The Mongol’s armor was battered and stained—both with soot and blood—and his helmet was missing. From what Rutger had said when they were all gathered behind the Black Wall, Tegusgal and his Mongols should have been caught in an ambush on the other side of the river. The Templars and Hospitallers had been in charge of making sure none of the Mongolian cavalry made it back to the compound. Hans felt his stomach tighten at the thought that the other knights had failed.
But Tegusgal was alone, sneaking into his own camp—which suggested that the ambush had been successful. Tegusgal was returning to his master like a whipped dog.
Hans gripped Maks’s dagger. His heart was beating fast. And before he talked himself out of the idea, he darted from his hiding place.
Tegusgal was climbing slowly. He had been wounded in the left arm, and the injury was making the ascent difficult. Hans knew he could climb faster. Even while holding Maks’s dagger in one hand.
He ran to the wall and scrambled up the ladder of spikes.
Tegusgal, having reached the top, braced himself on the wall. He looked down, hearing Hans on the spikes below him, and he stared, incredulous at the sight of the boy coming after him.
Hans didn’t slow down. As soon as he got close enough, he launched himself off the spikes, Maks’s dagger in his hand. The tip pierced the back of Tegusgal’s calf, the force of Hans’s blow driving the metal point in far enough that the tip grated on the bone in Tegusgal’s leg.
Tegusgal howled, his foot slipping off the stake. Hans hung in the air, both hands around the hilt of the dagger. Blood ran down the back of Tegusgal’s leg as the Mongol tried to shake him off.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
A Change of Plans
Skjaldbr?eur.
The word burned in Haakon’s head for the rest of the day after the gray-haired one had caught him off guard. He hadn’t imagined that a Mongol would know of the Shield-Brethren, much less of his affiliation with the order. Had the gray-haired warrior been at Onghwe’s arena? He couldn’t recall. The first weeks were a dull blur in his head. Other than his chance encounter with the Great General, Subutai, he could not remember the faces of any of the Mongols.
Where had he learned about the Shield-Brethren?
After awhile an answer came to him, and it made his blood run cold. The gray-haired one had laughed when he had spoken the word, the savage glee of a man who thought he was stronger. A man who had survived battle and who was now fearless.
They’re dead, Haakon realized. Feronantus and his band. The Mongols found them. They’re all dead.
This news distressed him, and for several hours he struggled to understand why. As he lay in his cage, his head resting against the bars so he could see the sky, he gradually laid to rest a vain hope he had nursed ever since he had woken up in the cage. The Shield-Brethren were dead. No one was going to rescue him.
He was going to die in this foreign land. No one would sing of his deeds after he was gone. He was a nameless gladiator, and he lived at the pleasure of the Khagan, who was little more than a petulant child, constantly drunk on power and wine.
“Hssssst!”
Haakon shook off his maudlin fear and rolled onto his side. He peered out of his cage, looking for the whisperer.
Krasniy, in the next cage, waggled his fingers to get Haakon’s attention. Haakon nodded, indicating that he had seen the red-haired giant’s gesture. Krasniy held up a small object, nearly invisible in the dark, and Haakon nodded again. Krasniy pointed at the sky and then drew an arc with his finger, from east to west—sunrise to sunset. Haakon understood.
Tomorrow night, Krasniy was going to use the arrowhead he had been hiding since the Chinese raid. The Khagan was leaving on his hunt in the morning; by nightfall, no one in the camp would be paying much attention to the prisoners in their cages. It would be the best chance they had to escape.
Haakon lay back down on the floor of his cage, and after a few moments of trying to find a comfortable position on the unyielding floor, he fell asleep.
A plan always quieted the mind.
After the Khagan’s hunting party had left, Lian had gone to Gansukh’s ger, even though he had warned her to avoid it. She only had to unlace the flaps partway to understand Gansukh’s command. The destruction and the smell within mortified her, more so because even though it was Gansukh’s ger, it was the only place within the caravan—with the entirety of the Khagan’s empire—that she might have been able to feel a feeble sense of security and freedom.
Munokhoi had taken that from her.
Lian had stumbled through the camp—her heart numb, her mind a confused cascade of thoughts. Munokhoi said he was going to kill her when he returned from killing Gansukh. If the ex–Torguud captain did return, that would mean Gansukh was dead. Would Master Chucai protect her? That was unlikely. She was a pawn in his endless court games—a piece whose use was, unfortunately, coming to an end.