Tegusgal shook his head. That wasn’t right. The knight hadn’t put the barrels there. He hadn’t the time. He was trying to move them aside so that he could get his horse across the bridge. He was still trying to flee. Who put the barrels there? Tegusgal wondered. And why?
He got his answer when the ground started to shake with the thunder of heavy hooves. From the wood on his right, a host emerged, sunlight gleaming off naked steel and polished helms. The riders—sitting astride tall chargers, Western battle steeds—wore white and black; their shields were covered with red and white crosses. His rallying call was lost beneath the many-throated battle cry of the attacking Western knights.
The ambush was sprung, and Tegusgal’s hunters were unprepared for the massed charge of the Templars and Hospitallers. The host slammed into the flank of his men, scattering riders. Tegusgal’s men were disorganized, caught between the knights’ charge and the river. His numbers and the fabled mobility of the Mongol horse rider meant nothing in the face of this crushing assault. Tegusgal yanked his horse’s head away from the pitched battle. “Fall back to the river,” he shouted as he beat his heels against his horse’s barrel. No one heard him in the pandemonium of battle. Steel clashed on steel. Men shrieked. Horses screamed. Arrows hummed through the air.
His men were all going to die. This was a rout. He had to escape. He had to warn Onghwe Khan. His worst fear was being realized: the knights of Hünern were fighting back.
The ululating war cry of the Shield-Brethren rippled through the air like the charge before a lightning strike as the knights of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae clashed with Mongol attackers bent on retaking the gate of their compound. In the front rank of the Shield-Brethren host, Rutger’s sword stroke crashed through a Mongol’s guard, and the blade cut the Mongol from neck to midchest. The man gurgled, clutching at Rutger’s sword as the quartermaster pulled it free, and then he crumpled to the blood-stained ground. Rutger checked the man on his right, making sure he wasn’t in danger of being overrun by his opponent, and then he pivoted to his left, swinging his sword at an overeager Mongol who raised his curved sword over his head. He caught the Mongol in the back—under the armpits, where the armor was weak—and his sword bit deep into the man’s body.
Rutger was exultant. Gathered around him were his brothers, their energy a tangible force weaving them all together into a single fearsome multiarmed monster. They breathed as one; they thrust, parried, and retaliated as one fighter. Each man protected the man next to him, and none felt any pain or exhaustion or fear.
They stood in the narrow throat of the gate, surrounded by the bloody corpses of their enemies. A gleaming ring of swords defended the entryway, rising and falling and dancing left and right, completely synchronous in their movement. Overhead, Shield-Brethren archers in the guard towers harried the stragglers of the Mongol force, making men stumble and flinch as the men next to them would suddenly slip and fall and not get back up.
Eventually the Mongols retreated, falling back to their tents to lick their wounds, count their dead, and consider their next assault. Rutger lowered his arm, the intense pain in his hands finally making itself heard in his brain. He nearly dropped his sword—Andreas’s sword—but he fought the pain and kept his grip tight. I have faced worse, he counseled himself. I still stand. He glanced up and down the line, and saw that it remained intact. None of the Shield-Brethren had fallen, but in so quick a look there was no time to tell how much of the blood that covered every man was that of the enemy. Some wounds, he knew, would not be felt until the battle lust eased.
“Check your weapons and your armor,” he croaked. “Thank the Virgin for your fortune.” He glanced toward the Mongol tents. “And get ready for them to come again.”
They only had to hold the gate until the others arrived, and then they could truly take the battle to the Khan.
As the spear-wielding Mongols approached, Styg pivoted on his left foot, putting one of the Mongol tents at his back. He was outnumbered—fighting against three men who wielded weapons that could keep his sword at bay—but he would not die without taking as many of them with him as possible. He may not be a full knight initiate of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae, but he fought for the Virgin nonetheless. His death would be costly for his foes.