The Mongoliad: Book One

“You mean, not dying under the blade of whatever comes out of yonder tunnel?”

 

 

“Indeed. But we need information about the Khan. His special pavilion sits above the south end of the arena, positioned so that the sun will never shine in his eyes. There must be wooden walls behind all that canvas, behind all those hanging drapes that obscure its interior. We know so little about the layout inside. How many sit with the Khan? Does the pavilion have gates or doors that we would need to break down should the javelin throw fail? A railing over which we would need to vault? Guards who would need to be put out of the way? What is the Khan’s escape route should our first and second attempts miscarry?”

 

Haakon wanted to roar with anger, but it came out as a strangled laugh. “I am about to do battle with a demon,” he complained, “and you want me to—”

 

“It’s no demon,” Brother Rutger said and spat on the loose ocher ground that had been tracked down the tunnel on the boots of surviving combatants. “It’s a man dressed as one.” He rammed the helm down onto Haakon’s head and slapped him on the ass. Even through surcoat, chain mail, gambeson, and drawers, the impact came through solidly. “And the Red Veil,” he added. “We still wish to know what lies on the other side.”

 

Haakon grunted as he adjusted the helmet to suit him. The mysterious veil. It hung from the outer edge of the Khan’s box, obscuring the southern gate from the arena. Victorious fighters were allowed to pass beyond the veil, but they had to be able to walk out of the arena without assistance. So far, no fighter had won his bout so decisively as to be without injury. Three other Brothers had fought in the arena before him. Two had won their fights, but their wounds had been severe enough that they had not survived the night.

 

Rutger put his hand on Haakon’s shoulder. They regarded each other silently. Saying good-bye would be worse than useless, since Rutger and the others would see it as a premature admission of defeat. Like his brothers who had fought before him, Haakon knew he was supposed to be full of martial bluster. If anything, he should scoff at Rutger’s unspoken concern and say something to the effect that he would return from this fight in less time than it took to run out to the gutter and take a shit.

 

But that wouldn’t be true, and to speak so falsely—especially when Rutger would know he was lying—seemed to be behavior ill-suited to the role he was supposed to be playing.

 

I am a Knight of the Virgin Defender.

 

Haakon slapped his hand over Rutger’s briefly and then tromped up the tunnel, adjusting his mail. With each step, the loose red earth became deeper and softer under his feet.

 

As he walked through the narrow tunnel, he reflected on Taran’s final words to the young members of the Shield-Brethren who would be fighting in the arena. As their oplo, Taran had never been one for grandiose speeches. His instruction had always been brusque, and his directive to his student had been equally to the point: This is not a sparring tournament like the ones offered at Tyrshammar. Here, given the chance, your opponent will kill you. Your field of battle will be constricted, and the ranks of spectators will confuse and disorient you. Ignore all of that. Remember the one rule: do not die. Keep your focus. Know thy way, warrior; know thy balance and strength. Sophrosyne. That is how you will prevail.

 

Haakon had never understood the meaning of that Greek word, one of Feronantus’s favorites. Raphael had once chided Feronantus that, in Alexandria, it meant virginity. Their leader had not demurred. Still, Haakon was a virgin…

 

At the end of the tunnel, two men—Mongols both, armored in the layered scale and lamellar of the steppes—stepped out to bar his way. Haakon paused as one spoke a single guttural word and held out his hand: hold.

 

Even though he was ready for the fight to begin, Haakon slowed. There was no reason to hurry. The sun was shining out there. As soon as it struck his helmet, he would begin to overheat. The rag-stuffed cap that protected his freshly close-cropped head would become saturated, and then the sweat would begin trickling into his eyes, ruining the view through the helmet slits. Not long after that, he would begin to lose focus and strength.

 

Sophrosyne. He could wait.

 

A third Mongol appeared and said something to the two barring Haakon’s path, a flow of words both harsh and lyrically smooth, but babble to Haakon’s ears. The two guards stood aside, and the third gave him a nod whose meaning could not be mistaken: Haakon was now to enter.

 

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