He had shadowed Gansukh all day, and other than the single arrow fired during the archery contest had not revealed his presence. He had shoved his fist in his mouth to stop from giggling aloud when Gansukh had finally gone back to his wrecked ger. Oh, how satisfying it had been to drink dry all of Gansukh’s skins and then slice them with his knife. And then, a half hour later, the supreme pleasure at passing that same liquid there. I have stolen nothing, he had thought as he pissed all over the sleeping furs and the ruined clothing.
Listening to the gray-haired fool and Gansukh talk by the prisoners’ cages, it had been difficult to contain his rage when he learned that the old man Alchiq had given the Kitayan the knife! After the first fight, Munokhoi thought Gansukh might stoop to some dangerous subterfuge in an effort to embarrass him and he had watched for some sign that such a plan was in the making, but he hadn’t suspected that Gansukh might have an accomplice. The old man had a foxlike cunning, and giving a blade to a prisoner was a very dangerous ploy. Their plan could have gone awry quite easily, but they had gotten lucky instead.
Their luck would end tomorrow. They were both going on the hunt with the Khagan. There would be time enough to take care of everything while in the woods, and then his honor would be restored. The Khagan would see how bad a decision it had been to promote that loud-mouthed wrestler. The Khagan would take him back.
Tomorrow, Munokhoi thought, gleefully. I will kill them both tomorrow.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
In the Enemy’s Camp
At the Rose Knight chapter house, Tegusgal could not help but laugh when the sniveling Livonian worm bolted. Where did he think he was going? Did he actually think his horse was fast enough to outrun his Mongol hunters? Tegusgal shook his head as the Livonian Heermeister fled the chapter house grounds, and he gave some thought to letting the man go so as to sweeten the eventual hunt. He eyed his men, as some of them started launching arrows after the fleeing knight, and he sighed. They were restless, tense, and the sport would improve their morale. He whistled, giving them the freedom to chase after the foolish Heermeister.
Yipping like excited hounds, his men drove their horses into the woods.
Tegusgal fingered the hilt of his dagger, eying the quaking priest who remained. “Please, please,” the man begged as Tegusgal kneed his horse. “Spare my life, and God will reward you.”
“I do not believe in your god,” Tegusgal reminded him as he drew abreast.
The priest whimpered, and his horse snorted and shook itself as the man’s bladder let go. Tegusgal wrinkled his nose at the man’s shameful terror, and with a casual swipe of his knife, he silenced the priest.
Eyes bulging, the priest tried to stop the blood from coursing out of the wound in his neck, covering his frock and staining the wooden cross he wore. Tegusgal shoved him, and arms flailing, he fell off his horse.
Tegusgal wiped his knife off on the blanket beneath the priest’s saddle, and then slapped the riderless horse on the rump. It galloped off, assuredly delighted to be rid of its stinking, whimpering rider. He sheathed his knife and spurred his horse after his men, leaving the dying priest and the empty chapter house behind.
His mare thundered through the forest in pursuit of his men and their quarry. The stupid fool of a knight didn’t understand that by running, he was summoning the greatest hunters in the world to give chase. Every Mongol warrior knew how to chase prey on horseback, how to outlast it, and how to bring it down once it had worn itself out. The Heermeister was about to discover how pointless it was to try to outrun the Mongol hunt.
He burst out of the forest, on the heels of his hunters, who had fanned out in a broad arc across the fields. The Heermeister’s horse was large and strong, and on open ground, it could run faster than Mongol ponies. But Tegusgal knew it didn’t have the same stamina. Eventually it would falter, and his men would close the distance. Even now, some of his faster riders were coming into bow range.
The chase wasn’t going to last much longer. In fact, they would be on the Heermeister before he reached the bridge.
Tegusgal frowned. There was smoke, a black plume rising into the late afternoon sky. He slapped his horse with his reins, urging it to run faster, and as he crested the last rise before the bridge to Hünern, he saw the source of the smoke.
There were barrels on the bridge, spewing columns of thick smoke. The Heermeister was off his horse, doing something with one of the barrels. He looked like he was trying to tug it into position.
Tegusgal’s men hadn’t slowed down. They saw the barrels too, and the struggling figure of the foolish knight. Some of his hunters were already standing in their saddles, firing arrows at the knight, trying to stop him from finishing his task.