CHAPTER 27:
…THERE IS FIRE
Yasper started awake and blearily looked up at Raphael. The sky behind Raphael was purple, and the stars were twinkling. The alchemist groaned and closed his eyes. It was almost dawn and what little sleep he had managed to snatch was not nearly enough. Raphael shook him gently again and Yasper brushed the bothersome hand off like he was shooing away a fly. “I’m awake,” he groused.
“It’s time,” Raphael said, belaboring the obvious reason he had woken Yasper.
“I know. I know,” Yasper said. He opened his eyes again and flapped his hands at Raphael. “I’m getting up. I don’t need any help.”
His back and shoulders still ached from all the digging he’d done during the night. The ambush he’d planned required careful consideration, and it had been insane even to try to put it together in the course of one night. And then Raphael and Haakon had come from their nocturnal excursion and, after a whispered conference with Gawain and Vera, had informed him they were going to abandon the depression sooner than planned. Once Yasper had finished sputtering and complaining about the change in plans, he had realized that it meant he had to be less concerned about blowback.
The only reason he had allowed himself any sleep at all was the comforting thought that his plan had been made easier.
Yasper sat up, pulled on his boots, and stood up. He was already stiff, and the idea of spending the day on a horse wasn’t a pleasant one. It could be worse, he thought as he ran his tongue over his teeth. I could be dead in the next few hours.
Cheered by that thought, he rummaged in his saddlebags for a few strips of dried meat. After washing his mouth out with a swallow of night-chilled water from his dwindling water skin, he gathered up a swaddled bundle and wandered toward the hole in the ground to check on his alchemical masterpiece.
He had conscripted all of the company to help dig trenches, raise foundations, and build partitions. Crisscrossing the depression were a maze of pathways that had been carefully filled with seep-stained dirt. The pool at the bottom of the hole still burned, but the flames had lessened, dying down to a height of less than that of a man. They would burn for years, he suspected, an eternal flame in the middle of the desolate steppe.
But they could also be snuffed out.
Bruno ambled up beside him, yawning widely, and Yasper winced slightly at the amount of air the Lombard was inhaling. The air coming off the fires of the seep made his head ache and his vision blur. He had spent enough time in closeted alchemical laboratories to know that many experiments vented strange gasses that were poisonous. And yet Bruno was sucking up the dirty air of the seep as if were as rarified as sea air.
“Are you ready?” he asked the Lombard.
Bruno grunted, idly scratching along his jaw.
Yasper led the way, the bundle held carefully in his arms. Beneath the layer of heavy cloth was the metal tube of a Chinese hand cannon. They had found it in the woods while tracking ?gedei’s retinue, along with a satchel filled with various alchemical powders. Yasper had used most of the powders during their escape from Burqan-qaldun, but with the rest, he had figured out how to make the burning cakes that he called phoenix eggs.
Shards of the cakes, when crumbled and scattered across hot ash, would smoke wildly, and he had used most of one during the raid at the rock. The remaining portion of the first cake was sealed inside the Chinese tube, along with every other combustible ingredient in his possession. Rope was tied around the tube and the other end was knotted in a narrow loop.
Down near the pool of fire were two poles, the trunks of two young spruce trees that Percival had felled during the night. The branches and bark had been stripped from the trunks and the tops of the poles were lashed together, forming an X.
Yasper was sweating by the time he and Bruno reached the bottom of the depression. They had gone over what needed to be done several times so that there would be no confusion once they started. Yasper wasn’t sure how long they would have, and he really didn’t want to be dawdling near the lake longer than necessary.
He put the bundle down near the X of the poles and uncovered the tube and the looped rope. Slipping the loop over the tips of the two poles, he grabbed the other end of one of the poles. Bruno grabbed the other and when they carefully raised the poles, the tube dangled down between the angled poles.
