Zug was either armored down below or Haakon had missed, as the demon-faced man barely shivered and then recovered quickly. He cast Haakon’s sword aside and went for his own blade, the short one in the scabbard at his waist.
Haakon swept his left leg back, pivoting around his right hip. He twisted his wrists out, trying to throw Zug to the ground, with the pole high and hard between his legs. Zug was still hanging on to the pole as well, his hand firmly in place below Haakon’s.
Zug jabbed at him with the short sword, quick stabs that slid ineffectively off the metal of his bracers. Eventually, though, Zug would get the point behind Haakon’s breastplate.
He needed to break this impasse, but what could he do? He had given up his sword. He had his opponent’s weapon, but it was still tangled up by Zug’s legs and hand. What else could he use? His dagger was at the small of his back, and he didn’t dare let go of the pole-arm to reach for it.
Zug tried to twist around the pole, bending like a snake, and Haakon felt something tear in his side. Zug had found his mail.
Keep your head, Taran admonished him. Focus.
Haakon stared at Zug’s frozen mask; this close he could see that it wasn’t metal. Zug exhaled noisily as he ground his point against the chain of Haakon’s mail, and even with the mask obscuring his face, Haakon could smell the foul odor of his breath.
Arkhi. An alcoholic drink the Mongolians favored.
Zug had been drunk recently. He might even still be drunk, which meant his reflexes were impaired and his balance was off.
Keep it simple, Taran suggested.
Haakon snapped his head and helm forward, tucking his chin so that the brunt of the blow came from the hard metal ridge that protected his forehead. The blow landed true; Zug’s head jerked back violently, a grunt of pain escaping from beneath the helmet and crest. But the blow did not knock him senseless. It shoved him off balance. As Zug tried to recover, Haakon shoved him firmly. Zug staggered back, and Haakon kept his grip firm on the pole-arm.
As he found his balance and sank into a stance, he twirled the weapon around until the blade pointed at his enemy.
The spectators laughed and shrieked with merriment over this sensational turn of events. Haakon remembered that there was a crowd. And suddenly, just like that, he was out of the fight, aware that he had forgotten to breathe, that his heart was going so fast it felt more like a shivering in the chest than a beat, that sweat was gushing out of him. He realized he was closer to the wall than he wanted to be, and he sidestepped toward the center of the arena.
Zug put his hands to his helmet, repositioning it on his face. The top edge of his mask had been crushed, and one of the tall spires drooped. Sun fell through a gap between the demon helm and a neck frill of shining black.
Haakon caught sight of smooth brown skin at the corner of his jaw, where a man would have stubble or real hair.
He has no beard. A boy. A mere boy.
Zug’s hands snapped down. He had been holding on to his short sword as he adjusted his mask, and with the sudden flick of his wrist, he threw the weapon. The sword wasn’t a very good projectile, but his aim was true and he threw with considerable force. Haakon twisted the pole sword and managed to deflect the missile just enough that it clattered off his metal shoulder—but the maneuver took him off guard long enough that Zug was able to dart across the sand and scoop up the other unclaimed weapon.
Haakon’s greatsword.
Now the crowd went mad with frenzied glee. Their roar became a kind of devilish, porcine squeal, sharp and painful.
They squared off again, getting the other’s measure. Haakon kept his hands loose on the pole-arm as he stalked Zug, moving him around the arena floor.
Zug crab-walked at a right angle to Haakon’s blade, framing himself before the long column of red silk that obscured the southern tunnel—directly beneath where the Khan sat ensconced in his private pavilion. Sunlight reflecting off the silk made it shift and move as if it were a column of fire.
The Red Veil.
What lies on the other side?
Haakon had the longer weapon; his armor was stronger. He was up against a beardless boy, or perhaps a eunuch—but not a demon.
For the first time since the fight started, he began to like the odds.
CHAPTER 14:
THE WAY OF THE LAPWING
Once Feronantus was awake, Cnán reported on the events of the previous day and what was coming. She finished the story with a suggestion: “If you were to strike your camp and disappear into the forest—which I could arrange, by the way—none would think the less of you.”
Feronantus screwed up his face. “How many Mongol riders did you say there were?”
“Perhaps four arban.” Seeing how this word meant nothing to him, she explained. “They ride in groups of ten,” she said. “Ten arbans—ten of ten—is called a jaghun.”
His face relaxed. “Then I don’t see any difficulty.”