The Mongoliad: Book One

Two noises sounded at once: the hiss of an arrow by her left ear and thunder rising through the soles of her feet. She turned to see more arrows arc across the sky—and Percival riding for her at a high gallop.

 

Again, if it had been anyone else, she’d have hesitated, thinking it through, not knowing what was on his mind, what his intentions might be. But because it was Percival, she knew instantly. He would save her or die trying. She didn’t want him dead. So she stuck her hand up in the air.

 

Percival’s steel-clad arm came swooping from the sky like a bright-winged falcon, whirling in an underhand movement; his gauntlet slammed Cnán’s upraised arm between elbow and shoulder and clenched it in an excruciating grip. A sharp bolt of pain—her arm was being jerked out of its socket—compelled her to grab for a fistful of bunched mail, swing her other hand up, and hook her fingertips over the edge of the steel cop that covered his elbow. For a time, she held on with all the strength she had left, seeing in bumping, spinning glimpses Percival’s thigh, the saddle, the horse’s pumping flank, the sky above, and the reeling ground beneath. Clods and grass flew up to strike her in the face.

 

She pulled her knees in just before Percival heaved her up like a bag of grain and slung her sideways across the front of his saddle. Had she been expecting a longer ride, she’d have slung her leg over and struggled upright, but this position felt more secure even though she was being punched in the stomach and ribs by the saddle. So she held on to whatever bits of tack her flailing hands could discover and tried as best she could to review their situation.

 

The horse was definitely turning—making that wheeling maneuver into the open mouth of the long field.

 

Something streaked past the horse’s left flank and embedded itself in the ground ahead. Even more impressive thunking noises startled her—arrows hitting Percival in his back, which was at least partly protected by his slung shield. But his mount had no such protection.

 

The horse gave out an awful scream and lost its gait, staggered for a couple of paces, tried to return to the gallop, but staggered again and fell into an off-rhythm, off-balance diagonal stride that felt like a slow descent. The saddle stopped pounding her belly. Rubble flashed beneath her, a plunging hoof cracked down on a big rock, and then the ground came up fast.

 

Sky and rubble and rye vied for her attention as she and Percival skidded and tumbled over each other. Ending up on top, she rolled to unsteady feet, sucked back the wind that had been knocked out of her, and turned to face the enemy, wondering how many more times she would fall off a dying horse today.

 

Four Mongols abreast rode toward them, with many more negotiating the turn behind. One archer had drawn his bow and nocked an arrow. He pushed the bow forward, loosed the arrow. Another was in the act. Both arrows found their target.

 

With the apparent strength of a Hercules, Percival hefted body, mail, and armor from a crouch and swung his shield off his shoulder. Three arrows stuck out of it. Another shaft flew his way—no, for Cnán—and he extended the shield just in time to catch that one as well. Another whanged off his steel helmet.

 

The knight staggered sideways, turned, crouched, and hurled the bristling shield into the pounding legs of the nearest Mongol horse. It fell in a heap, its shriek cut off as its muzzle plowed into green grass and dirt. The rider somersaulted out of control and slid across the grass like a child on a sled. Percival abruptly halted the Mongol’s glide with a downward, double-handed thrust of his sword, pinning him to the ground.

 

The other three Mongols hurtled past. Cnán knew that their next move would be to pivot in their saddles and loose Parthian shots. So she turned to face them just in time to see them go down—one, two, three—as arrows from sides and front pierced their leather armor.

 

Istvan was the only archer she could actually see; the other shots had come out of concealment. The Hungarian now galloped to the fore, leaning in his saddle, and shot a second arrow through the neck guard of a wounded Mongol lurching to his feet. The Mongol dropped again to his knees, hands reaching, unable to cry out—the arrow had pierced his wind-pipe and come out the other side, almost clean through.

 

“Run, my lady,” said Percival as calmly as if he were inviting her to dance—and Cnán ran. He was right behind her. Naked, he might have outpaced her; in full armor, even he lagged.

 

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