“Quickly,” Yasper gasped, and Bruno grunted in agreement. They sidestepped toward the pool, and Yasper had a momentary panic that he had judged the size of the pool incorrectly, but they ended up on either side. Bruno shoved the base of his pole into the ground, and Yasper did the same, trying to dig the butt of the spruce trunk into the ground enough that it would remain upright. The poles were leaning against one another, a precarious triangular structure, and slowly, carefully, he let go of his pole. The structure wobbled for a second, the tube swinging over the flames, and Yasper gasped. But it settled, and Yasper waved for Bruno to let go of his end as well. The Lombard did, and Yasper did a quick mental five-count—waiting for the poles to fall over.
The poles didn’t move. The tube turned lazily on the rope.
“Go,” Yasper hissed at Bruno, who needed no further instruction. Yasper was right behind him, and both of them charged up the slope of the depression, trying to clear the hole before the tube heated up enough that its contents transformed. Ignio, Yasper thought as he scrambled over the lip of the hole and threw himself flat on the ground. Here it comes.
Bruno lay next to him, and the Lombard had his eyes squeezed shut and was covering his ears. As they waited, Bruno started to grit his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter. His expression was comical enough that Yasper almost laughed, but for the growing panic surging in his chest. Why hadn’t it gone—
The ground rippled beneath them, a single shudder that made the hair on Yasper’s neck stand on end. He held his breath, peering up at the sky with one open eye. A black mushroom-shaped cloud was roiling into the sky, but there was no column trailing after it.
Using his elbows, he carefully worked his way to the edge of the hole. There were a few scattered strands of fire burning in the hole—thankfully none of them was in any of his crazy trenches. More importantly, the surface of the pond was still. The fire had been smothered.
He slapped Bruno on the leg. “Get the tents,” he said. “Let’s build the phoenix nest.”
Dawn came on slowly, lightening the eastern horizon into a pall of gray clouds. The sun remained hidden away, and there was only a rosy glow that indicated it had risen at all. They kept the glow behind them, riding steadily.
There were five of them: Vera, Cnán, Lian, Feronantus, and Haakon. They had four extra horses and most of the drinkable water. Raphael’s instructions had been to ride west until they reached the mighty river they had crossed once before. After finding a way across, they were to turn north and west again until they found the remote Khazar village where the trader Benjamin lived.
They could wait for the others there, if the Khazars didn’t find their presence troubling, or they could leave a message with Benjamin that they had made it that far. After the Khazar village, they would head for Kiev, a journey that would take a month or more, following a route that Vera knew.
The decision to split the company gnawed at Haakon as they rode. After all this time, it seemed tantamount to failure to leave some of their company behind—a decision that did not, in his mind, seem to be in keeping with the tenets of the Ordo Militum Vindicis Intactae. Though Raphael had kindly told him that doing exactly what they were doing—staying behind to protect the rest of the company—was not uncommon in the history of the order. They were not martyrs; they merely understood the burden of being an initiate in the order.
Lian, who was showing signs of becoming an accomplished rider, brought her horse alongside Haakon. Her black hair has bound up in a ponytail and she wore a fur-lined hat and a shapeless cloak. From a distance, she could be mistaken for a man.
She had Raphael’s crossbow and a small satchel of bolts. She had insisted that she knew how to fire a bow, and Raphael had had her show him with Ahmet’s bow. She was far from proficient, but she knew how to aim and hold the bow steady. It would be skill enough with a crossbow if the Mongol riders got close enough.
A better weapon than a knife, Gawain had muttered to Vera while Haakon had been standing nearby.
Aye, Vera had answered, but there is no reason to not give her both.
“Did you see them?” Lian asked. Her tone was casual and she didn’t look at him, as if she were merely passing some of the endless hours.
“I did,” Haakon replied.
“Did they…Did you know any of them?”
“Aye,” Haakon said. “One of them was Gansukh.”
She nodded lightly, seemingly unmoved by his news, but he saw how tightly her hands were holding her reins.
