Zug released the kiai-the heavenly shout. His strike came up from the floor, not as strong as the overhead strike but still quick enough. Still strong enough to split the dissolute Khan from groin to neck. The Khan would have to choose between killing Kim and dying, or evading his strike and allowing the Flower Knight to escape.
The Khan had seen Zug fight in the arena enough times to know that attempting to block a naginata strike with a sword was tantamount to inviting death, and he opted for evasion, leaping toward Zug with astonishing speed.
Zug anticipated Onghwe’s approach. Every sword fighter, when facing off against opponents with longer weapons, strove to get inside, to diminish the effectiveness of the long weapon. Equally, every pole-arm fighter learned techniques to keep the sword fighters at bay. Zug pulled his naginata back, slashing in the opposite direction as he closed the line.
Onghwe, having avoiding the first attack by moving to Zug’s right and toward him, kept coming. He reversed his blade, catching Zug’s downward slice against the flat of his sword. A dangerous parry, but as Zug had not been able to gather full momentum, the stroke only pushed the Khan’s blade against his body-the sword blade shielding the Khan from the naginata’s cutting edge.
Onghwe’s feet pounded against the floor as he rushed Zug, striking him in the middle of the forehead with the pommel of his sword.
Zug’s world exploded into a flurry of vibrant colors. He tried to get an arm up to block another punishing blow as he reeled back, and Onghwe smashed him on the right shoulder. He stumbled against a divan, and off balance and unable to see through a rain of tears he fell, trying to turn his stumble into a roll or flip or anything that would take him away from the Khan’s sword.
He tumbled clumsily off the other side of the divan, landing awkwardly on his left shoulder. Ignoring the pain racing up and down his arm, Zug scrambled to his feet, dragging his naginata with him.
The Khan’s sword struck the haft of his weapon just below his right hand and sheared through the thick wood. Onghwe let out a tiny grunt as the tip of his sword hit the carpet beside Zug. He froze for an instant, his eyes glittering as he examined Zug’s position-on his knees, his arms over his head, the naginata blade a long ways off. His sword was much closer to Zug’s undefended right side; he could hit Zug sooner than Zug could get the naginata blade around.
Zug loosened his grip, letting the haft of the naginata move loosely in his right hand, and he jerked his left hand toward his right, thrusting the butt of his weapon. Onghwe jerked his head back, and Zug only managed to land a glancing blow on the dissolute Khan’s cheek.
Onghwe whipped his sword around, a wild one-handed swing that Zug had no choice but to throw himself forward in order to avoid. He felt the sword whip over his head, and before Onghwe could swing on him again, he scrambled away, swinging the naginata around to make the Khan cautious in his approach.
But Onghwe wasn’t pressing the attack. During their exchange, Kim had procured another spear and now returned to the fray. The Flower Knight thrust at Khan, and Onghwe twisted himself around, momentarily putting his back to Zug. He parried, spinning his blade around Kim’s weapon and pushing it wide. He darted forward, attempting to use the same pommel smash he had used on Zug.
Kim wasn’t about to let Onghwe get that close. He wiggled his spear, slipping it under the Khan’s elbow to raise Onghwe’s arm. He kicked, smashing his heel against the side of Onghwe’s knee. Onghwe roared with pain and retreated, cautiously testing his weight on his right leg.
“Marvelous,” he chortled as he put some distance between the two fighters. His face was flushed, glowing with sweat, and a dark bruise was already forming on his right cheek. “I haven’t felt this alive in years.” He laughed, consumed in equal portion by feral madness and giddy euphoria.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Feronantus’s plan was simple: kill the bear, stake it out in gross parody of its rampant state, and wait for the Khagan to arrive. R?dwulf and Istvan would lie in ambush on the southern hillside, close to the rocky spur that split the main valley. The rest of the company would hide in the southern canyon until the Khagan’s party had scattered, and then they would ride into battle.
The last half year of hard riding came down to this: a dead bear, an ambush, and one final charge.
None of them expected to survive.
They said good-bye to Yasper shortly after they broke camp, and then a half hour later, to R?dwulf and Istvan. With three horses in tow, Feronantus led the party into the southern forest and stopped when he reached an open glade. They tethered the horses in a line and gave them enough rope to forage among the tall grasses.
As Feronantus, Percival, and Eleazar checked and adjusted their gear-Eleazar grousing noisily about having to fight from horseback where his enormous sword would be useless-Vera took Raphael by the hand and led him into the trees. They had all lost weight during the hard trek across the steppe, and Vera’s beauty had become even more stark and austere. Her hair was longer, and she had taken to braiding it in the Northern style. The sun and wind had darkened her skin; it was not as dark as Raphael’s, but she was not the pale ghost of a woman he had met months ago. Only her eyes remained unchanged-hard and unyielding, the same color as her maille.
“Stop staring at me like that,” she said gently. “We knew this day was coming. We take death into our hearts when we take our oaths.”
“Yes,” he argued, “but that doesn’t mean we have to like it.”
She cupped Raphael’s face with her hand. “I have liked very little in this world, Raphael of Acre, and you have shown me more affection than I deserve. I am sorry-”
He placed his hand over her mouth and shook his head. “I have said good-bye to too many friends today. I am done. No more.” She relented, and tightly pressing her hand to his, she kissed his fingers. He pulled her close, and dropping their hands, their lips met.
She broke contact first, as he knew she would, but she didn’t let go of him. Her teeth worrying her lower lip, she rested her head against his shoulder. “By the time the Mongol horde reached Kiev, we knew they were going to besiege the city for as long as it took to break our spirits, and we swore-my sisters and I-that we would never submit. We would never, willingly, open our gates to the Mongols, and the Virgin heard our prayer. They breached Kiev’s gates and ravaged the city completely, but the walls of our citadel held. We took in too many refugees, and if the Mongols had been patient, we would have starved to death. But Batu Khan was too eager to press farther west. He thought the destruction of the city would be enough to break our spirit. But we didn’t falter. We were skjalddis. We would never surrender.
“And then I took my sisters out of the city. I took them away from the Virgin’s protection, and the Mongols found us.” Her hand closed to a fist on his chest. “I killed my sisters as readily as if I cut their throats myself.”
Raphael shook his head. “You can’t blame yourself. Every commander feels responsible for his troops. They would not be a good commander otherwise. But you can’t carry that burden. It will crush you.”
“It won’t crush me, Raphael.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “My sisters guide my arm. They give me strength. They will be with me when I kill the Khagan.”
“Vera…” He faltered. Her gaze was too guarded, too hard. His words would not be strong enough to penetrate her armor.