knot. Instead, she caught the reins and tried to control the frantic mare.

Gansukh put his hand on her shoulder. “Lian—”

“I’m trying to escape, you idiot!” She whirled on him, her hair whipping fiercely around her head.

“It’s too dangerous—” he started.

“It will always be dangerous,” she snapped. “Why can’t you understand that? I’m a slave. A
good
time to escape doesn’t exist. I have to take the chances I’m given, and this one is
good enough
.” Her eyes reflected the fires surrounding them. “The guards are
distracted,” she said. “By the time they think to look for me, I’ll have vanished into the night.”

She let go of the horse’s tether with one hand, placing it on his chest. “Please, Gansukh. I have to go,” she said, staring at him.

Gansukh glanced around, his gaze sweeping across the tumult of the camp: tents on fire; horsemen thundering by; men screaming, some in anger, some in fear, some in pain. “I don’t know who’s attacking or why, but they’re organized. They’re going to shoot at anyone on horseback.”

“It’s dark,” she countered, taking a step closer to him, her hand drifting down his chest. “Everything is in turmoil. They’re focused on the
Khagan
. They won’t notice me.”

He shook his head. “It’s too risky.”

“Gansukh,” Lian said, “I have to try.” She drew in a deep breath and bit her lower lip. “If you care for me at all, you’ll help me.” Her eyes darted down, and for a second, she was so demure and fragile that he was overcome with a tremendous urge to crush her in his arms. “Let me go.”

“Lian—” He raised his hand to touch her face, but she ducked under his arm. Her hand grabbed at the knife he had taken from her earlier—the one he had shoved in his belt. He grabbed for her, feeling her hair slip through his grasp, feeling the slippery silk of her gown against his fingertips.

She sliced through the reins, and the mare reared back, flailing with its front hooves. Gansukh had to take a step back to avoid getting kicked, and Lian slipped beyond his reach. The mare spooked, no longer tethered to the picket, and Lian got both hands in its mane and hauled herself onto its back with a grace that surprised Gansukh. In a second, the horse and its rider were lost in the smoky pall that covered the camp.

Gansukh spotted the knife lying on the ground, and with a curse, he scooped it up. He sawed through the first set of reins he
could get his hands on. Unlike Lian, he kept his grip on the slippery reins, and after he had shoved the blade back into his belt, he swung up onto the horse. Slapping its rump, he set off after Lian at a gallop.

* * *

It was a privilege to protect the
Khagan
. Munokhoi’s entire adult life had been spent in that service, working diligently to be noticed for his courage and bravery; he was the fist of the
Khagan
, hard and ready to be used in the service of the Empire. It was his command that had been chosen to be the Imperial Guard accompanying Ögedei on his trip to the Burqan-qaldun, and he was given two more
jaghun
to command as well. Once they reached Burqan-qaldun, the
Khagan
would reward him with the silver
paitze
—the slim tablet that gave him command of a thousand men. He would be
noyon
—a general of the
Khagan
’s army—and he would no longer be shackled to court life. He would be allowed to excel at what he truly knew was his purpose: to actively hunt the
Khagan
’s enemies. He would not show them mercy; he would never stop pursuing them until every last man who dared to defy the
Khagan
was dead.

The fires were no longer spreading. The
Khagan
was safe in his tent, surrounded by three
arbans
of armored soldiers. His patrols had circled around and disrupted the archers who had been pouring waves of fiery arrows on the camp.

It was time to take the battle to the enemy. It was time to show them the wrath of the
Khagan
.

He and his men jogged through the firelit camp. They were his handpicked elite, nine men who had each killed as many as he—men who would not balk or hesitate at his slightest command. Like him, they understood their duty—they were as defined by it as he was. They were Mongols.

Camp followers and other soldiers scurried past Munokhoi’s
arban
as they fought the scattered fires: tamping down blazes with thick blankets, pouring protective circles of water or sour milk (any liquid they could get their hands on) around burning tents, hauling cargo and livestock to safer locations. Ash hung in the heated air; what little wind there was this night spent itself in confusion, blown back and forth by the small fires.

The heat felt good on Munokhoi’s bare head. His sword glistened orange-red in the ruddy light as if it were already covered in blood. He held his buckler loosely in his left hand, almost unconscious of its presence. He did not expect to need it.

Whoever the attackers were, they may have been bold and clever, but he knew they were cowards. They had sown panic and fear with their aerial bombardment, and might even be using the confusion and darkness to cover their assault, but these tactics were the refuge of frightened men. They did not have the superiority of numbers or skill; otherwise, they would not have hidden behind such tactics. They knew they were attacking the
Khagan
’s Imperial Guard—warriors without peers across the steppes—and they had already shown their fear.

They knew they were going to die, and Munokhoi was only too happy to help them meet their end. There would be no glory for these craven ambushers. They would all die in the night; by morning, the only thing left would be leaking corpses. Carrion feed.

He couldn’t help but hope that he might run across Gansukh. He had seen the bastard whelp run off to chase after the scheming Chinese bitch. He knew those two were plotting something—he had had men watching them both but had not learned anything useful enough to warrant alerting the
Khagan
or Master Chucai. It would be better if some accident befell them. In the aftermath of this battle, no one would question two more dead bodies. Unfortunate victims of the nighttime raid.

His hand tightened on his sword, and a wicked smile crossed his face. He’d prefer to kill them himself, of course, and the fantasy of cutting either or both of their heads off only fueled his bloodlust.

They passed beyond the last row of tents, and as one, Munokhoi’s
arban
picked up speed. They were in open terrain now, and like wolves who had spotted their prey, they were eager to bring the battle to the enemy.