“They’re coming after us,” Haakon said. He nodded toward Feronantus. “They want the Banner.”
“Of course,” Lian said quietly.
Haakon nudged his horse closer to Lian’s and leaned over, touching her on the elbow. “When he…just before he left, he said your name,” he told her.
Lian turned her head and looked at him, and he was startled by the shining light in her eyes in contrast with the frozen mask of her face. “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” she whispered and then she pulled her horse away, leaving him to wonder what he had just done wrong.
They put the hole with its intricate trenches and swollen canvas covering over the black pool behind them, so that, initially, the Mongol riders wouldn’t be able to come at them from all directions. The extra horses were hobbled nearby, though based on what little Yasper had told him, Raphael expected them to bolt when Yasper birthed the phoenix. He and Percival were wearing the full kits, and the weak links in the back of his maille had been repaired. Bruno and Gawain were wearing an assortment of greaves and leathers they had taken from Haidar’s Muslims, and Gawain had meticulously counted and checked each of his arrows.
He had three dozen. If the Mongol commander, Totukei, had only four arbans and Gawain hit every one of his targets, the fight might be extremely short. But Raphael didn’t think the Virgin was going to bless them in such an extraordinary fashion. There would be more Mongols than that, and Gawain had been tasked with doing as much damage as he could to their ranks with his arrows.
Gawain and Yasper were on foot. He, Percival, and Bruno were mounted. The others had left hours before, and shortly before sunrise, Ahmet and Evren had ridden north in search of the steppe deer herd that Haakon had spotted the other day. The Seljuks were tasked with stampeding the herd toward the depression. It was a desperate idea, but the more confusion that could be sown on the battlefield, the less organized the Mongols would be. The key to shattering their efficient swarming techniques was to keep them off guard.
“They’re coming,” Bruno said, pointing with his ax toward an undulating black line to the south.
“Let’s get ready,” Raphael said, plucking his helmet off the horn of his saddle and settling it on his head. Beside him, Percival stretched in his stirrups, eager for the combat to start. Raphael fleetingly wished he hadn’t sent Vera with the others, but he had needed to send a strong fighter. As soon as we’re done here, we’ll join them, he thought, banging on the top of his helmet to make sure it was seated well. Perhaps we’ll even be in time to intercept Graymane and his arban.
Since there was no way to hide on the steppe, Alchiq’s arban rode hard for the Skjaldbr?eur party. Gansukh counted five riders, and his heart skipped momentarily when he couldn’t pick Lian out of the group. But then he spotted two who were smaller than the others, and his heart started pounding more normally again.
Alchiq whistled at the others and their group split, dividing into three squads—much like they had when Gansukh and Alchiq had first been discovered by Totukei’s riders. Bows were readied, and they started shouting battle cries as they drove their horses into battle.
Suddenly the Skjaldbr?eur group changed direction, wheeling to the right, and then nearly as quickly came to a complete stop. Riders leaped off their horses and as the small herd of extra animals caught up with the main group, the Skjaldbr?eur disappeared into a confusion of legs and manes.
The trio of Mongol riders on Gansukh’s right were closest and they hesitated, unwilling to fire arrows indiscriminately into the confusion of horses, and as Gansukh watched, two suddenly pitched from their saddles as the Skjaldbr?eur picked them off with their shorter-ranged crossbows. The third man pulled his horse away, but it stumbled—Gansukh couldn’t tell if it was from clumsiness or if it had been struck by a crossbow bolt—and the rider leaped out of the saddle before he could be pinned by the falling horse.
A figure popped up in the midst of the group, standing in a stirrup, and it hurled something in the general direction of the second group. This group reacted more quickly, and the figure jerked as it disappeared, two arrows striking it square in the chest.
The thrown object turned end over end, a spray of sparks trailing after it, and when it hit the ground, it burst into a sheet of flame.
