Rutger leaped to his feet as the spear sailed through the air. The collective voices of the audience turned from raucous cheers to screams of panic. The Shield-Brethren in attendance at the arena wore maille and carried weapons under their cloaks and plain robes in preparation for the culmination of Andreas’s plan. But everything had gone horrifically wrong the moment one of Dietrich’s men had walked into the arena instead of one of the Khan’s fighters. The Shield-Brethren had all been waiting for the fight to end, hoping that their brother would be triumphant, but fearing they would be forced to watch him fall. Forced to watch one of theirs die, unable to do anything to prevent it. And their plan would have come to naught, undone by the Livonian Grandmaster’s desire for revenge. Everything undone.
But Andreas—bold, stupid, heroic Andreas—had refused to give up. He had tried to save them anyway.
Rutger’s eyes followed the path of the shaft as it vanished between the curtains of the Khan’s box. He stared at the billowing curtains, trying to ascertain if it had hit its target. His lips moved in a silent prayer. Give me some sign.
A Mongol swathed in silks and drenched in blood, staggered into view, the spear through his midsection. He was thin, dressed like a functionary.
Andreas had missed his target. The gambit had failed.
Everything was undone.
The death of the Khan would have made for much more confusion, which they had planned to use to their advantage. As it was, their enemy was simply aroused and angry, actively seeking the presence of enemies within the crowd. They had to flee the arena before anyone realized they were there. Before anyone thought to look more closely at their bulky clothing. They could not afford to be caught in a riot.
Hans wanted to scream, but his throat had seized. Wedged as he was between two watchers in the common stands, the cacophony of the crowd would have drowned him out anyway, yet he struggled to make his voice work. As if the sound of his voice might somehow change the gruesome scene before him. He struggled to make a noise as the Livonian’s hand brought the heavy sword down on the Rose Knight’s shoulder. The blade did not bounce off the maille, but sheared through the mesh, cutting deeply into the body underneath. I told him there would be a friend.
The deafening roar of the crowd overwhelmed him, hurting his ears and making the wood floor tremble and shake. The world is falling apart, he thought, and we will all fall through the cracks.
Andreas fell, a violent spray of blood all around him—in the air, in the sand. Hans wanted to look away, but his eyes—like his mouth—refused to obey. He could no more look away than he could stop what was happening with his tiny voice. Get up! he silently begged, though he knew Andreas would not. He had seen blood like this, when the Mongols had sacked Legnica, and he knew the wound was fatal. He knew there was nothing God could do to save the Rose Knight. Nothing anyone could do.
They knew, he realized, staring at the red cross on the other man’s chest. Somehow, the Livonians had known of Andreas and Kim’s plan. And if they had known...
The others. I have to warn the others. Now it was his legs that wouldn’t move. He had to do something—anything—but he was frozen in place, held captive by the horrible spectacle.
He did not want to watch, but he couldn’t tear himself away as the Livonian raised his sword again.
The crowd was shrieking now, no longer cheering the wild battle down below. The Livonian had struck Andreas at the shoulder, and the greatsword had sliced through his maille, splitting Andreas from shoulder to hip. The sand was a filthy pit of red mud, and Andreas—somehow, by the Virgin!—was still alive.
Rutger forced his way to the rail, trying to ignore what was happening as he looked elsewhere. The gates were open below, and Mongol guards were streaming into the arena. In the stands, panic was already tearing through the crowds as some of the onlookers tried to flee the riot they knew was coming while others surged toward the rail. He spotted several of the Shield-Brethren, confusion and frustration writ over their features. Nearby, Styg was openly weeping, his mouth screwed up into an expression of inescapable horror. As he watched, something died inside the young man and his mouth snapped shut. He surged forward, shoving his way toward the rail.
“No!” Rutger intercepted him, hauling him back from the wooden barrier. The pain in his hands made him gasp, but he held on, holding the young man back.
Styg fought him, great sobbing gasps quaking his body. “We can’t let him do this!” Styg shouted at him, and Rutger stole a glance over his shoulder at the killing floor below. “That’s our brother!”
The Livonian was still cutting, his sword rising and falling like a butcher’s cleaver, even though the body beneath his blade was clearly dead.
“Aye,” Rutger snarled, hauling the young man around so that he would no longer look upon the bloody spectacle of the field. “And if you go down there, you will join him. Others will follow you, and it will all be for naught. We are done here. Get to the horses!”
He barked at the other Shield-Brethren within earshot. “Go, now. Get back to the chapter house.”