The Mongoliad Book Three

Styg nodded happily. “It is always good to take your enemy’s measure before actually engaging him.”

 

 

“I don’t expect to encounter any trouble in Hünern, but it is like a hive that has been stuck more than once with a stick, don’t you think? Its residents will be restless, prone to reacting at the slightest hint of provocation.”

 

“It would be foolish to expose yourself to such danger,” one of the others piped up, eagerly grasping at the opportunity being dangled in front of him.

 

Andreas nodded as he tossed the rest of his portion of the overcooked meat into his mouth. There was something about the threat of conflict—of the looming possibility of a violent death—that enriched a man’s senses. Food, even when burned, became more flavorful. The sun was brighter, its light searing through the recalcitrant fog. The crisp morning air, inhaled through his nose, had a faint scent of distant rain.

 

As he took his leave of the threesome, Andreas couldn’t help but look on the trainees with new eyes, noting that the same bracing enthusiasm that filled him was present in them as well. Death instilled a vitality for living. Detractors of the Shield-Brethren were quick to call them bloodthirsty monsters who thrived on violence, but the opposite was true. It was a foreign mind-set for those who had never carried a sword or walked across a field of battle, and Andreas had long ago given up on trying to explain it to those who did not already understand. The horrors of war—of a life filled with violence—could only be balanced by cherishing each moment of that life with a resolute assuredness and a sharp awareness of what beauty it did have.

 

His well-used panoply awaited him back in his tiny chamber. His longsword was notched, his maille patched, and gambeson stained. Cleanliness was a part of the Shield-Brethren vows, and he did his best to maintain what he owned in that spirit, but over time, his harness and weapons became more and more permanently marked by the travails of his life.

 

He had spent many years wandering Christendom, and he could not recall the origin of all the scrapes and nicks in his maille. While the masters of Petraathen had been displeased with him, they had not stripped him of his privilege. He could have returned to Tyrshammar or gone to one of the other chapter houses of the Brethren, but he had opted to travel the known world instead. His journey had been lonely more often than not, but it had been one of his choosing. The decision to join his brothers at Legnica had, at first, been born out of curiosity, and in the first few weeks, he had felt—on more than one occasion—the gentle whisper of the wanderlust that had guided him for so many years. But that was akin to the temptation offered Christ during his exile in the wilderness. The promise of illicit freedom was a strong pull on a man who feared the true path he knew he had to walk.

 

 

 

 

 

The long alley behind the alehouse was drenched in sunlight, and the three men and the boy stood awkwardly close in the narrow space. Each but the child held a mug of ale, and the man who was not wearing the blue cloak of the Shield-Brethren was a short, stocky fellow going bald across the top of his head. His name was Ernust and he had a quick smile and a sharp laugh, which Andreas found refreshingly infectious.

 

Of course, the ale helped.

 

“I will not accept your money,” Ernust said, setting his mug down upon the wooden lid of a nearby cask. “There is little else to do in this city but brew ale and swap stories.” He grinned at Andreas and Styg. “The Livonian Brothers of the Sword are cheap bastards; they’ve taken advantage of more than a few of the poor people who come into my alehouse. Anyone who gives them—or any of the Khan’s thugs, for that matter—a good thumping will never want for drink in my establishment.”

 

“Your kindness is matched only by the quality of your drink, brewmaster,” Andreas said. “However, I do have two more men with me. They are keeping an eye on our horses.” He nodded toward the entrance of the alley. “Arvid and Sakse are their names, and while their cheeks are still as soft as rabbit’s fur, they are men enough to be thirsty. While I will accept your gracious hospitality for myself and Styg, I would not presume to assume that—”

 

Ernust scoffed, brushing aside Andreas’s concern with a wave of his burly hand. “Hans,” he said to the boy hovering nearby, “Fetch two more mugs for the knight’s companions.” The boy nodded and ducked through the heavy curtain on the back wall of the alehouse.

 

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