They moved quickly across the open terrain, and Cnan kept her horse close to the tree line where the ground was safer.
Sound carried well along the shelf, caught between the trees and the rocks, and they heard the horses coming a while before they spotted them. Haakon and Krasniy made no move to hide themselves. Cnan’s heart beat faster, and she tried to not let her apprehension pass to her horse. The echoes tripped over each other, confounding the number of animals approaching, and Cnan doubted the riders approaching were friendly.
Haakon and Krasniy each had a sword, and Krasniy had managed to pick up a spear as well on their way out of the camp, but neither wore any armor. They weren’t very well equipped to stand against a host of any size.
The riders came into view, and both parties paused, catching sight of one another. Cnan peered at the pair facing them, noting they were Mongolian and that one-the broader one-appeared to be injured. The other she recognized after a moment as the Khagan himself.
“Ogedei,” Haakon called out, having recognized the man in plum too. He raised his hand and beckoned, waving the Khagan toward him.
The broad Mongol kneed his horse forward, lowering the tall pole he carried until it was pointed at the pair of Westerners like a lance. The horsehair braids danced as his horse charged.
Krasniy laughed, a rolling sound that came deep from his belly. He motioned Haakon to stand aside as he stepped forward, raising his spear.
At the mouth of the valley, Ogedei and Namkhai had stopped for fresher mounts, taking them from the scattered Torguud who appeared to have been ambushed. Namkhai urged Ogedei to keep riding, and while a part of him was angered by the idea of fleeing, prudence won out and he followed Namkhai. The Torguud’s responsibility was to protect him, and leaving them behind to fight the assassins who had sprung out of the woods was the right thing to do.
Ogedei followed Namkhai through the woods, retracing the route they had taken the day before. The clearing near the river where they had camped flashed past, and then Namkhai turned north, heading up a slow incline toward rockier terrain. For a while, he simply focused on Namkhai’s broad back and the fluttering horsehair braids of the Spirit Banner, letting his horse run at its own pace.
And then Namkhai slowed his horse, cutting to the side, and Ogedei looked ahead. He saw a horse carrying two riders and a pair of men, standing in the open. He squinted at them, knowing he knew who the men were, but unable to comprehend why he was meeting them on this trackless rock. “Who-?” he began, and then one of the pair called out his name.
With a shout, Namkhai urged his horse forward, couching the Spirit Banner like a long spear, leaving Ogedei to puzzle out the presence of men whom he thought were caged back at the camp. How had they gotten out? he wondered. Why were they here?
The giant, the red-haired one who had fought like a crazed bear in the gladiatorial matches, carried a spear, and as Namkhai charged, the giant trotted forward, his arm moving back for a long throw. Namkhai suddenly changed his tactic, realizing the giant’s target, and he swept the Spirit Banner to the side. With a final spurt of speed, the giant lunged forward, releasing the spear in an overhanded throw. A second later, the shaft of the Spirit Banner slammed into his chest and hurled him off his feet.
Ogedei’s attention snapped to the flying spear. The giant hadn’t thrown it at Namkhai. He had hurled it, like it weighed not much more than an arrow, past Namkhai.
Ogedei was the target.
He jerked his horse’s head to the side, pounding his feet against its barrel to get it to move. It jerked its head back, snorting at the biting pain he was inflicting by pulling so hard on the reins, and it danced angrily, refusing to obey. The spear arced down, and Ogedei hurled himself out of the saddle, and as he hit the ground hard, painfully scrapping his palms on the rock, he heard the heavy sound of impact. His horse screamed, and he rolled away as it collapsed, thrashing in agony.
The other man, the young Northerner who had stood in the gladiator ring with the fish gutter-the boy who had eyeballed him fiercely, thinking quite seriously about throwing the knife-was running at him. He had a sword, and that same look was plain on his face.
He wasn’t going to stop this time.
As soon as Krasniy released the spear, Haakon realized the sacrifice the giant had made for him. He started sprinting, sword in hand.
The thrown spear hit the Khagan’s horse and the Khagan fell from his saddle as the horse went down, its legs thrashing. The Khagan hit the ground roughly, but got to his feet-sword drawn-in time to meet Haakon’s first attack.
He launched a two-handed downward stroke at the Khagan’s head. Ogedei was dazed from his fall, and he did get his sword up in time, but only just. Haakon’s blow bent Ogedei’s arm, and the Khagan threw his head back, to keep from getting hit by his own blade.
Ogedei surged forward, pushing against Haakon’s blade, and Haakon batted the underpowered swing aside. He was fighting with one of the curved Mongolian swords, and they didn’t have the same point as a Western longsword. The curved end of his blade slid off the Khagan’s jacket, slicing through the fur-lined material but failing to penetrate the leather jerkin underneath. He turned his wrists, rotating the sharp edge of the blade toward the Khagan’s bare neck, and pulled the weapon back in a cutting motion.
Ogedei jerked his head aside and got his blade underneath Haakon’s enough to keep his throat from getting cut. He lashed out with an attack of his own, his blade twisting like an angry serpent, and Haakon caught it between quillons and blade. Ogedei lifted his hands, shoving his blade, and Haakon gasped as the curved edge slid over the base of his hand, slicing his flesh.
Haakon retreated, berating himself for neglecting to remember the differences-once again-between the blade he was fighting with and the one he had trained with. It doesn’t have a point, he castigated himself. It is the edge I have to think about.
Ogedei, seeing the blood running across Haakon’s hand, came at him again, swinging his sword in looping, whirling attacks. Ogedei was swinging his sword hard too; each time Haakon rebuffed his attack, he felt the shock of contact in his hand.
His grip was getting slippery.
Ogedei wasn’t trying to hit him. The Khagan was trying to overtax his wounded hand. If there was enough blood, Haakon might lose control of his weapon.
The broad Mongol thundered past, and Cnan felt Lian shrink, pressing herself against Cnan’s back in an effort to make herself small. As the Mongol brought his horse around, Krasniy shouted at them to get off the rock plateau. Cnan fumbled with the reins of the horse, trying to get the animal’s head turned in the right direction. Krasniy rushed in front of her horse, spooking the animal further, and she spat a furious curse at him.
The Mongol rider was coming back, the long horsehair banner lowered again. Krasniy stood his ground, grinning like a demon, and as the Mongol closed in, Krasniy raised his sword and hurled it one-handed.