The Mongoliad Book Three

Andreas was not unfamiliar with the reputation garnered by champions—he had won more than a few competitions in his time—and he had been party to the affection showered upon a victorious host as it enters a newly liberated city. But none of those experiences truly prepared him for the celebrity bestowed by the dissolute Khan’s tournament. He and his three companions had managed to slip into the outskirts of Hünern without much notice, enabling him to detour to the unmarked alley where Hans’s uncle operated his brewery. However, as they left the alley and made their way toward the arena, they were beset by a sea of wide-eyed citizens. They were shouting his name, and their hands clutched at his legs, at the hem of his cloak, at his saddle and gear. It did not seem to matter to them that he had lost to the Flower Knight at First Field; all they seemed to remember were his other bouts, the ones he could barely recall the details of. Andreas shifted uneasily in his saddle; his horse, sensing his discomfort at the press of bodies, stamped and tossed its head nervously.

 

The immense blossom of the Circus rose like a fungus flower from the carcass of the rotting city. Unable to do much else in the madding crowd, he examined the tumbledown structure. Its timbers had all been sourced from nearby ruins—even as far away as Legnica proper—and it was a testament to the Mongol engineers that they were able to erect such an impressive structure from such a hodgepodge of materials. It was not a particularly attractive building, yet the row of banners snapping in the wind that blew across the top of the bulbous shape and the persistent roar of voices from within stirred him in a manner not unlike the way in which a suitor is transfixed by the woman he desires.

 

“I never know,” Styg said quietly, “whether I should stare in awe at that thing, or be scared out of my wits.”

 

“Aye,” Andreas murmured in response. Death was close, infecting his body and brain with a rich reminder of life. Making him overly aware of the inherent beauty of God’s touch in the world that surrounded them.

 

He dug his heels into his horse’s side, urging the nervous animal through the surging crowd. If they dawdled too long, they would be late.

 

The most direct path was filled with spectators and adoring fans, and so Andreas directed his horse off the main road and onto the alleys and paths between the ruins and the shanties in an attempt to shake some of the crowd. Some of the lanes were so narrow that he could touch walls and tents on either side of his horse as they passed. Circuitously, the Shield-Brethren made their way toward the arena.

 

As they approached, the grandiose impression of the arena faded, revealing the true fragility of the structure. Wood slats and tall beams were haphazardly slapped one atop another in an intricate creation that was no more or less than barely organized chaos. It is a death trap, Andreas thought grimly. Few exits—easily sealed. It’s nothing more than kindling, waiting for a torch.

 

A sudden chill made him shudder, and he turned away from the looming edifice and raised his face toward the warm sun overhead. Pushing aside a vision of fire, he set his focus on the task at hand: watching the fights, learning about his opponents, and preparing for when it would be his turn to walk on the sand of the arena. Fear was only of use insofar as it taught a man what was dangerous and what was not, and Andreas had lived through worse things than one-on-one duels for the entertainment of bloodthirsty crowds. As he rode, the taste of the brewer’s beer was a balm on his tongue, still fresh on the palate of memory.

 

Nearby, a horn called on the morning air and an ocean of voices rose from inside the arena. Sunlight danced across ramshackle rooftops, glinting off the tiny spires of adornments and fragmented curios the locals had mounted over their heads. The city’s rooftops had a gleaming newness strangely at odds with the muck and ash that layered the ground. Hünern was a ruin where the survivors of the horrors of war made do with what they could, scrounging for hope amid the ashes, and yet there was beauty here as well. Andreas guided his horse absently while he took the time to examine the tiny efforts the people had made to make the city livable again.

 

When the bone-heavy weariness of his oath and his duties threatened to overwhelm him, he only had to look to these unfortunates to be reminded of why he had taken up both oath and arms. Their plight fortified his spirit, regardless of the deep-seated knowledge that there would be no end of injustice and despair in the known world from which to draw strength.

 

The shadow of the stands and their waving banners fell over Andreas and his companions as they reached the open ground surrounding the arena proper. He shook off the last of his apprehension, squaring his shoulders and sitting tall in his saddle. Several young men, eager to earn some pittance, approached the riders. Andreas waved them off. The horses of the Shield-Brethren would not be tended to by local boys, even ones as eager as these.

 

Arvid and Sakse were clearly disappointed when told they were going to stay with the horses, and Andreas tried to explain why without going into too many details. There was some history with the Livonians concerning the disposition of some horses, he told the pair. It was important to be wary of Livonians who might take it upon themselves to thieve their horses, given the opportunity that insufficiently guarded horses might present.

 

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