Rutger’s chest tightened, and his throat worked heavily. “I wish I shared your faith, Master Emmeran,” he wheezed. “But I have seen too many battles that were thought won—” An icy lance of pain ripped through his upper chest, and he staggered. He tried to draw a breath, but his lungs refused to work.
“Master Rutger...” Emmeran began.
Rutger stared at his left arm. His entire body felt cold, except for his arm, which burned with such heat that he thought it would burst into flame. His legs quivered and he fell to his knees. Streaks of white light flashed across his field of vision. He stared up at the Hospitaller, trying to make sense of the shadows moving across the man’s face.
A white light bloomed behind Emmeran and his horse, and Rutger blinked, tears starting in the corners of his eyes. “No,” he croaked with the last breath in his throat. It can’t be. Don’t take me, he pleaded. I am not ready.
The light erupted, an explosion of thousands of white petals flying outward like a snowstorm falling upward, soft, downy flakes rising up to Heaven. In the center of the light, Rutger saw entwined branches and—
The exhausted heart of Týrshammar’s quartermaster finally stopped.
Onghwe broke the momentary respite in the duel by throwing his sword at Zug. With a shout, Kim dashed forward, but the Khan fled, dashing back toward his enormous platform of pillows and furs.
Zug twisted his body, evading the well-thrown blade, though the tip of the weapon raked across his right ear. Blood began to flow, and tiny pricks of pain nipped at his skull as if he was being stung by an extremely angry and persistent hornet.
Onghwe started throwing pillows as he reached his bed, and the Flower Knight adroitly knocked the first aside with his spear, let another bounce off his chest, and ducked under a third. He kept closing on the Khan throughout, and after the third missile, he thrust his spear at the Khan’s legs. The Khan, who had been digging through the layers of furs and pillows, found what he was looking for. As he pulled his legs back, getting out of range of Kim’s attack, he twisted his body, and levered up the long pole that had been hidden beneath the opulent layers.
It was a guan do, similar to Zug’s naginata, but the blade was shorter, thicker, and had a notch and a spike along the back edge. Onghwe whipped the pole-arm around, and Kim, having some experience fighting against this weapon, knocked Onghwe’s first strike aside and thrust his own spear point over the top of the Khan’s haft. Onghwe snapped the haft around, rotating it over Kim’s thrust, and shoved the spear aside. He flicked the guan do blade, and Kim leaned back, letting the curved edge of the pole-arm blade whisk past his face.
Onghwe pressed the attack, flicking the guan do in tight circles, forcing Kim back as the Flower Knight blocked and evaded the flashing blade. Kim gave ground readily and Zug approached from the Khan’s right, flicking his own weapon at the Khan. The Khan adjusted his technique, and the blade of his guan do became a darting, flashing bird that leaped from both Zug’s and Kim’s weapons without pause. Zug was content to be patient, keeping the pressure on the Khan, knowing the other man could not keep up this incredible display of dexterity for long. Eventually he would tire.
The Khan’s blade rebounded from his naginata, slashing low toward Kim, who had started to drift closer to the Khan. The Flower Knight leaped into the air, avoiding the guan do’s blade, and at the apogee of his leap he thrust his spear forward in one hand, and the point pierced Onghwe’s shoulder.
The Khan snarled, and Kim barely got the haft of his spear up in time to block Onghwe’s counterattack. Kim landed off balance, and the Khan’s attack sent him reeling. He drew back quickly, seeking distance from the angry Khan, and he would have been in trouble if Zug had not leaped forward with a whirling slash of his own.
The Khan flicked the guan do up, catching Zug’s blade, and then slammed the blade of the guan do down, sliding it along Zug’s haft, aiming for the Nipponese man’s hands. Zug shifted his arms, twirling the naginata as he forced the guan do wide and retaliating with another stroke. Onghwe jerked his left hand up, catching the shaft of the naginata just inside the metal blade, and he responded with a similar slash of his own. Zug countered and closed the distance, letting his weapon fall back against his body. He snapped the shortened end up, smashing Onghwe on the side of the head.