“Shoot the horses,” Alchiq screamed. He raised his bow, pulling the string back with his maimed hand, and loosed an arrow into the throat of one of the horses in the front rank. The horse reared, spooking the already frightened horses near it, and when its front legs hit the ground again, they folded and the horse went down.
A second figure appeared, arm pulled back to throw another incendiary, and Gansukh—knowing the Skjaldbr?eur maille was nearly impervious to his arrows—aimed for the figure’s head. The figure brought its arm forward, but its aim was thrown off when an arrow from one of the other Mongols ricocheted off the metal helm. The object arced up instead of being thrown flat. Without thinking, Gansukh shifted his aim and loosed his arrow at the spinning object.
His arrow struck its target, and the bomb exploded, showering the steppe in a fiery rain.
Vera had thrown the first of the three alchemical fire bombs that Yasper had concocted for them, and she had taken two Mongol arrows for her effort. They didn’t penetrate her maille, and while Cnán was worrying them out of Vera’s shirt, Haakon grabbed the second fire bomb. They had already taken care of the trio on the left; the group on the right was diverted by the wall of fire, and when he put his foot in the stirrup of his horse and levered himself up to throw the bomb, he was aiming for the group coming right at them.
The arrow bounced off his helmet, and he tried to correct his aim, but he was already committed. He fell out of his stirrup, staggering to stay on his feet, and through the narrow gaps in his helmet, he tried to spot the ill-thrown bomb.
Fire erupted overhead, and rivulets of flame cascaded down like a freak spring squall. The horses, which were already spooked, panicked and stampeded away from all the fire. He was struck in the shoulder by a running horse, spun around, and had to dart out of the path of a second horse. A third galloped at him, and when he tried to get out of its way, it shifted direction, still heading right for him.
He realized this horse had a rider.
The Mongol swiped at him with a curved sword, and Haakon ducked under the blade, feeling the tip scrape across the back of his maille, and he tried to grab at the Mongol’s leg as the horse flashed past. His fingers encountered heavy cloth, but he couldn’t maintain his grip.
He stumbled, trying to orient himself in the smoky pandemonium that the battlefield had become. A pair of horses still milled nearby, and beyond them, he saw the body of another horse. A horse and rider were charging him, and as he frantically cast about for something that he might use as a spear, he caught sight of the third fire bomb, lying on its side, its tiny wick still burning.
He scooped it up, and he felt the clay pot shift and crumble in his hand but he threw it anyway.
The Mongol tried to turn his horse, but the animal was coming too fast, and the horse screamed as it ran into the spray of fire that was flying from Haakon’s hand. It reared, throwing its rider, and bowled forward, its withers and head crawling with fire.
Haakon had a glimpse of white teeth and the smell of burning flesh overwhelmed him as he leaped aside, trying to dodge the pain-maddened horse. He realized his gauntlet was on fire and was trying to shake the flames off when someone slammed into him and knocked him sprawling.
“The Virgin watches over us,” Percival said, drawing Raphael’s attention away from the charging line of Mongols. He turned his head and looked to the north. A hazy cloud indicated that Ahmet and Evren had found the deer herd and had managed to stampede it in the right direction.
Indeed, he thought, the Virgin does reward us in our time of need.
“Yasper,” Raphael called. “Time to redirect the herd.”
The alchemist jogged forward, breaking the line of Shield-Brethren horsemen. In each hand he held a clay pot, stopped with mud and stuffed with a bit of oil-soaked cloth. Clutched in his teeth was a stick, one end of which was still smoldering. The alchemist jogged a dozen paces in front of the group and then stopped, glancing at both of the approaching herds of four-legged animals. He put one of his pots down, took the stick out of his mouth, and applied the hot end to the oil-soaked cloth. It caught fire almost instantly and, after judging distances once more, Yasper threw the pot as hard as he could toward the distant line of charging Mongols.
