There was cheering in the streets when he came. Hünern was a town inundated with violent men and aggressive souls whose lust for battle had brought them from lands far and wide. Where the fighters passed, common men got out of their path, women hid themselves, and children stepped aside.
Not so with the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. The people raised their faces to look up at the banner of the Rose Knights as it passed. Every story they had heard was instantly solidified as an unassailable truth in their minds. Every hope they had ever harbored in secret was suddenly given new life. Even those who had not been there when Andreas had come to First Field and demanded to be allowed to fight for all of Christendom would remember that day as if they had stood next to the knight when he had issued his challenge. The crowds looked upon the Shield-Brethren, and loved them.
The memory of the crowds was a balm on Andreas’s mind as he walked down the long tunnel of the arena. His mind was agitated, more so than usual, spinning around on all the aspects of the plan that were out of his control. When he had dismounted from his horse and had been about to enter the arena, a small figure had launched himself out of the crowd and thrown himself into Andreas’s arms. Hans had held him tight and whispered a message into his ear. You will be facing a friend. He will guard your back as you do what must be done.
Despite his courage, there was fear written plainly across the boy’s face. Only a fool would presume that whomever went into the arena with such intentions would walk out again, whether the Khan lived or died.
The plan—like all good plans—was simple, and Andreas’s fingers flexed about the shaft of his spear. When he and his ally stood opposite one another, they would have the opportunity to strike at the Khan directly. Andreas was well practiced at hurling shafts, and that practice had not stopped since the arena fights began. He had a good arm for throwing, even battered as he was. With a man to guard his back, the only other thing he would need was a wind that was kind.
“Be careful,” Hans had said as the crowd separated them. Andreas had not had time to answer, and he could only nod grimly before the boy’s tear-streaked face vanished into the press of bodies.
The light at the far end of the tunnel summoned him. His heart quickened as his thoughts became less hurried, less confused. The plan was simple. His action would be clear. Now was the time when the Shield-Brethren would live up to the legends spoken of them. They had accounted heroically for themselves in the lists, and Andreas had endured blow after blow at First Field, holding onto their place long enough to buy their allies the time they needed to gather what friends they could. Now, at last the efforts were coming to fruition. Their days of hiding were coming to an end, and today would be the spark that ignited all of Hünern.
He had only to throw his spear, and throw it well. The rest would be in the hands of the Virgin.
He reached the final archway, and paused for a final quick prayer, and then he stepped into the arena proper, where he was immediately assaulted by the deafening roar of an aroused crowd. Distantly, he marveled at the physical weight of the sound that fell upon him, glad of the thickness of his helm, and he tried to push all of that confusion aside as he looked around the killing ground for his opponent.
Andreas drew in a sharp breath at what he saw. Across the sand stood a tall, broad shouldered knight, wearing full maille armor and a steel helm that gleamed in the sunlight. Steel plates of the sort many knights had begun to add to their maille adorned his shoulders, and his steel-sheathed hands rested upon the hilt of an unsheathed, broad-bladed greatsword, its point resting in the dirt. A white surcoat draped across his chest, reaching down to above his knees.
Stitched on the unblemished fabric was the red cross and sword of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae.
Andreas blinked several times, glancing around the arena with some vain hope that he was mistaken in what he saw. Or what he didn’t see. There was no one else. He was alone before the Livonian.
The man raised his sword in a formal, seamless salute. Andreas’s heart was now pounding in his ears as he faced his unexpected foe. Memories of the alehouse, of staring down at the Livonian Heermeister from the saddle of a stolen horse flashed through his mind. Had their allies in the Mongol camp been compromised? Had Hans? Was this a deliberate gambit on the part of the Khan, or merely the revenge of a Grand Master humiliated in the street? Uncertainty started to give way to something else, something less noble.