Onghwe’s head snapped to the side, and he stumbled. Zug stepped back, giving himself some measure, and flicked his naginata blade up in a vicious swing. Onghwe tried to parry it but only managed to deflect the naginata enough that it glanced off the upper portion of his left arm. Zug felt the blade bite into flesh, and when the Khan reeled away, he saw blood soaking the sleeve of his robe.
“Your dogs smell blood,” he snarled, and he heard Kim make a howling noise, as if he were summoning a pack of wild hounds.
The cry was picked up by other voices, and all three men paused.
At the back of the tent, the Rose Knight was no longer alone. He had been joined by the other knight—the one who had helped with the cages—and a familiar giant of a man, who kept up his howl longer than the others. Braced in his hands was a long club, topped with a heavy ball of rough stone.
Madhukar grinned as his howl trailed off. “Save a little bit for me,” he said, hefting his club.
Kim’s shout was the only thing that saved Zug from the Khan’s sudden attack. Snarling, Onghwe rallied, lunging forward with the guan do. Zug flinched, and the blade sliced across the front of his right shoulder.
An inch higher and the blade would have cut his throat.
The Khan tried to seize the advantage, but Kim was suddenly there, at Zug’s side, aiming a high thrust at the Khan’s face. Onghwe retreated, smashing the Flower Knight’s spear aside, and Zug saw an opening.
He brought the naginata around low, and flicked it up, beneath the Khan’s guard. The blade passed between the Khan’s legs, and he rotated his wrists and pulled up as the Khan danced back, fleeing from his weapon. He felt the blade tug as it sliced through cloth and flesh.
Kim pressed forward, his spear point darting high and low at the Khan. Onghwe parried Kim’s attacks easier, but his stance was unsteady. A heavy sheen of sweat covered his face.
He knew he had been cut.
Zug prowled to the left, staying just out of measure but close enough that he could spring forward should an opportunity present itself. Kim continued his flurry of attacks, forcing the Khan to defend himself. Forcing him to keep moving, to keep putting weight on his injured leg.
The inside of the Khan’s leg was covered with blood, and he was leaving a bloody trail behind him as he staggered across the rugs.
Onghwe smashed Kim’s spear aside with a heavy swing of his guan do, and, with a heavy snarl twisting his features, he lunged at the Flower Knight, thrusting his pole arm straight at Kim’s face. The guan do didn’t have a pointed end, and the only way the strike could hurt Kim was if the Flower Knight dodged to the side but didn’t block or retreat, allowing the Khan to slash sideways. Kim twitched his head to the side as he leaned forward, and the guan do passed within a hair’s breadth of his head. He wrapped his left arm around the haft of the Khan’s pole-arm and trapped the weapon against his shoulder.
It was a dangerous move, as the blade of the guan do was poised right behind his head. The Khan would only have to rotate the blade in order to get the edge against Kim’s skull.
But he never got the chance.
As soon as Kim trapped the Khan’s weapon, Zug leaped forward, bringing the naginata around in a powerful swing. The blade sheared through the Khan’s right arm and continued into his chest, where it stopped against his ribs. With a sharp tug, Zug pulled it free, and the Khan gasped, blood spattering from his mouth. Zug whirled the naginata around his head and with a reverse stroke, separated Onghwe’s head from his body.
“It is done,” Zug said quietly.
The Khan’s body lay twitching on the rug-covered floor of his pavilion. His head had rolled a few paces away, and it stared at th
e rug, its mouth hanging open.
Kim hefted the Khan’s guan do, comparing it to the guard’s spear he had been using. It had been a long time since he had used one of these Chinese pole-arms. It was a slashing and cutting weapon, not at all like the spear.
It felt good in his hand.
“I don’t suppose they are going to let us walk out of here,” he said.
Zug offered him a tiny smile, the first sign of humor that Kim had seen from him in a long time. “No,” Zug said, “They are going to be somewhat angry with us.”
“Should we meet them outside?” Kim asked. “Would you rather die under an open sky?”
“I would,” Zug agreed. He bowed, sweeping a hand toward the entrance of the pavilion. “After you, my friend.”
“It has been an honor to fight beside you, Zugaikotsu No Yama.”
For a moment, Zug seemed to be on the verge of saying something else and then he swallowed the words. “The honor has been mine, Kim Alcheon,” he said.
