Mongolia 1245Father Michael Curran, Special Vatican Envoy from His Holiness the Pope Innocent IV to the People of the Felt Walls, stared at the waves of oncoming riders and did what he could to keep the fear from showing on his face. Not that there wasn't good reason to be afraid. They were at least three days' hard ride from Karakorum, where Guyuk, the grandson of Genghis Khan and the current ruler of the Mongol Empire, held court over his subjects. In the years since the death of the Great Khan, the empire had fractured. More and more tribes were returning to the old ways, fighting and competing against one another. The Naimans were one such group and Curran's party was deep in a contested area that the Naimans claimed as their own. The distance from the capital meant that no one was going to come charging in to save them. To make matters even worse, the honor guard that Guyuk had sent with Curran for this trip into the Hentiyn Nuruu Mountains numbered less than thirty men, while the Naiman warriors currently charging their position appeared to number in the hundreds.
As the enemy swept forward, Curran could see that each man stood high in the stirrups, guiding his mountain pony with his knees, leaving his hands free to use his bow with the unerring accuracy that had made the Mongol army so feared. True, these were not the famed warriors of the Great Khan—just a lesser khan's raiding party— but he knew they were deadly just the same. The thunder of their horses' hooves mixed with the screeching wind that whipped across the open plain, and the priest no longer had to wonder what hell might sound like. Now he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt. Hell was the uncanny silence as the enemy thundered toward them. Hell was the thrumming of the enemy's arrows as they filled the sky above him, so thick that for a moment he lost sight of the sun itself. Hell was the thump of the shafts as they met leather armor and human flesh. Hell was the cry of the injured and the dying as they fell into the snow around him.
The Naimans harbored years of resentment against the unification brought to the plains by the army of Genghis Khan some fifty years before. They had caught the small group in the open, crossing a wide valley between two separate mountain peaks, leaving them with few places to run and little to use as cover of any sort. Curran had to admit to himself that it was a marvelous piece of strategic planning. Volke, their group's leader, had been too confident in his belief that no one would dare to attack a party under Guyuk's protection. But the harsh winter and the lure of overwhelming odds had apparently filled the enemy with daring. Curran knew the old adage usually held true: desperate men will do desperate things.
Having been forced into a desperate move, it now seemed that this group of raiders was determined to make certain that no survivors were left behind to report their audacity to the ruling khan.
Volke shouted something in Mongolian, but the wind whipped his words away before Curran could make sense of them. It didn't matter, though; they hadn't been directed at him, anyway, but at the other Mongol warriors in their small group. As one, the soldiers around him wheeled about and sent their sturdy ponies charging for the mountain pass they'd emerged from a half hour before. The priest would have been left behind if one of the warriors hadn't snatched the reins of Curran's horse out of his hands as he thundered by, forcing him to follow suit.
As they raced away, Curran fought to remember the man's name.
Tamaton?
Tanguyuk?
Tamarak!
That was it. Tamarak was one of the older, experienced warriors assigned to the expedition by the khan himself and ordered to personally see to the safety of the envoy. Curran had resented it at first, seeing Tamarak's presence as a sign that the Mongols still did not trust him. But now he was thankful to have the man at his side.
Curran knew that if they could reach the pass behind them, they could lose their pursuers in the mazelike passage across the mountains or take shelter in the many caves lining the passage walls. Either one would more than likely grant them the time and safety they needed to regroup and restore their wounded. If they could hold off until dark, they might then be able to sneak across the valley without the Naimans being the wiser.
Curran's group was tired—they'd been traveling for days already—while the enemy appeared to be fresh. It was obvious to Curran that the enemy had the advantage. That didn't seem to matter to these hardy warriors, though. They would either succeed or die trying, apparently; and for the first time since he had come to live among them, the priest felt a sense of admiration for their tenacity and sheer courage in the face of overwhelming odds.
Their horses thundered on through the snow while the enemy closed inexorably from behind.
After a time, it was obvious to everyone, even Curran, that they were not going to make it. Volke shouted again and the small entourage turned to fight.
