The man with the shield and club made five, and Andreas had yet to be touched by any of his opponents’ weapons. His arms and legs tingled a bit from the exertion, but mostly he felt warm and loose. The exultation of the crowd fed him as well, their noise a fire that roared through his veins. Virgin forgive him, but he was starting to enjoy himself.
During the first fight, he had been distracted, and his opponent might have landed a blow had he been a better fighter. Rutger had admonished him about the stolen Livonian horses, directing him to return them before he came to the field to offer the open challenge. The command had rankled him, even though he knew the aged quartermaster was right. The Shield-Brethren were not horse thieves, nor were they in open conflict with the Livonians (regardless of how Andreas felt about their machinations); to keep the horses was tantamount to starting a feud that would descend into open violence. The Livonians were still Christian soldiers, and the greater enemy was the Mongol force; for the time being, the Shield-Brethren fought to uphold the honor of all of Christendom.
Andreas, Styg, and Eilif had brought the horses back to Hünern, abandoning them at the first sight of a Livonian patrol (which had taken longer to find than they had anticipated). The Livonians had pursued them for a brief while but quickly gave up when they realized they had stolen back the same horses. Being able to return to their Heermeister with this news seemed to be victory enough that chasing a trio of Shield-Brethren through the ragged streets of Hünern lost its luster.
Which hadn’t quite been what Rutger had meant when he told Andreas to return the horses, but all in all, it seemed like a good solution.
However, Andreas had taken a liking to the Heermeister’s bay stallion, and returning it to a man who did not seem to appreciate it overmuch had put him in a foul mood. A mood that had been quickly driven away by martial exertion, the best remedy for the confusion and consternation that could plague a fighting man.
While the crowd madly cheered his latest conquest, Styg leaned over the ropes and offered him a waterskin. Andreas took it gratefully, the cool taste a merciful respite from the sweltering heat of his gambeson.
“How many more?” Styg asked, partially in jest, but there was enough concern in the young man’s face that his question demanded a serious answer.
“As many as it takes.” Andreas wiped the sweat from his forehead. “We are here to make contact, and I will fight until he shows.” No mention of what might happen should someone manage to best Andreas. Better to not give credence to such a thought.
“You’ve not said a word to any of them since this began,” Styg said. “How do you know you’ve not missed him?”
“Firstly, he is not from Christendom, as most of the previous fighters have been,” Andreas answered, reminding Styg of the obvious reason. “Secondly, our man single-handedly beat a pair of Livonians, each of them on horseback, with a stick.” Andreas took another drink from the skin. “I would hope the Livonians are more skilled than the men I have fought so far. Otherwise, I weep for the future of Christendom.” He grinned at Styg. “Did you not see the runner sprint off for the Mongol camp after I beat the second man? By now, they know we are here. They must be curious, and I am sure their fighters are as bored as we are. The mere suggestion of a decent fight will draw them out. They’ll come.”
Styg was about to reply when a commotion between two of the scaffolds caught his attention. People were scrambling out of the way; a few even slipped under the ropes, using the open space of the ring to more readily avoid the press of bodies being forced to part. “Someone comes,” the young Shield-Brother noted. “You may be right. I think you have caught their attention.”
They could see the source of the chaos in the crowd now. Several Mongol guards were forcing the crowd back with the butts and shafts of their spears, opening a way for a man to approach the arena. He was smaller than the previous opponents, with black hair and almond eyes set in an intent, hard face whose age was difficult for him to assess. He wore loose-fitting clothes that gave him an easy freedom of movement, and by the way he walked, Andreas could see the sort of grace in him that came only from an impressive amount of strength. His face, however, was mottled, with bruises and cuts that had not yet healed, lending him somewhat of a horrific appearance that belied this quiet strength.
A silence settled over the First Field as the newcomer reached the rope. He glanced up at the standard of the Shield-Brethren as it fluttered gently in the afternoon breeze, and he offered Andreas a flash of white teeth before placing his hands together at his chest and bowing.
“Ah, now we are getting somewhere,” Andreas murmured to Styg, passing back the skin. Andreas had eschewed a long-sword in favor of his waster—a wooden sword that squires and knights alike would use for practice bouts in the training yards. It would be insufficient to cut or perforate flesh, but it was as good for leaving bruises and breaking bones as any wood stave, and killing was the last thing he wished here and now. He faced the newcomer and raised his wooden sword until the hilt was before his eyes, a salute that he hoped his new opponent would recognize.
The smaller man regarded him a long moment, then gave a nod of his head. He held out an open hand, and Andreas realized he carried no weapon. He watched with some incredulity as one of the Mongol guards stepped forward and offered the fighter a short hardwood staff. It was an exchange much like the sort of request a knight makes of his squire for his sword, but Andreas realized the reason the Mongol had held onto the weapon was that they did not trust their fighter to walk around armed.
Yes, Andreas thought. This one is different.