Kim kept the spear, figuring he could throw it at the first Mongol who came at them. Weapons in both hands, he walked unhurriedly toward the pavilion’s entrance where Madhukar and the pair of Rose Knights were waiting for them.
“I missed the fun,” Madhukar sighed.
“Oh, the fun is not over yet,” Kim laughed, slapping the taller man lightly on the arm. “Come, let us go tell the Mongols what has befallen their Khan. I’m sure that will provide more opportunities for your club.”
He was going to die a free man; they all were. It was a fitting end.
Kim shoved aside the heavy flaps of the tent and stepped outside, surveying the field outside the Khan’s pavilion. The air was filled with smoke, and the stench of blood and death greeted him immediately. There was less activity than he had expected, but there were still enough Mongols surrounding the tent to present rather insurmountable odds.
“Ho, warriors of the Mongol Empire,” he called out, making sure he got all of their attention. “Here I am.”
“Here we are.” Zug emerged from the pavilion to stand next to him. The others stood beside them. Zug held up the Khan’s severed head. “And here’s your Khan.” He dropped it on the ground and kicked it toward the mob of Mongols. “His dogs got the better of him.”
An angry surge raced through the Mongols and spears, swords, and clubs were all brought to bear on the pair. Kim didn’t even bother to count the number of deadly weapons pointed in their direction. He looked and laughed. Not at the Mongol’s reaction to Zug’s contemptuous gesture, but at what he saw rapidly approaching the rear of the Mongol mob.
The knights of the West.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Congregabo Te
The day was nearly over before Ocyrhoe found them.
Ferenc and Father Rodrigo had stopped on the side of the road, apparently for a meal. Father Rodrigo’s satchel was lying flat open, the cup—unusually brilliant in the late afternoon sun—sitting in the center as if it had just been unveiled. Father Rodrigo himself towered over Ferenc, speaking loudly and rapidly in Magyar. Ferenc’s body language was that of a person either in shock or grieving, seemingly paralyzed by Father Rodrigo’s fervor.
Ocyrhoe dismounted from the horse she had been given by the Emperor—whose stables were not as bereft of suitable mounts as he had intimated. Ferenc spotted her first. He made no move to rise and greet her, but only struggled to offer her a weak smile.
“Your Eminence,” she called to Father Rodrigo, and her use of the honorific broke through whatever fog was clouding his brain. His mouth snapped shut, and he stood still, staring at her and blinking, as if he could not quite remember how he knew her. Ocyrhoe put her hand over her heart, squeezing her fingers into a fist to hide from him how much they were trembling. “I greet you as a friend. Do you still recall me as such?”
Father Rodrigo’s mouth worked, as if he were tasting her words. She recalled the meeting with Robert of Somercotes, and how Father Rodrigo had seemed to be in a daze until he had seen Ferenc. Even then, he had only been intermittently engaged with the rest of them.
Ferenc spoke up, and she heard her name mentioned. Father Rodrigo swung his head toward Ferenc like a dog finding a scent, and the priest blinked heavily as he listened to Ferenc’s words. “Yes,” Father Rodrigo said, “I do remember you.” He straightened, his face brightening, losing its slackness as he tightened his mouth into a smile. “Have you come to join us on our crusade?”
Ocyrhoe glanced at the cup sitting on the satchel. It had lost some of its luster, as if the sun—which had been previously shining on it—had slipped behind a cloud. It was, as Frederick had mentioned, a silver cup, and not one of gold. She shivered, feeling nothing but apprehension about the cup. “What... what crusade?” she inquired, using the question to cover her nervousness. To give him more time to remember her because she was still not sure he did.
The first day she had ever laid eyes on the priest had been at the market near the Porta Tiburtina, and he had stared at her as if he knew her. His gaze had been wild and feverish, and while he seemed to recognize nothing else, he had known her. Now, his eyes were unclouded by fever, but he kept peering at her as if he thought she were someone else. So little has changed since that day, she thought, and yet so much too.
“The cedars,” the priest said, his voice slurring. “I must save the cedars.”
