Dietrich lowered his hands, resting them on his saddle. He waited, impossibly patient, a tiny smile on the edge of his lips. Burchard’s horse nickered nervously, and the big Livonian made a tiny noise with his lips to calm the animal.
Finally, after an eternity of staring at each other, Tegusgal barked a short question.
“He wants to know why,” Pius translated.
“Because I know his Khan is angry at him. The Shield-Brethren knight nearly slew his master. He failed to protect his liege, and he’s out here today with”—Dietrich ran his eyes over the host of Mongols, trying to get a quick count, and giving up after a few moments—“with more men than he needs to curry some favor.” He waited while Pius translated, and before the Mongol commander could reply, he continued. “He needs to slay the Shield-Brethren first, otherwise his Khan will know that he doesn’t know who is the real threat. Tell him that I can show him where the Shield-Brethren are. I can tell him how they hide themselves. I can tell him about their sentries, about their fighting techniques, about how they’re waiting to ambush him.”
Father Pius’s voice droned in the morning air, filling the space between them with words that Dietrich could not understand but hoped were the ones that he had spoken. Everything rested upon this opportunity. I must not waste it.
Abruptly, Tegusgal snapped his fingers, cutting Pius off. His spoke savagely in response, angrily gesturing for Pius to translate.
“He wants to know why he should trust you. You are betraying your own people.”
“They aren’t my people,” Dietrich said. He leaned forward. “Were the actions of my man in the arena not clear enough?”
Tegusgal regarded him coldly as Pius translated. The Mongol commander grunted as the priest finished, and glancing over his shoulder, he said something to the men behind him.
“What did he say?” Dietrich demanded.
“I—I don’t know,” Pius responded.
Tegusgal spoke again, and with a gulping hiccup, Pius translated, his voice quivering. “What do you want?”
“Safe passage for my men,” Dietrich said without hesitation. “Kill all the knights you want, but me and my men are leaving this shithole.”
“Hai!” Tegusgal barked when Pius finished translating, and before any of the Westerners could react, four Mongols raised their bows and loosed arrows. Dietrich flinched, but the arrows were not intended for him.
Sigeberht fell back, toppling off his mount without a word, and Dietrich caught sight of an arrow jutting from his left eye socket. Another was buried in the maille around the base of his throat.
Burchard groaned and leaned forward, remaining—for the moment—in his saddle. He fumbled with a pair of Mongol arrows—both had struck him high in the chest—and tried to speak, but all that came out of his mouth was a spatter of dark blood. His hand slipped, leaving a red smear across his horse’s mane, and then he too fell to the ground.
Tegusgal spoke, and Pius translated, his voice a quavering whisper. “He’ll kill all the knights he pleases. It is not for you to tell him otherwise.”
Dietrich ground his teeth and stared at the Mongol commander. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his longsword, and a number of Mongol bows creaked as their owners drew them back.
Tegusgal held them off with a raised hand. He spoke again, his voice brusque and commanding.
“He will consider your proposal,” Pius whimpered, “While you show him the camp of the Shield-Brethren. Should he be victorious there, he may grant you—”
“What?” Dietrich demanded as Pius faltered to a stop.
“He may grant you a head start,” the priest wailed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Graymane’s Ride
The striking difference between a normal night’s rest and the camp being constructed in the valley beneath Burqan-qaldun was the frenzy of the preparations. Jachin had watched the proceedings for a little while but had grown quickly bored by the monotony and had returned to the warmth of her nonmoving ger. Lian remained outside, happy to have an excuse to remain free of Second Wife—for a little while at least.