He cast about for the wineskin he had brought along. Drinking hadn’t cured his mood, and he had thought that some physical activity might assuage his temper, but the rope had failed him-like so much of this godforsaken place, he thought-and it was time to return to the solace of the wine. There were times when he envied the common man and the ease of his vices. The callings of the just and the righteous could make taking one’s pleasures far more complicated than it needed to be, especially when one was a man of position, tenuous though that might be.
He found the skin and took a long swallow. Staring absently at the far wall, he tried to put aside his frustration and concentrate on what he could accomplish.
An isolated thud interrupted his musing, and he glanced about, listening. The din of training had lessened, and there was a hum of voices growing nearer. One pleaded, and the other responded in clipped tones, swatting the first man’s words aside like they were nothing more than an annoying fly. Dietrich smiled, the wineskin suddenly forgotten in his hands, as recognition of that second voice took hold of him swiftly, pulling his attention away from his frustrated ruminations and into the here and now.
The door to the barn banged open, and two men walked through. One, the pleader, was a new recruit, his spurs freshly earned and his courage not proven. The pale fuzz of his young beard didn’t quite hide the lack of a chin, and his voice grated on Dietrich’s ears even as he profusely apologized.
“Forgive me, Heermeister,” the young knight babbled. “I told him that you were busy at your drills, and that he should take a moment to eat or drink after his lengthy ride-”
The other man brushed aside the complaints with a dismissive cut of his hand that struck the pleader across the mouth. Dietrich knew this one well, and much of his exhaustion and dismal mood were swept away by the sight of those cold and merciless blue eyes.
“Apologies, Heermeister,” Kristaps said. “As this knave says, I have ridden long, but my news is of greater import than the needs of my belly.” He was soaked through, his maille damaged and his tabard stained with blood. He could easily be mistaken for a battlefield wretch, a man-at-arms who had miraculously survived an enemy’s charge by hiding beneath the fallen bodies of his comrades, but one only had to stare at those eyes for a moment to realize that such craven behavior would be incomprehensible to this man.
God has heard my prayers, Dietrich thought. In my hour of need, he grants me salvation.
Sir Kristaps of Steiermark, the First Sword of Fellin. Known to his enemies as Kristaps Red-Hilt and as Volquin’s Dragon. One of the few who survived Schaulen; had it not been for Kristaps, none of them would have lived.
“It is a long ride from Rus,” Dietrich said, coming out of his shock and remembering where Kristaps had been. “You came alone?”
Kristaps nodded, his face suffusing with an intense anger. “Overall, our errand was a success,” he said in a tightly controlled voice. “Later, I will report of what we learned of the land’s defenses. It was in the matter of the Lavra that our efforts were blunted by an ambush on the part of the Shield-Brethren.” His eyes flashed. “Feronantus was there, Heermeister.” He spat the name, and those that followed. “As well as Percival, Raphael, and Eleazar, and several others. Twelve all told, I think. Many of their finest.”
Suddenly, it all made sense to Dietrich. The Shield-Brethren had broken their oath to the Pope: their best were not at the Circus of Swords, minding their duty. Instead, Feronantus had taken a party of his best knights on some errand that had them crossing paths with his own scouts in Rus. What were they doing out there? Did they know what the Livonian order was planning? Were they after some secret of their own? Why had they abandoned Christendom?
There were too many questions, and they tumbled noisily in his head, banging against a gleeful thought that threatened to crush them entirely-a way in which his honor, his order’s honor-could be restored.
He held up his hand, more to silence his own flurry of thinking than to cut Kristaps off. There was nothing he could do about the Shield-Brethren’s betrayal at the moment. There was a more critical opportunity that needed to be seized.
“We have both endured sufferings at the hands of the Shield-Brethren, sufferings that have as yet been unavenged,” he said. “I will hear more of your mission in the Rus, and what you know of these scurrilous Shield-Brethren, but first, I must ask: can you fight?”
Kristaps stared at him, his eyes even colder than before, and for a second Dietrich wondered if he had mistakenly spoken too plainly. It was, ultimately, a foolish question to ask Kristaps; if the man could breathe, he could fight. To question that dedication was rather impolitic of the Heermeister of the order to whom Kristaps had sworn his life and his sword.
Kristaps’s face lost some of its ruddy color, and the hint of a smile curled his cruel mouth. “Of course, Heermeister,” he said. “I slew one of their number with my dagger, and God did not strike me down. In fact, He spared me so that I could return and perform more work for Him.”
There was the fervor and the passion that his current company of men lacked. If Dietrich could have had even fifty men like Kristaps, Schaulen would never have happened, and the pagans of the north would still know their place. He flicked a hand at the foppish knight who had tried to prevent Kristaps’s entrance. “Food and wine,” he commanded.
As the younger warrior scurried away, Dietrich offered his wineskin to Kristaps. “Oh, yes,” he said. “God has a plan, and I think you will find it very satisfying.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Khagan’s caravan failed to move the next morning, and did not appear to be inclined to move the following morning either. As the day wore on and Gansukh watched preparations for yet another feast, he wondered if the Khagan and his retinue would ever reach the Place of the Cliff.
He had spent too many summers and winters in the saddle, and his spirit was restless. This inactivity chaffed at him. The Chinese raiders had been routed, and what few survivors remained had scattered. The scouts had found little evidence that any raider remained within a half day’s ride, but to stay in this valley was the foolhardy decision of a provincial administrator, not a warrior.
In addition, such inactivity meant too many opportunities for the Khagan to slide into a drunken stupor. Any decisive action would be slow in coming.
They had left Karakorum, but too much of the palace had come with them, which is why the routing of the Chinese had to be celebrated. Such idleness was typical of the way courtiers thought: the Mongol Empire is brave and strong; we must have a feast! After as many months as he had spent at court, Gansukh wasn’t sure why he was still surprised at such a ridiculous decision.
Wandering around-waiting-darkened his mood, and on the few occasions when he caught sight of Master Chucai, he could tell the Khan’s advisor was similarly concerned about the delays. Gansukh suspected Chucai would join him if he started whipping each and every ox and draft horse, until every wagon, ger, and lazy courtier was dragged toward Burqan-qaldun.
To keep his gnawing frustration at bay, Gansukh tried to stay alert to Munokhoi’s movements. He knew how brittle his safety was, and even more so, Lian’s. Gansukh continued to haunt the circle of tents near the Khagan’s ger, performing whatever odd job he could find so as to keep an eye and ear turned toward Munokhoi’s comings and goings.