It was the sort of mission Andreas would have loved, and Styg hoped they could execute it well enough to honor Andreas’s sacrifice. Virgin steady my hand, he prayed, that I might do even half as well as he.
Eilif freed his blade as well, and with a nod they crept into the maze of tents, paddocks, and cages that made up the Mongol encampment. This area had been uncultivated land before the Mongols arrived-open meadows and fields of wild grasses-and the native grasses had been trampled so thoroughly that only tenacious clumps of parched weeds still grew around the bases of some of the tents.
Here and there, men would pop out of these tents-Hans had referred to them as ger. With helmets askew and weapons bared, the Mongols would race for the sounds of violence at a mad, disorganized dash. Styg and Eilif moved slowly and stealthily, freezing whenever panicked warriors dashed for the gate, hoping to remain unobserved. The Virgin was watching over them, shielding them from the eyes of the alarmed Mongols, but such favor would not last indefinitely.
According to Hans, the ger most likely holding the prisoners was rectangular with orange walls, and it was located within the second rank of tents along the southern wall. They had tried to pick a spot to climb the walls as close as possible, but they still had to hunt through the maze to find the one ger.
It was a race. Could they find the prisoners before being discovered?
Eilif hissed, and Styg caught sight of movement behind the half-opened flaps of the ger beside him. A tall Mongol with a long mustache ducked out of the tent and stopped in his tracks, staring at Styg for a long, unblinking moment, and then his face broke into an ugly smile.
Styg darted forward, and the Mongol ducked back, disappearing into the darkness of the tent as he dodged Styg’s thrust. When he returned he had a blade of his own. And a friend.
The first Mongol lunged at him, and Styg responded by sidestepping the man’s attack, bashing the blade even farther to the side, and then snapping his own sword straight at the Mongol’s face. He buried a good three inches in the man’s forehead, and when he jerked his hands back and down, teeth and bits of skull ripped free along with his blade.
The second Mongol had to step around his dead friend, and he used that wide step to drive a powerful two-handed backswing. Styg’s hands and blade were low-he couldn’t get them up quickly enough to block the Mongol’s attack-and he swept a leg back as he raised his sword nearly parallel with the Mongol’s stroke. The curved sword slammed against the quillons of his longsword, and Styg kept moving, pushing off against the Mongol’s blade. His hands rotated, right over left, and his blade whirled around into a diagonal slice that connected with the back of the Mongol’s neck.
As the Mongol collapsed, blood spurting from a cut that nearly separated head from trunk, Styg blinked and remembered to breathe. His heart pounded in his chest like a thunderous drum. The attack had happened so quickly. If he had stood and thought about what he should have done, either of his Mongol attackers would have succeeded in cutting him instead. He had simply reacted, letting his training guide his arms and sword. You must stop thinking about holding your sword, Andreas had told them during one of their first training sessions. It is an extension of you, here and here. Touching his head and his chest. We will do these exercises until you understand this. I want to forget all of your names and see only swordsmen on this field.
Styg shook off the thoughts, sensing the melancholic trap that a fighter could easily fall into after combat. He had used his sword to take a life. That act changed a man-there was no doubt of that in his mind-but to stop and dwell on that transformation would be as foolish as thinking while fighting. If he survived, he could dwell on his first blooding all he liked.
He looked about for some sign of Eilif, and saw none. The orange tent, he reminded himself, and he jogged to his right, getting away from the two corpses before someone stumbled upon the scene. If Eilif was still undetected, Styg mused, it might fall to him to lead the Mongols away from the tent to give his friend enough time to free the prisoners.
That is, if he hadn’t been spotted.
Continue with the mission, he chided himself. He came around the curve of another tent, and was surprised to find a thick post standing in the middle of an open space. A man, his hands bound by leather straps that, in turn, were lashed to an iron ring set in the top of the post, half leaned, half sat on the ground. His hair was long and unkempt and he wore no shirt. Styg could make out the puckered edges of a still suppurating wound on the man’s back.
A coarse shout sounded behind Styg, and he glanced back toward the tent with the two dead men. The bodies had been found, and already a Mongol was running toward him, sword drawn.
Styg darted toward the block of wood and, as he came abreast of it, he swung his sword. The blade severed the leather straps, and he pivoted around the block, swinging his sword in a wide arc in his wake. The Mongol drew up short, avoiding Styg’s wild swing, and once the blade had passed, he leaped forward with a howl. Styg caught the Mongol’s cut on the strong of his blade and let the momentum of his enemy’s attack drive his pommel upward and into his enemy’s face with skull-cracking force.
The freed prisoner stared uncomprehendingly at the senseless Mongol lying on the ground next to him. Styg kicked the Mongol’s curved sword toward the man, hoping the sight of the weapon would bestir the man. The man reached for the weapon finally, fingers wrapped around the hilt with a practiced familiarity.
We all know what to do with a sword, Styg thought as he moved on, seeking the orange tent.
He caught sight of a piece of orange felt, and relief washed over him that he hadn’t been running in the wrong direction. Drab and worn down with mold and rain, the tent’s coloration was not unlike that of a rotting gourd, left too long in the field.
His elation was momentary, cut short by more shouts behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and spotted three more Mongols rapidly approaching. They all carried spears.
His hand tightened on his hilt, memories of watching Andreas fight the Livonian in the Circus filling his head.
Spears against swords. Not a good match.
The smoke burned Dietrich’s eyes and throat as he slid off his horse and dashed toward the bridge. He didn’t have time to figure out who had put these barrels on the bridge or why. The Mongols were coming, and if he could clear a path, he might still escape.
His boots clattered on the wooden boards of the bridge as he approached the first barrel. Up close, he could hear the hissing frustration of the fires inside the nearest barrel as it tried to devour the green and wet wood that was the source of the smoke. The barrel was surrounded by a primitive fire circle, and he kicked the broken rock aside. Clenching his eyes shut against the billowing smoke, he wished he still had his cloak to cover his nose and mouth. Trying to breathe as little as possible, he bent and shoved with his shoulder. The barrel slid across the bridge, rocking slightly, and he staggered against it, inhaling a lungful of smoke.
Coughing, his eyes watering, he hunched over. His eyes were filled with tears, and his throat ached, but he couldn’t stop to hack up all the smoke he had inhaled. He had to shove the barrel off the bridge. He had to keep moving. The Mongols were coming. He had to get his leg to move.
Wiping tears from his eyes, he stared stupidly at his recalcitrant leg. He had removed the arrow earlier. The one that hadn’t penetrated his armor. Why was it back? Forgetting about the smoking barrel for a moment, Dietrich reached down and touched the long shaft of the arrow protruding from his right thigh.