The Mongoliad: Book One

They were being chased up into the field, and as Cnán’s lightly shod feet pounded through rye and weeds, from the corners of her eyes, she became aware of men lying flat in shallow trenches under piles of uprooted grass. She also saw more long cords beneath her feet—cords run out over the ground and left there, straight, but slack.

 

Istvan rode past going the other way. She turned to watch as the Hungarian shot an arrow into the foremost of the next wave of riders. He wheeled his destrier and returned the other way, twisting in his saddle to shoot his own Parthian shot. As he passed, the cords jerked off the ground—three ranks of them, pulled taut by knights working in pairs, one at each end, levering them around hefty sticks jammed into the earth.

 

Percival burst forward and in a few strides caught up with Cnán, grabbed her already aching arm, steered her toward the hedge, and tossed her into it. Vines and thistles welcomed her. Rocks bruised her face and shoulder—light wounds and a fair trade. More arrows buried themselves in the ground just a couple of yards away.

 

Cnán nestled into the hedge, delicately plucking thistles and draping tendrils to hide herself. But curiosity won out over caution. Parting the vines, she saw that disaster was about to fall upon the Mongol horsemen. Two arban—twenty riders—were galloping at speed—right into the rope traps.

 

All but two of the riders and their ponies tripped over the stretched cords and tumbled headlong, kicking and squealing, in a cloud of dust. The two that made it through were brought down by arrows from R?dwulf and another reverse shot from Istvan. The Hungarian grinned like a demon, his huge bristling mustache still caked with black blood from the massacre at the farmstead.

 

In a patter of heavy, thumping footsteps, a man ran right by her hiding place in the hedge, panting with exertion and trailing a long, stretched-out cloud of smoke. It was the alchemist, Yasper—and he seemed to be on fire. Every couple of paces, he stopped to hurl a smoking object plucked from a satchel slung over his shoulder. He tossed them in the direction of the entrance to the abandoned field, where the two squadrons of Mongols were staggering to their feet, drawing swords, or still trying to drag themselves from under thrashing horses.

 

The burning objects tumbled along the ground and jetted smoke—not the translucent white smoke that came from fires, but a yellow-brown vapor, thick as river mud. And it kept coming. One fell from Yasper’s bag and lay on the ground not far from Cnán. It was a gourd, about the size of a fist, with a vent hole cut into one side. She was fascinated by the sheer volume of smoke hissing and belching from the tiny object; it was like watching a hundred men leap out of a single wine barrel.

 

In a few moments, the jets and clouds of smoke combined to form a dense wall around the fallen riders, like a low storm cloud. The day was calm, the field was sheltered by woods, and the pungent yellow vapor was in no hurry to blow away.

 

From the shallow trenches sprang Taran and Feronantus, then Roger and Illarion, drawing swords with a strange, ululating, hooting cry:

 

“Alalazu! Alalazu! ”

 

The war cry, she guessed, of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae.

 

Running straight down the center of the field came Eleázar, drawing and poising the colossal sword that he had used to such effect yesterday evening. Trotting after him came Raphael, bow out, arrow nocked, scanning for more distant foes.

 

But the blinding power of Yasper’s smoke cloud was absolute, and so the remainder of the Mongol force, still finding its way around and through the hedge, dared not use their bows for fear of striking comrades.

 

The cloud expanded. Terrible sounds came out of it now. A Mongol hopped through the billowing yellow wall on one leg, coughing and waving his free hand, smoke trailing from his hair and clothes. A hatchet whirled out of the cloud and split the back of his skull. Eyes suddenly red and bulging, he threw out his arms and sprawled flat on his face.

 

Roger, arms covered in blood, backed out of the cloud, reached down, and pulled the hatchet loose. Another Mongol charged out after him. Roger backhanded the weapon with a casual flick, making it skim whirling across the ground at knee level. It did not cut the Mongol but destroyed his gait and staggered him. He raised a short sword, not so much to deliver a blow now as to protect himself from what might come next; Roger ran forward, caught the man’s elbow, and with all his might, shoved it back so that it grazed the Mongol’s ear, spinning him round and leaving his neck an easy target for the dagger in Roger’s other hand. The dagger found its mark.

 

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