The Mongoliad Book Three

He wasn’t sure if they heard him, but they could read his command in the anguish of his face, in the bared ferocity of his teeth, in the wild fury of his gaze. They understood him, and obeyed, fleeing the retribution that was to come.

 

To the chapter house, he thought. They would regroup, grieve briefly, and then they would ready themselves. His mind raced, leaping across a dozen different courses of action as his men melted into the teeming chaos of the fleeing crowds. He gave Styg one last shove, ensuring that the young man was moving in the right direction, and then he spared one last glance back at the arena and the Khan’s box.

 

A Mongol dignitary, wrapped in bloody silk, the spear jutting out of his body, sprawled against the railing of the Khan’s pavilion. The curtains had been pulled close around the box, and the roof of the pavilion was swarming with the Khan’s archers.

 

Andreas, he thought as he let himself fall back in the crowd. It should have been me.

 

 

 

 

 

Roosting crows cawed irritably from the rafters of the barn. Hünern had become a ghostly ruin. The Mongols had withdrawn into their camp, barring their gates and shielding their Khan. The streets were empty but for a few stragglers, too drunk or senseless to seek shelter. Even the birds had gone into hiding.

 

Dietrich knew the silence wouldn’t last. The Mongol retreat was a strategic withdrawal so that they could order their ranks. Once they got over the initial shock of the assault, they were going to ride out in full force. While their main focus was going to be on the Shield-Brethren, there was little doubt in his mind that every living soul between them and the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae was going to be counted as an enemy.

 

If they survived, there was still the issue of Kristaps’s actions to be dealt with. War had been declared between the two orders.

 

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” Dietrich snarled at Kristaps when he found the man. “I didn’t tell you to kill him while his back was turned.”

 

Kristaps stood before a water trough in the barn that was serving as a basin, washing Andreas’s blood from his sword. From tip to hilt, the weapon had been coated with the blood of the Shield-Brethren, and no one had dared try to take the blade from Volquin’s Dragon.

 

“I’ve likely saved our order, Heermeister,” Kristaps replied with an unnerving calm. The knight looked at Dietrich, and the Heermeister was struck by the utter lack of feeling in the man’s unflinching gaze.

 

“By starting a war?” Dietrich snapped. He was in no mood for double-talk, and Kristaps’s implacable stare was unnerving.

 

“By making our intent clear to those who truly hold the power here,” Kristaps replied bluntly. “When the knight made his dash to throw his spear, how would it have looked if I’d let him live? Especially given that you bribed my way into the fight. They would have seen two Western orders putting aside their differences to defy the Khan. What vengeance comes next would as likely fall on our heads as theirs. To save us, I had to defend the Khan’s honor.”

 

Silence hung between them, filled by the chatter of crows in the rafters. In the distance, a bell started to toll. Dusk was upon the city, and the dolorous tone of the bell made Dietrich shiver involuntarily. Night was coming, and only God knew if any of them would see another sunrise.

 

He had ordered his men to start striking their camp. They had to be ready to ride at a moment’s notice. The compound had served as suitable shelter for his order, but it would not protect them at all when the Mongolian wrath was unleashed. Even if Kristaps was correct in his assessment, it would only buy them a little time. The Mongols would turn their attention to the other orders once they finished destroying the Shield-Brethren. He couldn’t overlook what had happened at Mohi. The Mongols did not discriminate.

 

There was something else, though. A thought nagged at Dietrich and he stared at the First Sword of Fellin, trying to elucidate his concern. “You made your point when you killed him,” he said, now holding his knight’s gaze. I will not be cowed. I am your Heermeister. “You did not need to mutilate his body.”

 

Kristaps said nothing, though whether his silence was due to genuine regret, which Dietrich doubted, or because there was no proper way to excuse his behavior, was not apparent.

 

The big knight had already doffed his maille, and he slowly slid the sleeves of his gambeson up to his elbows. He raised his forearms to Dietrich, revealing circular scars on both arms. Old burns, seared deep into the meat of his forearms. In the fading light of the day, they looked like heraldic devices, though smeared and stretched across the skin.

 

Kristaps’s blue eyes flashed. “They mutilated me first.”

 

 

 

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