The caravan was long, though much of his immediate view was blocked by similar cages on the carts in front and behind him—other prizes from Christendom.
The man in the cart just behind Haakon’s was huge. His red hair and beard overflowed his tiny head, and his body—wedged against the cage’s bars and in the cramped corners—was covered with a layer of fine red hair. A wrestler, Haakon thought. He fervently hoped their destination was not another gladiator-style arena. He did not wish to fight this man.
The captive in the next cart forward lay on his back and did not move overmuch; Haakon suspected he would not survive their journey.
And so Haakon waited. In time, his body grew accustomed to the shifting motion of the wooden cart; he listened to the Mongols as they shouted at the oxen, slowly absorbing the sounds of their language; he could tell when the cooks shifted from green wood to dried dung for their fires; when it rained, he would roll against the bars of his cage and let the bitter water sluice down his grimy face and into his mouth. He slept as often as the rattling motion of the cart allowed. At night, he studied the sky, trying to find the shapes he knew: the eyes of Thiassi, thrown into the heavens by Odin after the All-Father plucked them from the j?tunn’s head; the deer (Duneyrr, Duratrór, Dvalinn, and Dáinn) who cavorted in the branches of the World Tree; and the trio of bright stars that represented the distaff of Frigg. Below the horizon, he watched the passage of the caravan guards, memorizing the schedule of their shifts. Even if an opportunity presented itself to escape, he was not inclined to take it. Where would he run?
His captors were taking him someplace, for some reason. He’d know soon enough. Perhaps too soon.
The rhythmic creaking and jolting of cage and cart, the guttural curses of the handler and his assistant, the infrequent lowing of the oxen, the mournful sighs and whispers of wind over the endless grass, filled Haakon’s mind and brought him a strange, contemplative peace. He had many, many hours to remember his training...and to prepare for whatever ordeal awaited him.
Your enemy will arrive when he is ready. At Tyrshammar, Feronantus had been their oplo, and the elder veteran’s style had been much different than Taran’s training at the Legnica chapter house. Haakon had struggled with winning the first crossing of the swords, and while he knew his greatest weakness was committing too heavily to his initial strike, he had not been able to come up with a better tactic. Learn to wait, the old master of Tyrshammar had told him. Even though it may seem impossible, when your blood is hammering in your ears and your hands are eager to bury the sword point in your enemy’s skull, hold back. Watch. Wait!
For the following month, Feronantus designated Haakon as the defender in every practice. He could never initiate an attack; he could only respond. At first, Haakon had chafed at this role, thinking he was being punished, but gradually, he came to realize the defender was actually the one who controlled the exchange.
A week or two into their journey, the caravan paused at an enormous camp that stretched as far as Haakon could see. His field of vision was limited by other carts and cages, now circled and bunched, but through them, in every direction, he saw nothing but the rounded peaks of Mongolian tents—ger was the word they used—and a fluttering profusion of standards and tiny flags.
Haakon’s legs failed him as he realized this was the true Mongolian Horde that threatened Christendom. The force sprawling across the plain near Legnica had been a gnat compared to this gigantic assembly, and he shivered uncontrollably as he tried to imagine how many men the Mongol generals had at their disposal.
On his knees, he pressed his head against the rough floor of his cage, seeking sanctuary in a childhood prayer to the old gods of his forefathers.
Eventually, someone rapped against the bars of his cage with a baton. A thin man with a wispy strand of hair hanging stiffly from his chin stood beside the cage and jabbered in the Mongol tongue, smacking his baton repeatedly against the bars. Haakon looked up from his prayers and blearily focused on what the man was directing his attention to: a wooden bowl and, beside that, a strip of dried meat. The Mongol rapped the bars once more, indicating that he should eat.
Haakon scrambled over to the food, ignoring the Mongol’s cackling laugh. He was familiar with the meat; once a day, a piece much like it was thrown into his cage. It was salt or sweat cured and had the texture of untreated leather. Eating was a time-consuming process of flexing and softening the meat with his hands before forcibly ripping it up and putting small pieces in his mouth; then he worked the dried meat more with his teeth and what saliva he could muster. To eat it too quickly was to be stricken with stomach cramps later. The first time, the cramps had lasted a full day and he had not been able to move his bowels for another two days afterward.
Occasionally, he could catch a guard’s attention, and through pantomime at first—but more recently, using some of the Mongol words he had learned—he would ask for water. Once in a while, they would bring him a small amount in a crude cup, barely enough to lessen the drudgery of eating the meat.
The bowl, to his surprise, contained a watery rice gruel. Still a little warm, even. It was, Haakon decided, a reward from the Virgin for his patience. He meant to savor it, but his fingers scooped it quickly into his mouth.
For the next hour, until the man returned for the bowl, he sucked at its rim, making sure he got every last drop.