The Mongoliad Book Three

During the training sessions at the chapter house, Styg had seen Andreas take on multiple initiates numerous times. Both Feronantus and Taran had drilled in all the young fighters the same fundamental battlefield maxim. More men meant more opportunities for confusion. A single fighter had a distinct advantage: everyone else was an enemy. He didn’t have to worry about where his allies stood or what they were planning.

 

The middle one attacked first. He was the tallest of the trio, and his reach was longest. Styg sent a silent prayer to the Virgin and lunged toward his attacker. He swept his longsword from right to left, smashing the spear aside with the flat of his blade, which fouled the approach of the Mongol on the left. Styg flicked his sword back, extending his arm as far as he could—much farther than he would if he were facing another swordsman—and his blade sliced across the face of the Mongol on the right, splitting the man’s cheeks and severing the tip of his nose.

 

The spear he’d knocked aside came back at him as its wielder attempted to recover, a reverse of the arc on which he had sent it. The predictable motion of a fighter’s reflex. Styg had been expecting such a response, and as the weapon swung toward him, he let go of his sword with his left hand and tried to grab the shaft of the spear. The Mongol reacted quickly, yanking his spear back and out of Styg’s reach.

 

Suddenly Styg was painfully aware that the Mongol whose face he had wrecked was still standing.

 

The Mongol screamed, his face a horrific mask of blood, as he yanked a dagger free of his sash and lunged at Styg. The blade sliced through Styg’s surcoat, dragging across the maille underneath, and before the Mongol could slash him again, Styg grabbed the Mongol’s armor and pulled the man to him. He smashed his head down, helmet striking the Mongol’s already ruined face with a satisfying crunch, and then shoved the man away. Stay down, was his fleeting thought.

 

There was little time for much more thought than that. He was out of position, and as he tried to bring his sword up, one of the other two Mongols slammed into him. His grip slackened on his sword as he and the Mongol stumbled back against one of the nearby tents. He wasted no time lamenting the loss of his sword, twisting in the Mongol’s grip in an effort to grapple with the other man. The Mongol growled, showing his teeth, and he shook Styg like a child’s doll. He hauled Styg off the resilient tent and threw him to the ground. Styg tried to roll, but he couldn’t get his hands in front of him in time, and he sprawled awkwardly on the ground.

 

He spotted his sword and tried to scramble toward it, and got a boot kick in the belly for his efforts. Maille was good protection against sharp weapons, but it did little to diminish the impact of such bludgeoning force; Styg curled up as he felt his stomach try to hurl itself out of his throat.

 

He had to get up. He couldn’t beat them off from the ground. If he could reach his sword...

 

It lay out of reach. Tantalizingly out of reach.

 

The Mongol kicked him again, and he felt something crack along his left side. He flopped on his back, staring up at his attackers. One of them raised his spear, preparing to jab Styg in the face.

 

The spear-thruster coughed suddenly, spitting out a stream of red blood, and he stared down at the bloodied blade that had sprouted from his chest. He jerked and collapsed to his knees as the curved sword was savagely pulled out, and his friend fumbled for his own sword. He got his blade half out of its scabbard when the bloody sword sliced his throat open. He stumbled and fell, landing on his stomach, head turned toward Styg—staring, his mouth gaping like a dying fish, blood spurting from the mortal gash in his throat.

 

The sword-wielder who had saved Styg was the fighter he had freed from the post. He was shorter than Styg by half a head, but compactly built, thick muscles crisscrossed with pale, white scars. His face was a study in brutality, like a weathered chunk of wood carved with a dull chisel.

 

After making sure that the skewed Mongol was expiring, the scarred man shoved the dying man over, and offered Styg his hand. Styg grasped the man’s rough hand and was hauled upright. “Thank you,” Styg said. He made a fist and put it over his heart. The fighter stared at him for a second, searching his face with his dark, emotionless eyes, and then he made a noise in his chest and made a similar motion.

 

Little more needed to be said.

 

Styg’s legs shook slightly as he picked up his longsword, the proximity of his death starting to sink in. When he stood up, a wave of dizziness washed over him and he tried to breathe slowly through his nose and mouth. Deep, calming breaths.

 

The scarred warrior was striding toward the orange tent.

 

Styg shook himself like a dog, trying to shed the last remnants of the death fear that had nearly gripped him, and then he hurried after the other man.

 

 

 

 

 

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