The Flower Knight looked haggard in a way Zug had not seen him appear since the early days of their captivity, before acceptance of their situation had settled in and allowed him to keep the calm for which he’d become known since. “Different favoritism, and you know that,” Kim murmured.
“You don’t like his fury,” Zug added. “It’s no different from my own.” He smiled wryly. Every so often he couldn’t resist the opportunity to poke at his friend’s peculiar sense of honor.
Kim was a good man—a better one than him, perhaps—but he had also not endured the shame that Zug had carried since even before Onghwe Khan had taken them.
“Fair enough,” the Flower Knight murmured. “I don’t like it. Too much fervor is a risk, even if the heart behind it is loyal and longs for freedom.”
“There is the one who fights with the hatchets and the knives,” Zug said, letting the previous remark slide. “He has more than enough calm to balance a fiery temper. And thanks to you, we have enough hotheads already.”
“Will he talk to us?” Kim asked, lifting his brows.
“Not to me. Our fight was painful. Honor. Strength and youth...skill.” The world had taken some time to come into focus as the lasting effects of the liquor departed from Zug’s body. He mulled all these points while prodding a broken tooth with his tongue. “But he might speak with you.”
“He doesn’t know me,” Kim said with a shrug.
The splitting pain in Zug’s head that had racked his every waking moment in the aftermath of the loss to the Rose Knight had dulled weeks ago to a low ache that was finally fading in the warming prospect light of the task he and Kim had set for themselves. “That’s exactly why you stand a better chance than I do,” he grunted irritably. “I’m not convinced he likes anybody.”
Kim raised an eyebrow. The bruises on his face had not completely faded, and they gave it a motley look. “I didn’t know he detested others that much. But I will talk to him. Quiet is good, and he’s one of the best at that. I wonder how the Khan managed to take him in the first place?”
“Carefully,” Zug replied. “We shouldn’t waste time, so we’ll do it like last time. You find him, bring him, and I will wait.”
To hold at bay, for now at least, the false solace of wine required that he focus every moment on the task at hand. The instant that focus was lost, the longing for the wine and the memories he’d used it to suppress would return like an angry, winged spirit clawing at his heart, shrieking in his dreams, tugging at him to seek out the old ways of forgetting past shame, long-ago failure.
“Agreed?” he asked.
“Agreed.” The Flower Knight rose and exited into the gray day.
*
Dietrich had armored himself and now sat astride his recaptured horse with a new sense of purpose. The reactivation of the Circus was a development that had slowly but surely filled his thoughts, outlining a path to greater successes—and ultimately to the vengeance he craved. When the news had first arrived, his reaction had been the familiar indignation borne of Mongols pitting captured Christians, even heretics, against pagan warriors, but that had rapidly cooled as he saw the possibilities. He would soon set about the task of choosing one of his better fighters for assignment to the lists.
First, however, he had to see where the other soldiers of Christendom stood.
Riding through Hünern, Dietrich took only passing note of the city’s sad state. He took care to ride past The Frogs en route to his destination. There, he paused and regarded the site of his embarrassment with cold, heavy-lidded eyes, searing this miserable place into his memory. Another marker in a long list.
It helped to remind oneself of the tally of foes in need of punishing.
Then he swiveled the horse aside and trotted ahead, Burchard and Sigeberht coming up swiftly behind to keep pace with him. People dashed out of his way, throwing themselves to the side of the road to avoid the pounding crush of hooves. Dietrich paid them no more heed than he would ants beneath his boot, glad only that they at least remembered the respect that was appropriate for one of higher station.
They passed out of Hünern and rode across open lands toward where the Weidlache wound through the landscape. There was an old estate near the riverbank that dated back to Roman times. The Mongols had put the entire place to the torch when they passed through, after killing the occupants, whoever they had been—doubtless wealthy nobles who refused to join or cooperate with them.
This estate had stood gray and mostly empty—there were always half-starved squatters around—and no doubt haunted, until another order had moved in and made it their chapter house.
It was here that Dietrich and his men rode to find the commander of the Knights Templar.
The Templars had made good their fortifications, Dietrich reflected as they approached the makeshift stronghold. It was not a castle and could not repel a siege, but of all those orders that had staked out compounds around the ruins of Hünern, the Templars had made the most of their position and would perhaps evoke at least some hesitation in the mind of an ambitious brigand or tax collector.
A pair of sergeants stood guard at the gate, spear tips gleaming and prominent. They glowered as Dietrich and his small group approached.
“I am Dietrich von Grüningen, Heermeister of the Fratres Militiae Christi Livoniae,” he said, his voice friendly, calm, and casual, rather than demanding or threatening. Let them think we are equals. “Who commands here?”
The guards inspected them and decided they were no immediate threat. “Leuthere de Montfort commands our brothers,” the leftmost guard said. “He is currently in conference with Emmeran of the Knights of St. John. Pass, sirs, but watch your arms, that you be not mistaken for goads or agents. You will be met.”
Dietrich smiled, nodded, and then sucked in a breath and rode through, Burchard and Sigeberht keeping pace. The two guards watched them closely, and Dietrich saw one call over a squire and send him running toward the compound.