So he lowered his right arm, dropping the glaive’s tip until it was only a hand’s breadth above the ground. By moving it to one side or the other, he could now block a blow, or deflect a thrust from the longsword at any height. From here, he could swing it to either side as needed to shut out the enemy’s onslaught. And yet, by making a push-pull motion with his hands, he could snap the cutting edge upward, to send it carving into whatever part of Zug’s anatomy might present itself. At the moment, the obvious target was the right leg, which was planted out in front of the left and not especially well armored.
In the moment when they stared at each other, an object had come hurtling into the arena. It had bounced off Zug’s helmet with a clang, and while it hadn’t caused any injury, they were both momentarily surprised.
Haakon had been trained relentlessly in the importance of seizing the initiative. According to Feronantus, fate bestowed blessings upon him who had the courage to act first. Taran’s voice cut through the mysticism: Make him react to you, damn it!
Haakon stepped forward, feinting a low cut (an obvious strike, given the starting position of the blade), then drew back and whirled the glaive end-for-end, bringing its edge all the way back and around and up over his head and finally striking downward.
Zug had been holding the longsword out in front of him, a pose not dissimilar to his own stance. As a guard, however, it was only useful against quick strikes to the hand or forearm. Further evidence that the man was drunk and not thinking clearly. Haakon’s only opportunity lay in taking advantage of Zug’s sluggish reactions.
Zug didn’t fall for Haakon’s feint, and he quickly raised his sword, catching the glaive on the crossguard. The guard—nothing more than a steel bar—stopped Haakon’s blow, but the force of his strike collapsed Zug’s arms, and the blade of the glaive glanced off the side of Zug’s helmet.
Haakon had been trained to expect that his first attack would invariably not succeed, and so he took advantage of the rebuff of his weapon by sweeping it back and around again, coming up from his lower left. No feint this time. A hard strike, aiming for Zug’s right leg.
Zug, making a much smaller movement, was able to snap the tip of his sword downward and get it in the way of the strike. Again he could not hope to withstand the glaive’s momentum, but this time he had the ground to act as a brace. When their blades crashed together, the tip of the greatsword was driven into the sand, where it came to a dead stop. As did the glaive.
But the tip of the glaive was now pointed directly at Zug’s thigh. Haakon shoved it forward. Zug, sensing such a thrust, flexed his knee, allowing the blade to pass between his legs. The best Haakon could do was to give the weapon’s handle a sharp right push, levering over the longsword’s planted blade, to buckle Zug’s leg and send him toppling to the ground.
Which, to judge from the crowd’s reaction, was the most sensational thing that had ever happened in this arena.
A pair of drunk Slavs were jumping up and down in front of him, and in their excitement, they were not handling well the skin of fermented horse milk they were sharing. The third time they slopped arkhi over their shoulders, spattering Dietrich’s gambeson, he intercepted the skin as it passed between them, and when one of the two men tried to follow where his liquor had gone, Dietrich backhanded him in the face.
The second Slav, his face screwed up in confusion, gave a muffled cry as Burchard slammed a meaty fist into one of his kidneys and shoved him forward, where he slammed into the bodies below them. The crowd parted, swallowing the lurching and moaning drunk like a lake swallows a stone.
The first man—clutching his broken and bleeding nose—stared dumbly at the wall of bodies below him, trying to understand what had just happened. Dietrich raised his hand again, but his motion was stayed by his other bodyguard, Sigeberht.
“My lord,” the tall Frank said. “We are only three.”
Dietrich grunted, acknowledging his bodyguard’s words, and hurled the arkhi skin into the crowd after the man Burchard had forcibly moved. The bloody-faced man fled too, more to retrieve his liquor than to aid his companion.
We are only three. He had twenty-one more in their camp. Fully equipped Livonian Brothers of the Sword. There were more than a thousand Mongols scattered across the countryside around the ruins of Legnica, and God only knew the population of the sprawling tent city that had sprung up around the arena. Most of them would flee at the first sign of battle, but of those who remained, how many would side with him in any useful way?
This was nothing compared to the main Mongolian army that, having won at the battle of Mohi, was gradually spreading farther into Hungary.
How am I supposed to stop them?
It was easy for the Cardinals to tell him to put his trust in God. They were safe in Rome. Here, surrounded by a shrieking horde of bloodthirsty savages, he found a wide gulf between belief and action. Even though he often prayed to God for counsel and succor, Dietrich preferred to rely on the steel and skill of his men.
But they were too few for this present task. He needed an army.