Ocyrhoe glanced around, not seeing the sorts of trees he was talking about. “Father Rodrigo,” she said softly. “This crusade is—”
“What?” Father Rodrigo answered with a harsh, mocking laugh—unlike any sound she’d heard him make before. “I am the Summus Pontifex Ecclesiae Universalis. I am bound to serve God, and He has revealed His plan to me. To me. Not Fieschi. Not any of the others. I was the one who carried His message from Mohi. I was the one who suffered. I am the one who is strong enough to carry it farther, and that is what I intend to do.”
“Why?” Ocyrhoe asked in a plaintive voice. She wandered closer to Ferenc, resting a hand on his shoulder. He stirred beneath her, a shudder running through his body. “You want Ferenc and I to join you on this crusade, but where are you taking us? What are we supposed to do?”
“You are supposed to serve God. We are going to drive out the infidels.”
“How?”
He gestured at the cup which brightened visibly as he paid attention to it. “The Grail will provide a way,” he said thickly. His hand shook.
Ocyrhoe recalled Léna’s words back in the room Father Rodrigo had stayed in at the Castel Sant’Angelo. What you need will be offered to you, in unexpected ways and times. Father Rodrigo had the same faith. But she and Frederick had talked about faith too, in relation to the Grail. In a flash, she understood why Frederick had talked her into chasing after Father Rodrigo. Her faith in something else might be strong enough to withstand the Grail.
Her faith in her sisters.
She walked past Ferenc and knelt on the ground beside Father Rodrigo’s satchel. “Will it?” she asked, peering up at him. She reached out her hand to touch the cup.
“Don’t touch it,” Father Rodrigo shrieked. He lunged for her, meaning to shove her away from the cup, and she spun away from him. She tumbled across the satchel, knocking the cup over.
Father Rodrigo loomed over her, his face blotted with shadows. “You will not take what is mine! You will not!”
She raised her hands defensively, alarmed by the change that had come over him. The cup rolled away from her, and she saw that it was nothing more than a plain silver cup. Identical to the one Frederick had drunk from during the meal they had shared. She kicked it and it bounced across the dry ground.
“God owns me. Only an agent of the Devil would try to take what belongs to God,” Father Rodrigo shouted as he scrambled for the cup.
Ferenc finally shook himself free of whatever torpor had held him in place, and he grabbed Father Rodrigo, keeping the priest from reaching the cup. “Father Rodrigo,” he pleaded, trying to get the
priest’s attention.
Father Rodrigo whirled, his hand striking Ferenc across the face. “Stand not in the way of God, heretic,” he screamed. “Vade post me Satana!”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
The Flight of the Khan
The shaman’s saddle was too narrow for Ögedei, and he perched on it awkwardly, half sliding off the side of the pony as it ran as fast as its short legs could manage. It was a bony animal too, and it ran with a stiff-legged gait that made Ögedei’s teeth clack together noisily.
Chucai’s powerful stallion was already pulling away from him, and the Khagan wanted to shout after his advisor. How dare Chucai leave him? But his own nauseating fear provided the answer: Chucai wanted to live too.
He was running away. He could not pretend otherwise as he bounced atop a short-haired pony, shrieking at it to run faster. It didn’t matter what sort of image he presented to his men. None of them were pointing and laughing. They were all either dead or engaged in the same headlong rush for safety.
A long arrow caught Chucai’s horse in the side, and it plowed into the ground. Chucai remained in the saddle as it fell, and as Ögedei bounced past, he saw why. The long arrow had gone through Chucai’s leg first, pinning him to the horse.
The last Ögedei saw of Chucai was the other man straining and tugging to get his other leg out from beneath the fallen horse. His beard was tangled too, streaked with blood, and Chucai was shouting something in Chinese, a language Ögedei had not heard him use for a long time.
Ögedei didn’t stop. He kept riding. He told himself it was what Chucai would have insisted he do.
The empire was all that mattered.
As the short-legged pony bounded out of the trees, Ögedei saw two things simultaneously that filled him with equal parts elation and dread. Directly ahead of him, he spotted a number of his Torguud. They were galloping fast toward him, and he raised his arm to signal to them. To me! he willed. Your Khagan requires your aid. And then, a flicker of light drew his eyes left, and he squinted against the sun flashing off metal armor.