The pot hit the ground, broke, and scattered a wash of fire across the steppe. It wasn’t more than a few paces long and not very wide, but it was bright and hot, and the herd of stampeding steppe deer shifted direction immediately.
Yasper lit the second pot and threw it to his left, spooking the deer again. The running herd was redirected, and the two Seljuks peeled away from chasing the group, no longer needed.
The stampeding herd of deer was now heading directly at the approaching Mongols.
“Alalazu!” Raphael shouted, slapping his horse on the rump. His horse leaped forward and he sensed Percival and Bruno spurring their horses as well. They charged after the running herd and the Seljuks fell in with them.
For God and the Virgin, he thought, steeling himself for battle.
The only one of their company who was not surprised by the fiery rain was the old man, Feronantus. To Lian, he had been a strange addition to their company. The others clearly held him in high regard, even though he had abandoned them back at Burqan-qaldun, but since they had found him wandering on the steppe, he had been unresponsive and nearly catatonic. Raphael had tried to reach him during the planning of their stand against the Mongols, and she inferred that Feronantus had been some manner of military genius, but for all of Raphael’s efforts, the old man had been monosyllabic in response. Even when Vera had given the command to circle the horses and dismount, he had complied readily and without comment.
When the arrow struck Haakon’s ill-thrown bomb and the rain had fallen on them, pandemonium had erupted in their cluster of horses and men. Feronantus had remained stock still, staring up at the falling rain, clutching the burned stick that had once been the Khagan’s Spirit Banner. None of the falling streaks of fire had touched him, and as the horses spooked and ran, they instinctively shied away from him.
And then the Mongols had been on them. Lian had aimed her borrowed crossbow and pulled the trigger, knowing that she wouldn’t have time to reload it. The bolt missed its mark, and she had scrambled out of the path of the charging horse. The rider missed her with his sword and was turning his mount for another try when Feronantus knocked him from his horse with the staff.
The Mongol flew out of his saddle, turned his fall into a partially successful roll, and charged Feronantus with a drawn knife. Feronantus swept the outstretched arm aside and jabbed the butt of the staff so hard into the man’s face that blood flew when his head snapped back.
“Get the horse,” Feronantus shouted at her, and she responded without even thinking, such was the strength of his voice.
The horse shied away from her as she approached it, but it didn’t run, and she managed to grab its dangling reins. Speaking in a calm voice, she tried to soothe it. She tried to hide the terror that was still battering around inside her chest like a trapped bird.
She spotted Vera and Cnán, the latter being supported by the former, blood running down the side of her head, and she pulled the horse toward the pair. More arrows jutted from Vera’s maille, but the Shield-Maiden did not appear hurt. Cnán, however, couldn’t stand without help, and when Lian reached them, she saw that Cnán’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. Her hat was gone, and the side of her head was sticky with blood.
“Take the horse,” she said to Vera. Vera tried to argue but Lian shook her head. “She can’t ride by herself, and I can’t ride for two. Take her and go. I’ll get another one.”
She was grateful that Vera was eternally pragmatic and saw the merit of what she was saying. She helped Vera get the wobbly Cnán up into the saddle, and she held the horse still while Vera got settled behind the wounded Binder. “The Virgin watch you,” Vera said as Lian handed her the reins, and Lian nodded in return as Vera drummed her heels against the barrel of the horse and it ran eagerly from the burning battlefield.
There were scattered fires all around her, and the smell of burning horse meat. An animal screamed somewhere off to her left, but she couldn’t see anything through the haze. Her eyes watered and she started to cough. A Mongol corpse lay sprawled near her, a curved sword on the ground near his open hand. She scooped the weapon up, juggling the sword until she got it seated well in her hand.
Hearing muffled grunts, she tracked toward the sound of men straining against one another. She spotted Haakon wrestling with a Mongol, and as she approached the pair, intending to use the sword on the Mongol, they rolled over. The Mongol was on top of Haakon, his hands around Haakon’s throat, his knee pinning Haakon’s right arm against the ground.
