Rutger turned away from the dead man, shutting him out of his mind. Exulting in the death of an enemy was both a waste of precious time and beneath the dignity of the Shield-Brethren. Every combatant carried with him the power of life and death; every breath was a blessing from the Virgin, and to be the one who continued to draw breath after battle was a testament to skill and training.
He couldn’t tell which side was winning; the battle was still balanced on a knife’s edge. Shield-Brethren and Livonian fought side by side against Mongol warriors. As one clump of combatants splintered apart, another group clashed. All the men fought with the same determination, the same zeal, trying to break the morale of their nemeses. The side that lost its momentum first would lose the field.
“Deus Vult!” The cry carried over the din of battle like a horn resonating out of a mountainous canyon. The cry came from many throats, shouting in perfect unison, and while the echoes of the cry were still reverberating, the ground started to shake with the thunderous approach of a mounted host.
His arm aching, Rutger raised Andreas’s sword over his head. “Alalazu!” he cried, though his voice was so ragged that he doubted anyone heard him.
More horses came, seemingly everywhere at once, bristling with spears and swords and flails. The Mongols wavered, trembling like a field of reeds in the path of an angry wind, and then, as their companions around them started dying, they broke and ran.
The Templars and the Hospitallers had come.
With a quick flick of his eyes, Zug checked on Kim’s reaction to Onghwe’s revelation. The Flower Knight was staring at the dissolute Khan with an odd expression on his face. What was Kim thinking? Zug wondered. As if he had heard Zug’s question, Kim turned and looked at him. The Flower Knight shrugged slightly, tossed his sword aside, and picked up one of the guards’ discarded spears.
The tent was silent but for the whimpering of the whore, huddled on the platform. Zug and Kim moved noiselessly across the rugs, slowly closing the distance to their nemesis. The young Rose Knight hung back, clearly intending to guard the entrance against any other guards who might try to rescue the Khan, and Zug quickly put the boy out of his mind.
Onghwe’s smile remained undiminished, and his hooded tiger gaze flickered back and forth between the two men.
Kim struck first. Without any warning, the Flower Knight was no longer creeping stealthily forward but was flying through the air, the tip of his spear lancing out at the Khan.
Onghwe darted to the side, moving with the speed of a biting snake. He seized the whore by the hair, and with singular strength, hurled her in front of him. She tumbled across the bed, arms flailing.
Kim tried to abort his strike, his features rearranging themselves into an expression of horrified shock, but the Khan’s aim was too true. Kim’s spear gored the woman through the chest, the point protruding hideously out her back.
In a gruesome second, the Khan had neutralized Kim’s attack and rendered him weaponless. The Flower Knight’s sword lay several paces behind him. Kim dropped the spear and drew back as the Khan advanced on him, his sword flashing in quick arcs.
Zug released the kiai—the heavenly shout. His strike came up from the floor, not as strong as the overhead strike but still quick enough. Still strong enough to split the dissolute Khan from groin to neck. The Khan would have to choose between killing Kim and dying, or evading his strike and allowing the Flower Knight to escape.
The Khan had seen Zug fight in the arena enough times to know that attempting to block a naginata strike with a sword was tantamount to inviting death, and he opted for evasion, leaping toward Zug with astonishing speed.
Zug anticipated Onghwe’s approach. Every sword fighter, when facing off against opponents with longer weapons, strove to get inside, to diminish the effectiveness of the long weapon. Equally, every pole-arm fighter learned techniques to keep the sword fighters at bay. Zug pulled his naginata back, slashing in the opposite direction as he closed the line.
Onghwe, having avoiding the first attack by moving to Zug’s right and toward him, kept coming. He reversed his blade, catching Zug’s downward slice against the flat of his sword. A dangerous parry, but as Zug had not been able to gather full momentum, the stroke only pushed the Khan’s blade against his body—the sword blade shielding the Khan from the naginata’s cutting edge.
Onghwe’s feet pounded against the floor as he rushed Zug, striking him in the middle of the forehead with the pommel of his sword.
Zug’s world exploded into a flurry of vibrant colors. He tried to get an arm up to block another punishing blow as he reeled back, and Onghwe smashed him on the right shoulder. He stumbled against a divan, and off balance and unable to see through a rain of tears he fell, trying to turn his stumble into a roll or flip or anything that would take him away from the Khan’s sword.