Curran watched their pursuers come on with fear in his heart but with courage on his face.
As the enemy closed the distance, they split ranks, sending half of their forces sweeping to the left while the remainder went right, enveloping Curran's small group in a wide circle two ranks deep, with each rank moving in opposite directions. From out of those ranks the arrows came again. Curran watched Volke topple from the saddle with more than a dozen black shafts jutting from his now-still form. Kaisar and Jelme, his senior lieutenants, met the same fate seconds later. In moments, the enemy had effectively stripped the small band of its most experienced leaders. Curran had no doubt that the tactic had been intentional. Cutting off the head to kill the body was a strategy as old as war itself.
If someone didn't do something soon, they were all going to die, the priest realized. Apparently the men around him felt the same way, for there was a sudden shout from one of the more experienced warriors and the troops spurred their horses and charged the enemy. Trained to act with the others, Curran's horse followed suit. The Jesuit was about to meet the enemy whether he wanted to or not.
"Lord, protect your humble servant," the priest whispered under his breath as he drew his sword and went to meet his death with his head held high in the manner of the Savior he revered.
The two groups slammed together with thunderous force. Men shouted, horses screamed, and Curran found himself slashing to and fro with his weapon, striking out at anything within reach, fighting for his life just as savagely as the enemy sought to relieve him of it.
For just a moment, he thought they might win. Their sudden concentrated attack had surprised the enemy and they burst through the first rank without stopping, surging forward, but in the next moment a heavily mailed fist holding the pommel of a sword smashed into Curran's face, toppling him from his saddle. He struck the ground hard, and as he lay there unmoving, the wind knocked out of him, he felt a stabbing pain in his left leg. Curran screamed in agony. Darkness loomed and then swept over him like the tide.
Having fully expected to die when he'd lost his grip on his horse, Curran was surprised to regain consciousness sometime later. With consciousness, however, came an awareness of the pain his body was experiencing and surprise quickly turned to regret. In that first instant, he was convinced that death would have been a better alternative to what he was currently experiencing. He screamed aloud against the pain and passed out again.
The second time he regained consciousness, the cold had wrapped him in its chilly embrace, dulling the pain to a minor roar, and he was actually able to open his eyes.
He immediately wished he hadn't.
The dead were everywhere. They covered the ground in front of him and as far as he could see on either side. After stripping the bodies of anything of value, the Naimans had followed the traditional steppes custom and left the dead where they had fallen. Now their eyes stared unseeing and their blood stained the snow in thick patches of crimson-black. The bodies of his companions mingled haphazardly with the corpses of the horses on which they'd ridden, neither man nor beast being spared in the midst of the fray.
He shifted his position and a lance of roaring pain shot up from his left leg and threatened to plunge him into unconsciousness once more. He fought against it, knowing that if he succumbed, he'd most likely freeze to death.
When the dizziness receded and he could think clearly again, he looked down at his leg. He turned away almost immediately. The sight of the dark shaft of an arrow jutting up from his thigh and his own blood staining the snow was almost too much for him to bear.
He couldn't ignore it, though. He was going to have to deal with it, and soon, if only to keep from bleeding to death. Steeling himself, and taking a deep breath to keep from vomiting, he looked down at his leg again.
The arrow had hit him high on the back of the thigh and had gone all the way through his leg at an angle, exiting about an inch above the knee. He could see that the edges of the head were barbed, which meant he wasn't going to be able to pull the arrow back in the direction it had entered. Nor could he remove it the other way; the feathered shaft would prevent it.
He was going to have to break the shaft on one side or the other and then pull the rest of it free.
The very thought of it made him shudder.
Why bother? he wondered. Even if he could get the shaft out and stop the bleeding, he was only trading one method of dying for another. There was no way he could travel in his condition, and if nightfall caught him here on the plain he was sure to freeze to death. It seemed God had saved him from a quick, sure death only to fall victim to a long, lingering one.
But Curran was not the type to go down without a fight.
The wind was picking up and the snowfall that had dogged their march earlier that morning had started anew. Never mind the brut...