“Gansukh?”
Hearing her voice, the Mongol looked up, staring at her.
Haakon pulled his arm free, revealing a knife in his hand. Genghis’s knife, Lian realized, and she watched with horror as the Northerner stabbed Gansukh in the side.
“No!”
Between the haze from the clay pot fires and the number of riders, it was difficult for Yasper to follow the battle between the Shield-Brethren and the Mongol riders. He wished, not for the first time, that he had a tree or a battlement to climb so that he could get a better view. As it was, he hopped from foot to foot, nervously waiting for some overt sign of who was winning.
Beside him, Gawain carefully tracked outliers of the skirmish, watching for patterns in the movement of the Mongol riders that would allow him to anticipate where they would be. They were at the extreme range of his bow; at that distance, luck and the vicarious whimsy of the wind would contribute as much as his own skill at archery to whether his arrow struck its target or not. The Mongols were too smart to bunch up, making for an easier target. A neat line of eleven arrows, their points shoved into the ground, were arrayed next to him. Two similar lines of readied arrows were spaced behind them, a half dozen paces separating each.
A light wind was coming from the north, and Yasper was hoping that it might switch to the west. Would God bless them with such assistance? he wondered. He glanced over his shoulder at the voluminous shroud raised over the pool in the depression. Attached to the center of the cover was a bundle containing the rest of his alchemical supplies and the second phoenix egg.
The Shield-Brethren were depending on his alchemy, and he tried not to dwell on how much his experiment relied on speculative philosophy. The canvas of the tents was moderately waterproof and he hoped it was impermeable to invisible vapors as well. If he was right, then the toxic fumes coming off the black pool would be collecting inside the shroud. He hoped the Persian alchemist Jabir ibn Hayyan was right about the flammable properties of those fumes when Jabir had written Kitab al-Zuhra, his treatise on alchemy.
Gawain’s bowstring sang, and Yasper turned around in time to see a Mongol rider tumble off his horse. The tide of the battle had shifted and was coming toward them now, forming a wedge. At the tip were two riders in white tabards.
Gawain loosed another arrow. “Bruno’s down,” he said as he plucked a third arrow from the line arranged before him. The second arrow struck a horse that went down hard, throwing its rider. Another horse collided with the downed horse, putting another Mongol on the ground.
A line of riders peeled off from the main wedge, swinging out to Yasper’s right. The Mongols weren’t in arrow range yet for their less powerful bows, but the second group was going to try to flank Gawain, forcing him to split his attention between the two groups.
Gawain put an arrow through the chest of the lead rider of the flankers. “They’ll be in range in a few seconds,” he said to Yasper. “I could use that cover now.”
Yasper scrambled over to the long panel of bound branches that Cnán and Lian had assembled during the company’s preparations. It was nothing more than a rectangle of branches lashed together to form a makeshift screen. It was flimsy and had several gaps in it that were wide enough for an arrow to slip through, but it was better than no protection at all. Grunting, Yasper hauled it upright and, using the two handles that stuck out from the back side, he hauled it around to Gawain’s right so that it stood between him and the oncoming archers. Just as he braced it up, he heard a rattling sound like pebbles against a wooden shutter and the panel vibrated slightly against his shoulder.
Gawain fired his penultimate arrow, and then grabbed the last one from the ground. He flexed his body, pulling the heavy bowstring back, and he held the fletching next to his cheek for what Yasper thought was an interminable moment. A few Mongol arrows stuck in the ground not far from him, and Gawain exhaled—almost sadly, Yasper thought—and the fletching vanished from between his fingers.
Gawain lowered his bow and ducked behind the panel with Yasper. More arrows fell around them and some rattled against the screen. One flashed through a gap not far from Yasper’s left hand, and he yelped as the fletching buzzed against his skin. “Let’s move,” Gawain shouted and, each holding one of the handles, they retreated in tiny steps, heading for the next line of Gawain’s arrows.
