CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
An Audience with the Khan
A Mongol, knocked into a cook fire during the initial surge of horsemen, had lived long enough to run—shirt and hair on fire—into the rows of tents. Rutger assumed he had died from the burns, but before he had expired, the flames had leaped from him to several tents. The fire was spreading, and a haze of ash and embers was starting to fill the air. A storm of glittering snow.
The battle had moved away from him, and he took advantage of the respite to catch his breath. His lungs ached from battlefield exertion, and he gulped air as best he could. There was no time to rest, even for a moment. Even with the Livonians bolstering their numbers, they were still outnumbered. As long as they could keep the Mongols off balance and disorganized, they stood a chance. They had to keep fighting.
Off to his left, Rutger caught sight of Kristaps, who had lost his horse and now fought on foot. He fought with a relentless energy, his Great Sword of War rising and falling with methodical precision. Rutger felt a pang of envy at the other man’s strength, but he pushed that thought away. He was under no illusion about his age or his health.
The front line was not a place for him any longer.
Ahead of him, four knights—three Shield-Brethren and a Livonian—staggered out of the smoke. Arrows followed them, and one of the Shield-Brethren fell. A howling group of Mongols came next, swords and spears eager for blood. Trailing behind the war party was an enormously fat Mongol with a blood-spattered cudgel.
“Behind you!” Rutger shouted, waving his sword and starting to run toward the three men, but his lungs seized. He stumbled, gasping for breath. Not now, he pleaded, let me finish. His throat convulsing, his body shaking as it tried to draw in enough air, he could only watch as two groups smashed into one another.
Rutger was still catching his breath when a number of Shield-Brethren rushed past him to join the frenzied melee. He recognized one—the initiate, Maks—and he wondered why the young man was here and not protecting the boy, Hans.
The Mongols were shouting a name—Ashiq Temür—and Rutger saw the fat Mongol shouting in response, issuing orders to the men around him. Rutger pounded his hand against his chest as he limped toward the battle.
The panic holding his chest eased, and his lungs inflated in a rush. His vision both darkening and lightening, Rutger felt his strength return, and he moved more quickly to aid his brothers. He slew two Mongols as the battle surged around him, welcoming him back to the fray, before he had a chance to take stock of that state of the melee.
He was in the midst of a straining mass of bodies, sword ringing against sword, spear thrusting into maille and cloth, men on the ground grappling with daggers and bare hands. He caught sight of the fat Mongol, Ashiq Temür, and he struggled to move in that direction.
His attention was suddenly interrupted by a screaming Mongol who came at him from the side. Forced to react, Rutger pivoted backward, twisting his midsection just out of range as he rotated his sword to a high guard and snapped his hips back, bringing his sword edge down in a cut at the Mongol’s head. The Mongol intercepted the stroke, and wheeled his curved sword around Rutger’s blade.
As was the case in any fight, the ones who lived were the ones who had some skill, and as the battle wore on, Rutger found that the men he faced were showing more and more of it. The Mongol’s response to his parry was fast, and he had to snap his hilt up in order to keep the line closed. The Mongol’s blade slid down his with a hiss of metal grating across metal, and Rutger ducked as he sidestepped. He was now beneath his enemy’s blade and inside. With a quick pull, he freed his blade from the bind and slashed it across the Mongol’s torso, gutting the man. He stepped through, turning, and reversing his hands, finished his opponent off with a cut to the back of the neck.
He spotted Maks again, and he watched as the young warrior closed in on Ashiq Temür. The fat warrior caught the first stroke of the initiate’s sword on his cudgel as he tried to get closer to the young man. Maks kept his distance, lashing out with his sword as he darted out of the way of the fat Mongol’s club. His sword sliced across Ashiq Temür’s arm, leaving a red line that immediately started to run with blood. Keep your distance, Rutger thought, a grim smile on his lips.