Emmeran raised his eyebrows. Leuthere was silent. “Forgive me, Heermeister Dietrich,” Emmeran said, “but I would have thought that, of all of us, you would understand the value of discretion and caution, given the tragedy that befell your predecessor.”
Schaulen. It is always about Schaulen. Dietrich felt the rage building inside like boiling water over an open hearth. “That was different,”
he said. He could not, must not, lose control in front of these two men. He had several leaders yet to see, and if word should get around that he was rattled and could not hide his anger, he would find himself truly without allies in a place that was already unfriendly to his order.
“Nevertheless, your point is well taken,” Dietrich said, laying his gaze on Emmeran. Coward. Sit and contemplate, if you like. Muse on the weak and the sick, while the Mongol host rolls over Europe and the Shield-Brethren bring our efforts to naught. I and mine will be doing something about it.
He cleared his throat. “Caution and discretion are not without their place.”
“You and yours mean to stay, then?” Leuthere asked. Whatever motivated Leuthere de Montfort, try as he might, Dietrich could not see behind the Templar’s mask.
“Yes. Somebody must encourage a different direction than that taken by our rash, so-called knights of the Virgin Defender. If others will not step up to that task, then I and mine will fill the void. If God wills it, others will then follow. It is a blessed path, and righteous.”
Whom God favored was not even a question in Dietrich’s mind. The Shield-Brethren had not, he strongly suspected, abandoned their pagan roots. A weed with beautiful branches was still a weed. Pull it from the earth and the roots would appear the same. Somehow, someway, Dietrich would do just that.
“I encourage you to speak to the other orders,” Leuthere said, indirectly indicating that the conversation had reached its conclusion. He extended a hand to Dietrich. His grip was powerful. “I thank you, Dietrich, for conveying what information you have. You have given me much to consider. I pray you find the way you seek. If God favors you, others will surely follow in your track.”
“Go with God,” Emmeran murmured and extended his own hand. This grip was also surprisingly strong.
“His will is always foremost in my thoughts,” Dietrich added, bidding both men farewell. Burchard and Sigeberht awaited him in the fire-blackened entryway, faces lighting with curiosity as he approached. He dismissed it with a wave of his hand as their horses were retrieved. His mood had sobered somewhat as he climbed into the saddle, but the humiliations continued to rankle, and the relative lack of progress here was unsettling.
Still, it had not been without its benefits. If he could show the worth of his own course, Leuthere had implied, the Templars might follow, and they would be a great strength to have at his back. Nevertheless, the battlefield could change rapidly in a short time, taking away one’s advantages and handing them to his enemies.
Dietrich remembered Emmeran’s words, much as they galled him, and now took them to heart.
As they rode out of the compound and headed back to their own chapter house, he silently vowed under the eyes of God that here and now would not be another Schaulen.
Come blood and fire, disaster or storm, he would triumph.
28
Pillow Fight
FIRE RAINED FROM the sky.
Munokhoi’s alarm had created a chaotic surge around the Khagan’s ger as guards tried to push their way through the confusion of concubines, ambassadors, and other guests. Many of those gathered at the feast were too stunned to do anything more than stand with mouths agape, like herds of simple-minded oxen. As the burning arrows began to fall, they began to react, but for many, it was too late. Munokhoi’s voice was quickly drowned out by the shrieks and screams of the injured and dying.
A courtier with a flaming arrow jutting from his left eye grabbed at Gansukh as the young warrior fought against the buffeting panic of the crowd. The courtier gibbered at Gansukh, his words lost in the sizzling cackle of the fire devouring his face and hair. Gansukh shoved the man away before the fire could leap to his own robes, and the courtier spun away, scattering flecks of flame.
In the distance, a tiny spray of orange light leaped into the sky. The hill, Gansukh realized, his pulse hammering in his ears. The enemy was on higher ground, using the difference in elevation to increase the range of their archers. Not too far from where he had set up his tent. His shoulders tightened, and he cast about for some shelter as the lights in the sky grew brighter.
Hissing, the fiery rain fell again, but the arrows landed among the vast sea of tents that lay behind the open area where the feast had been arranged. The archers had shifted their assault, and Gansukh grimly noted their efficiency. The fire arrows were meant to cause confusion and to divert the efforts of the Khagan’s guards toward saving the tents and supplies. Split your enemy, he thought, divide his strength.
A trio of concubines ran from a nearby tent, the hems of their robes on fire, and they stamped a frantic dance in an effort to put the flames out. Guards were still streaming past Gansukh, jangling and clattering as they jostled one another in their rush to protect the Khagan. Munokhoi’s alarm was now being carried by many voices, counterpoint to the crackling roar of a half dozen fires. Gansukh spied a few soldiers wrestling barrels of water toward the burning tents.
At this point, it was closer to a riot than to a camp.