As soon as they were in range, the Mongols started shooting arrows at them. The next thirty seconds were the most dangerous of their attack. Their advantage over the Mongols lasted only as long as they could remain as mobile as the horse riders, and if the Mongols targeted their horses, they’d be on foot, and the battle would be very one-sided. Fortunately the stampeding deer were still causing confusion among the Mongol ranks, and the arrows that flew in their direction were not well targeted. A number struck Raphael in the chest and arms, but none of them stuck in his maille.
And then they had reached the Mongol ranks, and their handheld weapons came to bear. Raphael caught sight of Percival taking a Mongol’s head off with a single stroke of his sword, and then he lost sight of the Frank. A Mongol screamed at him as their horses rushed past each other, and the man’s curved sword slashed his tabard and slid off his maille. Raphael clouted him on the side of the head with his mace, and the man tumbled bonelessly from his saddle.
A second Mongol came at him from his right side, and he got his mace around enough to deflect the man’s sword so that it rang off the side of his helmet. He leaned over and punched the man in the face with his metal-studded gauntlet, and then followed through with a backhanded sweep of his mace that ended the man’s life.
On his left, Bruno lost his hand ax in the shoulder of a Mongol, and as the Lombard pulled his sword from its scabbard, he was struck in the shoulder by a Mongol arrow. The arrow went through the leather guard, and Bruno sagged for a moment. He rallied, spurring his horse toward the man who had put the arrow in him, and delivered his revenge with a savage stroke of his blade. The arrow slowed him, though, and he wasn’t quick enough in the saddle to block another Mongol’s sword. Raphael saw blood on the Mongol’s blade as the two combatants separated.
He kneed his horse toward Bruno, attempting to come to the Lombard’s aid, but the Mongol was quicker, wheeling his short pony in a tight arc. Bruno was still trying to control his horse when the Mongol rode up behind him and thrust his sword into the Lombard’s back.
Raphael hit the Mongol twice with his mace, but it was too late. The Mongol, his shoulder shattered and his head smashed in, fell off his horse, but his sword remained in Bruno’s back.
Bruno leaned against his horse, his face bright with sweat. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he said. He punctuated his question with a cough that spattered blood on the mane of horse. He looked down at the pattern of crimson dots, frowned, and then toppled out of the saddle.
There was no time to offer any prayers for the dead. Raphael wheeled his horse, looking for Percival. The Frank was still on his horse, his white tabard splashed with blood in numerous places. “Alalazu!” Raphael shouted, raising his sword high. “Alalazu!” His throat hurt from shouting so hard. He jerked his reins, turning his horse back toward the Shield-Brethren camp, and dug his spurs into the beast’s side. The horse leaped forward at a mad gallop, and Percival shoved his way through a trio of Mongols and fell in beside him.
It wasn’t until he rolled off the Skjaldbr?eur and the knife was wrenched out of his side that Gansukh realized the pain in his chest was not from seeing Lian. He sat down heavily, his hand limply trying to find the hole in his armor, staring at the strangely clothed woman wearing the fur-lined cap. “Lian?” he tried, and it sounded like someone else was saying the word.
The knight scrambled away from him, gasping beneath his mask. Gansukh’s attention was drawn by the man’s motion, and he saw the bloody antler-handled knife. It looked like a Mongol knife, but the man was dressed like one of the knights from the West. He tried to focus. There was something awry here; he just couldn’t figure it out. And where was all the blood coming from?
The knight switched his grip on his knife as he readied himself to come at Gansukh again. Gansukh held up his hand, showing the man his reddened hand, as if to say I am wounded already.
Lian—was it really her?—was carrying a Mongol sword and she slapped the knight on the helmet with the flat side of the blade. She was shouting something at him that he didn’t understand, and the man reacted to being struck on the head. He pulled away from her, putting up his hands. She paused, sword still raised for another blow, and he pulled off his helmet.
