The third, distracted by the sudden death of his companions, released his arrow too early and it flew harmlessly past Eleázar’s head. He thrust with his sword as his horse galloped past, feeling the blade slide up the man’s leather armor and catch momentarily on the archer’s jaw. And then it kept moving, opening up the man’s throat.
“The Khagan has fled,” Percival shouted at him. “Waste no more time on this field.” He pointed toward the end of the valley. Eleázar wheeled his horse around and slapped the flat of his blade against his horse’s rump. The animal started, recovering quickly and running hard toward the end of the valley. There were still scattered groups of Mongols, but they looked unorganized. Percival and Vera could take care of them.
As he rode, body moving in concert with his horse’s steady gallop, the occasional Mongol arrow would come his way. Most of them fell short, but a few struck his maille, failing to do much more than get tangled in the chain. Eleázar had lived through a barrage of Mongol arrows before, at the river crossing battle. He laughed. That had been a battle, he thought.
He approached the narrow vale where the alchemist had planned his ambush, and he spotted the wreckage of broken stone and—his stomach tightened at the sight of the carnage wreaked by Yasper’s incendiaries. The route narrowed, and on the left side of the cleft, he spotted a number of unclaimed ponies and a few scattered Mongols.
And one man in Western armor who appeared to be in a losing wrestling match with a Mongol.
Yasper.
Several Mongols turned toward Eleázar, raising their bows, and he goaded his horse, trying to eke more speed out of the animal. Trying to get close enough to bring his weapons to bear. The horse was flagging already; he had ridden it too hard. The Mongols loosed arrows, and his horse stumbled.
It had been bound to happen. Eventually, one of the Mongols would shoot an arrow at his horse instead of him; given how futile their arrows were against Western maille, he was somewhat surprised it had taken them this long to change their tactics. As his horse stumbled again, its lungs laboring, he kicked his feet out of his stirrups and jumped. The horse tripped, plowing head first into the ground, but he was no longer in the saddle.
Eleázar hit the ground, the impact jarring his sword out of his hand, and he rolled, managing to hold on to his shield. As he came out of his roll, he hurled his shield at the Mongols. It was a clumsy missile, but it caused the archers to scatter out of the way. Eleázar darted back to his dying horse, and grabbed his two-handed sword, which was strapped along the horse’s flank.
Whirling the long blade in continuous circles, he charged the archers. One managed to shoot an arrow, and he felt it strike his shoulder, the point tangling in his maille. He cut the first man in half, the second stumbled back enough that Eleázar only managed a deep slice across the front of the man’s hip, and the third one turned and ran before Eleázar’s whirling sword could cut him down.
Yasper was on the ground, trying to shove off the Mongol who was trying to bury a knife in the alchemist’s chest. Eleázar came up behind the struggling pair, and the tip of his two-handed sword caught the Mongol in the side, under the arm, and the blade sliced right through to the spine. The blade caught on bone, but the force of Eleázar’s swing was enough to lift the man bodily off the supine alchemist. Eleázar shook his sword, an expert twitch of his hands, and the blade came free of the nearly severed Mongol, who fell a short distance and then sprawled on the ground, bleeding out in a few seconds.
“Get up, runt,” Eleázar laughed. “This is no time for napping.”
Yasper scrambled to his feet. His face was dark with soot and dirt, blood from a gash across his forehead a long smear across his face. “The Khagan,” Yasper gasped. “I saw him ride past.”
“Aye,” Eleázar said. “So I have heard.” He nodded toward one of the wandering ponies. “Catch yourself a horse,” he said. “Go after him.”
“What about you?” Yasper said.
Eleázar laughed again. “Me? On one of those tiny little horses?” He shook his head, glancing around the passage out of the valley. “I will stay here for the time being,” he said. “I’ll keep the stragglers busy.” He reached over and yanked the Mongol arrow out of his maille.
They both turned as they heard a pair of horses approaching. The riders wore maille and the red rose of the Shield-Brethren. Yasper pointed in the direction the Khagan had fled, and the horsemen thundered past. Raphael and Feronantus.
“I should be going then,” Yasper said.
“Aye, you should,” Eleázar replied.
“May the Virgin watch over you.” Yasper offered his hand to the Spaniard.
“May the Virgin watch over you as well, little alchemist,” Eleázar said, clasping Yasper’s hand firmly. “It has been good to ride with you.”
“I hope we’ll do it again,” Yasper said.
“Aye. Me too,” Eleázar said. “Now, go!”