The Mongoliad Book Three

“Ha,” ?gedei said, scooting toward the edge of his sleeping platform. His stomach growled, vociferously eager for food, though, and he wondered if it was strong enough for such fare. “He is like an old fruit tree: as he gets older, he gets stiffer and his fruit becomes more sour.” He picked up the wide spoon that was resting beside the bowl and gingerly slurped up a mouthful of the broth.

 

It burned all the way down to his stomach, and his scalp started prickling immediately. “Ah,” he complained. “It is worse than I thought. This isn’t food. Why is my cook trying to poison me?”

 

“He’s trying to make you sweat,” Alchiq said, favoring ?gedei with his unwavering gaze.

 

?gedei stared at his old guard for a moment and then, trying his best to ignore the pain still lacing his throat, he scooped up several of the floating pieces of fish with the spoon. “You used to drink with me,” he said around a mouthful of fish. “In fact, I remember you being able to drink more than me.”

 

“I do too, my Khan,” Alchiq replied.

 

“But not anymore.”

 

Alchiq shook his head slowly.

 

?gedei sighed. “Now I understand why Chucai was eager to let you close to me again.” His stomach quailed as he filled his spoon with more broth. “I will need some distraction if I am to get this all down,” he said. “Tell me of the West. My sons and their cousins are conquering it in my name, but I know so little about it.” He laughed. “Did you ever imagine that our empire would be so vast that there would parts of it that I have never seen?”

 

“I did not, my Khan.”

 

“My father did.” A huge sigh welled up from his belly, and he shuddered as it worked its way out of his body. His cheeks felt wet, and he swiped a hand across his face. “This soup,” he laughed raggedly, “it is very spicy.”

 

“It is, my Khan.” Alchiq had the grace to look away.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER FORTY

 

 

 

Smoke Signals

 

 

 

A trio of billowing columns of gray smoke marred the otherwise clear sky. The late afternoon sun winked through the twisting plumes, and Dietrich shook his head in disbelief as his horse galloped around a copse of oak trees that hugged a bend in the river.

 

The bridge was on fire.

 

No wind stirred the scene, and the pluming smoke billowed and roiled at its own whim. The plain near the bridge had been flattened by the passage of so many horses and men that it was nothing more than a flat field between the high banks of the river and the verge of a narrow band of trees that demarked fallow fields to the west. There was no shelter on this plain—it was exposed ground that Dietrich had hoped to cover swiftly before his Mongol pursuers could get within arrow range. His goal had been the bridge, but that hope died in his breast as soon as he realized where the smoke was coming from.

 

The road to Hünern was blocked.

 

Desperate, Dietrich urged his horse toward the river, pulling up short of the steep incline of the bank. Had he the presence of mind when they’d earlier crossed, he might have paid more attention to the depth and speed of the water. To misjudge either would be the death of him, especially dressed as he was in armor, and he did not have time to discard it. With the Mongols at his back, he dared not even try. He could force his horse into the water, but the animal would probably drown trying to carry him and swim. It was too great a risk, and it would take too long to discard his maille.

 

He heard the Mongols coming, their voices echoing with equal parts glee and anger. Dietrich suspected they would not kill him quickly.

 

His horse snorted and tossed its head. It sensed his panic and wanted to get away from the smoke. Dietrich glanced at the bridge one last time, his brain struggling to put together a viable plan, and his brow furrowed as his frenzied mind finally focused on a fundamental peculiarity of the scene.

 

The smoke was pouring from a quartet of squat barrels. There was no real fire, just lots and lots of smoke. Dietrich tugged on the reins and urged his horse toward the bridge. The animal balked, and in a flash Dietrich understood the nature of the obstruction.

 

The smoke would keep the horses away, but the bridge was intact. He couldn’t ride across, but he could walk. In fact, if he could move one or two of the barrels, he might be able to lead his horse across.

 

 

 

 

 

After a quick glance to make sure they weren’t looking at him, Rutger ignored the guards as they became agitated. They were looking behind him, and if he looked, he suspected that he would see the rising plumes of smoke from the bridge. The fires had been lit. Everything was going to happen in short order now. He allowed a tiny grin to crease his lips as he kept his head down. He was within bowshot of the walls. The plan could still come undone.

 

He heard the sound of the horses approaching, and the pair flashed past him. They were Mongol ponies, with a pair of stocky Mongols clinging to the saddles. He offered a silent prayer to the Virgin as the pair approached the gates. Let them pass. One of the guards shouted down to the men at the gate as the others jabbered and gesticulated at the approaching pair.

 

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