“I…I know you,” Gansukh said, and the blond-haired knight looked at him. “Haakon.”
“Aye. Aye,” the knight said in the Mongolian tongue. “It’s Haakon. No, wait,” he added as Lian took another step toward him.
“Leave him alone,” she said.
“He’s—”
“Leave him!”
He kept his hands up, nodding that he understood what she was saying.
“I’m…there’s so much blood,” Gansukh said. “You…you stabbed me.” He stared accusingly at Haakon.
Lian rushed at Haakon, and he bent his knees reflexively, dropping into an attack stance, but she only thrust the hilt of her sword at him, gesturing for him to take it. “Find a horse,” she snapped at him. “The others are running. Cnán’s hurt.”
“What about…what about you?”
“Go!” she screamed at him, and then she rushed to Gansukh’s side. He tried to tell her about the hole in his side, the one that was leaking, but she grabbed him and crushed her mouth to his, silencing his words.
Raphael’s horse took an arrow just before he made it back to the hole. He felt its back end skew to the side and then it stumbled. Yanking his feet out of the stirrups, he was ready when it tripped, and he leaped out of the saddle as the horse hit the ground. Raphael’s feet hit the ground first, and he tried to outrun his momentum, but he wasn’t fast enough and his dismount turned into a flailing roll that cost him his helmet. He was up and running a second later, keeping his head down and his eyes locked to Gawain, who was standing beside the protective panel they had made. The longbowman was shooting arrows as quickly as he could pluck them from the ground, and Raphael reached him just as he grabbed and nocked the last one in his line.
“To your left!” Gawain shouted, and Raphael dodged accordingly. He heard Gawain’s bow sing, and felt the ground shake behind him as a horse plowed headfirst into the dirt.
“Burn it,” Gawain shouted, and Raphael watched as Yasper darted toward the edge of one of the many trenches they had dug. The alchemist was carrying a smoldering stick and he thrust it into the trench, which burst into a line of flame. The orange fire raced along the seep-soaked trench toward the covering at the bottom.
The ground was shaking beneath him, the tremors of approaching Mongol horses. Arrows were falling all around, and many were smacking into his maille like angry bees hurling themselves against him. An arrow creased the back of his neck, and he felt blood start to flow along the collar of his gambeson.
The fire in the trench danced happily as if it knew what was coming next. Yasper had thrown himself down on the ground, covering his head as best he could. Raphael meant to do the same, but an arrow caught him high in the upper back, near the armpit, and it twisted him around. It might have gone through his maille; he thought he could feel a tiny pinprick of an itch in that spot. As he turned, the bottom of the hill came into his field of view and he saw the red flame race down and disappear beneath the canvas cover.
He would never forget what happened next. It was burned forever onto the inside of his eyelids.
The dirty canvas rippled and black lines squiggled across it, reminding him of the protective shield on the siege tower as he and his young brothers had charged the Muslim watchtower in the center of the Nile during the siege of Damietta. Barely blooded, so young, and crouching beneath a shield that was covered with Greek fire. The canvas tent over the seep pool turned back in an another instant and then vanished as a pillar of flame erupted from beneath it. The fire, burning bright and hot as the sun itself, leaped skyward, transforming as it flew into a giant bird with wings of a thousand flaming feathers. It screamed as it was born, a righteous howl of hellish fury, and then it wailed again, a heart-rending scream of terror as it died as quickly as it had been born. The ground shook as the earth tried valiantly to thrust this burning phoenix away from it, and the hole belched a geyser of black stones in the wake of the phoenix’s brief resurrection.
Raphael covered his eyes, but it was too late. He had seen the bird. He had seen the branching pattern of its iridescent wings. He had looked upon its face and it had looked back at him, knowing him. It had looked into his soul, and he screamed in horror when it told him what it found there.