He glanced over his shoulder. The Mongol party had come to a halt behind him, gathering around the tiny gap in the trees. Beneath his armor, goose bumps danced on the flesh of his chest. Expressionless faces, staring at him; eyes alight with murderous glee. Pius was near the back of the mob, his cheeks wet with tears. The priest’s lips moved, but Dietrich could not hear his words, though he could imagine the prayer the Priest was saying. Libera nos a malo...
Tegusgal barked a command at him, waving a hand at the trees. Several men on either side of the Mongol leader raised their bows. Arrows were nocked.
Dietrich raised a hand, indicating that he understood Tegusgal’s command. He didn’t need Pius to translate, and he briefly wondered if by acknowledging Tegusgal, he had just signaled the end of the priest’s usefulness. Without waiting to see, he tapped his horse lightly in the ribs and turned his attention to the narrow path into the woods.
Rutger brought him to a squalid camp behind the fire-blackened remnants of a wall. There had been four walls once, encompassing a house that had probably belonged to Hünern’s burgher. Tents had been strewn up along the surviving wall, creating a makeshift shelter that had once been home to a crew of brutish Franks, vicious men who had shown little compunction about killing those who they saw as intruders. Hans and the Rats had learned to stay well away from the Black Wall—as they had called the camp.
It was empty now, and Hans could only guess as to the demise of the Franks. Had they all been slain in the riots or had their bluster run away and they along with it?
Before Hans had a chance to ask Rutger about the previous inhabitants of the camp, other Rose Knights began to join them. They were dressed much like their quartermaster—in filthy rags and plain habits. Occasionally, though, Hans could catch sight of what lay beneath their clothes. A silvery glint of maille, the dull sheen of boiled leather, the dark knobs of hammered studs. Armor. As the men solemnly huddled around Rutger and Hans, the boy felt something akin to what he felt when he slept among the roots of the spindly tree the Rats claimed as their own. He was in the presence of something older than he could imagine, something that had the strength to endure all adversity.
Rutger put a firm hand on Hans’s shoulder. “The boy knows much about the layout of the Mongol camp.” The older man squeezed Hans’s shoulder. “Tell them.”
He began with some hesitation, still awed by the stern focus of the knights around him, but as he spoke he slipped into the patter he used with all of the boys who had come and gone into the Mongol camp on his behalf. He knew every detail of what lay behind the walls of the Mongol compound. He had spoken so often over the past few months that the minutiae of the camp were etched in his mind like carvings upon ancient stones. The Shield-Brethren listened intently, and when he finally ran out of breath, they asked a few questions, prompting him to recite certain details once again. How many guards were at the front gate? Where was the back gate? How many archers in the towers along the front? Where were the barracks? How quickly did the Mongols react to an alarm? What about the prisoners who the Khan used as fighters in the arena? Where were they held?
When he finished, he listened quietly as Rutger walked through their plan, adjusting it as necessary in light of Hans’s information. He and the Rats had planned excursions in the past, but they had been the raids of boys—unkempt plans for thievery and mischief. The Shield-Brethren spoke of more brutal matters, of the efficient ways to kill men, of the ways to break an enemy’s will to fight. Certain elements of the plan might have struck Hans as dishonest or unbecoming actions of a knight had he been more of an innocent, but given what he had seen nailed to the wall of the arena, he found the simplicity of their plan to his liking. It was both cunning and jarringly direct.
Could it work? He felt something like hope spark in his chest, but it was a tiny flame and a cruel wind could snuff it out quickly.
“Styg, what of our riders?” Rutger asked.
“They’ll be ready,” Styg answered. He had come with Andreas on that day when the Shield-Brethren had stolen the Livonian horses. He was tall, dark-haired, and—though young—he exuded a confidence that Hans wished he could emulate as readily. “Halvard and Yvor have collected enough from the Mongol watchers to clothe themselves.” He glanced shyly at Hans, as if he wanted to speak with the boy but felt awkwardly confined by the current situation.
“Very well,” Rutger said. “I will go to the cart. The rest of you go to your men and wait for the signal.”
“What of the prisoners?” Styg asked.
Hans had told them they were scattered about the compound. Tegusgal did not want them housed too close to one another. Such proximity could easily foment rebellion.
Rutger shook his head. “Our priority is the gate.”
“The boy knows where they are housed. His idea has merit.”