The trainees roamed freely across the yard, working in pairs and in teams of three under the watchful eye of Knútr, one of the other knight initiates. Andreas wandered toward the trainees—watching their technique, eyeing their form. He was no oplo—not like Taran had been—to see at a glance where a man faltered, but he knew his way around instruction at arms all the same. Maks, for example, had a tendency to favor striking on the right side more than the left, and this morning he seemed to be trying the reverse. Without much success. He’s thinking about it too much, Andreas thought, his mind is getting in the way of what he wants to do.
Beyond the yard, others were practicing archery, putting arrows into a line of straw men that had been erected close to the tree line. The penalty for missing the target was to scour the underbrush for the missing arrow, and the trainees had all quickly learned to hit some part of their target. Now, they were improving their precision.
Doing drills was a continuous facet of life—for the knights as well as the trainees—and their Spartan existence in this makeshift chapter house meant an opportunity for more drills. Training for war was much different from training for duels in the lists, and while a part of what they prepared for was combat in the Khan’s arena, most of their preparations were for war. As Andreas watched the young men train, it was clear to him that they were no longer mere boys. Some laughed and joked with one another as they awaited their turns—exuding confidence in their body language; the faces of others were fixed resolutely—not with fear or apprehension, but stern focus. The Virgin watch over them, Andreas silently implored. They are still so young.
Styg was sitting next to one of the cookeries with two other trainees, idly prodding the flames with a long stick. He looked up as Andreas approached, as did the other two, and Andreas was jarred by their expressions. He’d had that same look once, when he had worn training leather of his own. That imploring look of adoration and admiration the student has for his oplo. The look that said, There is a hero.
Andreas couldn’t help but think of his teachers over the years. And of his fellow students, both at Petraathen and elsewhere. How many of them were still alive? he wondered. How many of them had died with that look still on their faces?
“I can’t promise the hare is well cooked,” Styg said, a grin on his broad face, “but at least it isn’t badly burned.”
Andreas eyed the logs on which the young men were sitting. After years of traveling, he was accustomed to the often rough-hewn quality of the furnishings at camps and chapter houses, but the muscles in his lower back were tight as he considered sitting down. He needed to move around more, to get his blood moving, to shake off the stiffness that had crept into his body during sleep. However, eyeing the three faces around the cook pit, he indulged their desire to talk, and lowered himself to the log. Even though the wood had been softened by the rain, his buttocks complained slightly as he sat. How long had it been since he had sat on a plush silk pillow?
“Anything that hasn’t been heavily salted will taste like manna just now,” he said as Styg pulled the hare from its spit and cut it into pieces. “Panis Dominus,” Andreas explained to the other young men, answering the question clearly written on their faces. When the Latin elicited no sign of understanding in their eyes, he shrugged and reached for the offered food. He juggled the charred pieces lightly, blowing on them, before tossing several into his mouth.
Styg had overestimated his abilities. The hare was overcooked.
“There’s going to be a fight today,” one of the pair said. “At the arena.”
Andreas chewed his food slowly, nodding for the young man to continue. He had gathered as much from the activity in the wrecked city the last time he had been there, but he was curious what sort of rumors made their way back to the boys who remained at the chapter house.
“One of the Livonians is fighting.”
Andreas swallowed heavily, pushing the partially masticated food down his throat. “Indeed,” he offered, trying to recall the names on the lists. “Do you know who his opponent is?”
“One of the Khan’s privileged fighters.”
Which one? Andreas wondered. The messages that Hans eked out of the Mongol compound were appropriately cryptic, and there had been few sightings of the Khan’s coterie of exotic fighters, but Andreas had managed to glean several names: Kim Alcheon, the Flower Knight; the crazily named demon who had fought Haakon, the one the crowd called “Zug”; Madhukar, the stone-shouldered wrestler whose cudgel had caved in a Templar’s helm early in the matches, before the arena had been closed. According to Hans, the Flower Knight was still gathering accomplices, men who could be trusted to fight in an uprising. He hoped, and not just because his opponent was a Livonian Knight—as ungracious as that thought was—that the Khan’s man survived today’s fight.
“I would like to see this fight,” Andreas said. He let that sink in with the three of them as he chewed another tough piece of hare. “I am still on the lists, and it will be my turn to fight in that arena soon. It would be good to scout out the terrain, don’t you think?”