It wasn’t hard to figure out what had happened.
Regardless of his disappointment in Dietrich’s leadership, the Heermeister’s disappearance provided a useful incentive to the remaining Livonians. It was better if Dietrich was dead and not captured, as the murder of the Heermeister was an insult that could not be ignored. Kristaps was the First Sword of Fellin, a legend within the Livonian Order. He had survived the battle of Schaulen, and he had slain one of the famed Shield-Brethren in single combat. When he addressed the Livonians in a voice that quaked with rage, they listened.
Kristaps was tired of running, tired of hiding in the marshes and the forests. He wore the white, not the black, and the sword on his surcoat was red. Why was the sword in his hand not that same color? Why was it always sheathed when there were so many enemies of God close at hand? Why were the Sword Brothers not fighting for the glory of God?
The men had raised their voices in response to his questions. They too wanted glory. They wanted to scatter their enemies. They wanted to save the West. It was not difficult to whip them into a frenzy. The Sword Brothers would not sit idly by as their Heermeister was tortured and killed by unclean heathens. They would not flee; they would fight.
Kristaps’s plan was neither complicated nor subtle. They knew the location of the enemy camp. They would ride into the heart of it and claim reprisal for the crimes inflicted both upon their order and upon Christendom. They would show the West that the Shield-Brethren were not the only order capable of demolishing the enemies of God.
The ride through the city had been exhilarating, and when they found the gate of the Mongol compound wide open, Kristaps had not hesitated to give the order to charge. Galloping through the gate and scattering the Mongol host clustered there had been nearly as cathartic as cleaving the Shield-Brethren knight’s corpse in the arena. The motion of his sword about him as Kristaps rode was a rhythmic expulsion of his frustration. He laid about him with powerful strokes, cleaving helms and severing arms, venting all of his anger. His horse, goaded into a frenzy by his fury, ferociously trampled the wounded and dying. This was his true purpose, that for which God had given him his strength. That the Shield-Brethren had failed long ago to harness it was a sign of their foolishness, of their weakness.
He broke them, these strange-faced killers from a far-off land, who fancied themselves conquerors and subjugators. He shattered them, rode them down, and trampled them into a bloody paste in the dirt where they fell. It was only when the Mongols were fleeing the field that he pulled himself free of the blood fury and took stock of the circumstances he and his Livonian brothers had altered.
The gate had been open when his host had arrived, and the Mongols had been engaged with a small force guarding it. Men wearing Western armor.
He pulled his horse away from the fighting and returned to the gate. Pushing up his visor, he examined the puny force that had been holding the gate. They wore the Red Rose.
One of the Shield-Brethren detached himself from the group and Kristaps marked his face. Kristaps recognized him from the stands at the arena. He had been the one holding the young one back. The other Shield-Brethren stared at him with faces clotted with anger and suspicion, like dogs staring at a master from whom they received only kicks and curses.
He chuckled as he shook his blade, freeing it of cloying blood. He was going to enjoy what came next.
Rutger became acutely aware that he was holding Andreas’s sword, and part of his mind clamored for him to raise it against the man who had killed Andreas. He held his ground, though, knowing such an assault was exactly what the mounted Livonian wanted.
Andreas’s killer sat astride his horse with the demeanor of a king—untouchable and in absolute control of his surroundings—a tiny smile on his face. His blue eyes were so cold their gaze seemed to knife right through Rutger’s maille, more readily than any Mongol sword. He wore maille with solid steel upon his shoulders, his surcoat soaked with Mongol blood. He carried a shield upon his left arm; his single-handed sword, having been cleared of blood, was back in its scabbard, and strapped to his saddle was the great two-handed sword he had used to kill Andreas. He sat utterly still, like a cat watching his terrified prey.
He won’t give me the satisfaction, Rutger realized. The Livonian’s rage was clear in his bright blue eyes, but there was also an unmistakable intelligence. Whatever hatred he bore for the Shield-Brethren, he kept it in tight control. Now is not the right time. Rutger lowered his sword and carefully walked toward the waiting knight.
When they were close enough that shouting was not needed, the blue-eyed knight spoke. “Your men owe me their lives,” he said in an offhand way.