The Mongoliad Book Three

His man should have won the fight today. The Khan’s man should have been the one bleeding out in the sand, not his knight. Yet another embarrassing incident for the Livonian order. His knight had been better armed and had worn maille that protected him from the other man’s inferior weapons. But it hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been nearly enough.

 

To make matters worse, the fight came on the heels of the meetings with the other militant orders—meetings that had ranged from frostily standoffish to downright disastrous. The other Grandmasters had, as a whole, been indifferent to his charges and his concerns. They all had been circumspect in their language and demeanor, but Dietrich had spent enough time at royal courts to read the unspoken distain and dismissal in their carriages.

 

No wonder they think I am a fool, he thought. The best man I can field for the arena turns out to be an incompetent corpse.

 

He had seen the fight from his usual place at the top of the stands, watching his man stumble instead of seizing opportunities. The hatchet in the back should have ended the fight, but instead the heathen bastard had plucked the weapon free and used it against his Livonian opponent. His man had given the enemy his weapon! The whole fight could have only been more embarrassing if the knight had fallen on his weapon and killed himself.

 

Moreover, he had seen the two Shield-Brethren knights in the audience, and with a creeping, seething certainly, he knew the audience was imagining how the fight would have gone if one of them had been down on the sand. The knights of Petraathen would have been victorious.

 

The rotting timbers of the old barn did little to keep out the noise of the Livonian compound, and he could hear the din of his soldiers doing their drills. Gritting his teeth, he cursed his current accommodations and how they denied him the slightest solitude. The echo of steel against steel sounded so timorous that each clash fouled his mood even more.

 

He cast about for the wineskin he had brought along. Drinking hadn’t cured his mood, and he had thought that some physical activity might assuage his temper, but the rope had failed him—like so much of this godforsaken place, he thought—and it was time to return to the solace of the wine. There were times when he envied the common man and the ease of his vices. The callings of the just and the righteous could make taking one’s pleasures far more complicated than it needed to be, especially when one was a man of position, tenuous though that might be.

 

He found the skin and took a long swallow. Staring absently at the far wall, he tried to put aside his frustration and concentrate on what he could accomplish.

 

An isolated thud interrupted his musing, and he glanced about, listening. The din of training had lessened, and there was a hum of voices growing nearer. One pleaded, and the other responded in clipped tones, swatting the first man’s words aside like they were nothing more than an annoying fly. Dietrich smiled, the wineskin suddenly forgotten in his hands, as recognition of that second voice took hold of him swiftly, pulling his attention away from his frustrated ruminations and into the here and now.

 

The door to the barn banged open, and two men walked through. One, the pleader, was a new recruit, his spurs freshly earned and his courage not proven. The pale fuzz of his young beard didn’t quite hide the lack of a chin, and his voice grated on Dietrich’s ears even as he profusely apologized.

 

“Forgive me, Heermeister,” the young knight babbled. “I told him that you were busy at your drills, and that he should take a moment to eat or drink after his lengthy ride—”

 

The other man brushed aside the complaints with a dismissive cut of his hand that struck the pleader across the mouth. Dietrich knew this one well, and much of his exhaustion and dismal mood were swept away by the sight of those cold and merciless blue eyes.

 

“Apologies, Heermeister,” Kristaps said. “As this knave says, I have ridden long, but my news is of greater import than the needs of my belly.” He was soaked through, his maille damaged and his tabard stained with blood. He could easily be mistaken for a battlefield wretch, a man-at-arms who had miraculously survived an enemy’s charge by hiding beneath the fallen bodies of his comrades, but one only had to stare at those eyes for a moment to realize that such craven behavior would be incomprehensible to this man.

 

God has heard my prayers, Dietrich thought. In my hour of need, he grants me salvation.

 

Sir Kristaps of Steiermark, the First Sword of Fellin. Known to his enemies as Kristaps Red-Hilt and as Volquin’s Dragon. One of the few who survived Schaulen; had it not been for Kristaps, none of them would have lived.

 

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