The Mongoliad Book Three

 

Tegusgal’s leg was slick with blood, and some of it dripped off the heel of his boot, spattering Hans’s hair. Hans hooked one hand around Tegusgal’s boot, and flailed with his feet, trying to get purchase on the stakes in the wall. Tegusgal shouted, jerking his leg, and as Hans felt the dagger slip, he swung he swung himself to the right, throwing his hand out to grab at Tegusgal’s other foot.

 

He hung there for a moment, suspended between both of Tegusgal’s legs. The dagger tumbled past his face, falling out of Tegusgal’s leg, and he watched it bounce off the dusty ground. His hands were sweaty, slowly slipping off Tegusgal’s boots, and the blood from the dagger wound was making his grip even more tenuous. He wiggled his legs, trying to reach the spikes in the wall, and Tegusgal made a different sound—a scream of panic rather than rage—as he let go of the wall.

 

They both landed hard on the packed dirt at the base of the wall, and the breath was knocked out of Hans. His hip hurt from where Tegusgal had landed on him, and he tried to extricate himself from beneath the Mongol captain. His right shoulder ached, and when he tried to use his arm, his wrist complained.

 

Tegusgal groaned, responding sluggishly. He sensed Hans moving beneath him, and he tried to stop the young boy from escaping, but his grip was weak.

 

Hans spotted Maks’s dagger and twisted his body in order to reach it. His fingers could almost touch the bloody blade when Tegusgal grabbed his leg with much more conviction this time and held him tight.

 

“You—” Tegusgal snarled, but his words were cut off when Hans kicked him in the face. He fought back, managing to get a grip on Hans’s pant leg and, from there, gain control of the boy’s flailing leg. He grinned, blood running from his nose.

 

Hans grinned back. All of this struggling had allowed him to grab Maks’s dagger. He sat up and thrust the dagger with all his strength at Tegusgal’s face.

 

The Mongol tried to cover his head with his arms, twisting out of the way, and Hans missed Tegusgal’s head. The dagger slid into the gap at the top of Tegusgal’s armor, hitting the soft flesh beneath. Tegusgal shrieked and let go of Hans’s legs. This time, Hans scooted back on his rump as quickly as he could, putting some distance between him and the wounded Mongol captain.

 

Shivering with pain, Tegusgal yanked the dagger out of his neck, and a squirt of blood spattered across the dirt. Gritting his teeth, the Mongol captain started to push himself upright. “I am going to kill you slowly,” he coughed. On his knees, he fumbled for his sword, his fingers slipping off the hilt. He tried again, getting it half drawn, when a rock bounced off his chest.

 

He stared at it stupidly, wondering where it had come from. Hans glanced over his shoulder and saw a flash of movement in the rubble behind him. The Rats, he realized giddily.

 

Tegusgal shook off his confusion and finished drawing his sword. A second rock struck him in the face, and he shouted in pain, his attention finally going to the wreckage behind Hans. More missiles followed, most of them not much bigger than a bird’s egg, but many of them were thrown with precision, battering Tegusgal.

 

Hans’s Rats—the cadre of boys who had carried messages time and again into the Mongol compound—were shouting now as they threw rocks at the Mongol captain. Jeering and taunting. Fighting back.

 

Tegusgal raised his sword, trying to protect his face with the blade, and several stones rang off the blade. He was still trying to get to his feet, though Hans could sense that his intent was now to flee.

 

Hans scrambled for the dagger.

 

A particularly well-thrown rock caught Tegusgal in the center of the forehead, and the Mongol captain swayed, momentarily stunned.

 

The fusillade of rocks subsided as the Rats paused to check their handiwork. Tegusgal shook his head, spattering blood, and then he grinned at the urchins watching him from the wreckage. His face was dark with cuts and bruises, and his teeth were stained red. He wasn’t beaten. Not yet.

 

Hans found himself thinking about Andreas, and he didn’t hesitate. He jumped at the Mongol commander, stabbing with the dagger.

 

Tegusgal’s mouth changed shape, and his eyes got big.

 

 

 

 

 

Styg and Eilif had not been able to follow the conversation between the three escaped prisoners, but after a moment of firm hand gestures, the stern-looking one simply shrugged and started walking. Away from the fluttering flags they could see over the tops of the tents.

 

“He’s not going toward the Khan’s tent,” Styg said.

 

“Does it matter?” Eilif asked, clapping him on the arm.

 

The camp was in an uproar, not because the prisoners had been freed but because Rutger and the other Shield-Brethren had commenced their assault on the gate. As Styg hesitated, listening to the sound of battle, he heard horses as well. The reinforcements had arrived.

 

Neal Stephenson & Erik Bear & Greg Bear & Joseph Brassey & Nicole Galland & Cooper Moo & Mark Teppo's books