“Steady girl.” I spoke softly and caressed her neck, knowing she understood. Ayesha had been ridden in many a tilting and many a duel. She pranced eagerly, nostrils dilated, her delicate head bobbing as she tasted the bit.
The word was given, and we started forward. Despite my talk, which had been for the purpose of forcing a fight, I knew I was in trouble. Prince Yury towered several inches above me in height, and his long arms gave him a reach advantage. He was a powerful man with every appearance of the fighter.
His sword was ready. Suddenly his horse gathered speed, and of her own volition, Ayesha did as well. Charging, we swept at each other, but when we neared I simply parried his blow and slipped past.
An angry shout went up at my evasion, but wheeling Ayesha, I lunged at Prince Yury. Yury had turned, but despite the fact she had been ridden all morning, Ayesha was the quicker. My blade swung and was only partly parried, and Yury was off-balance in the saddle. There was a moment when I could have killed him, and it was seen by everyone.
For an instant there was stark fear in Yury’s eyes, for he was powerless to prevent a thrust, and I was in position. However, the fight would have been over, and it was time I was battling for. Contemptuously, I lowered my blade. “You shall not die so easily,” I said to him, and circled my horse.
There was a cheer from the crowd, who misunderstood my gesture, and then he was upon me again. We fought desperately, thrusting, parrying, circling. Once, Ayesha almost fell, his heavier horse pushed against her, and I reined her swiftly away. Seeing his advantage, Yury charged me, and only Ayesha’s swift turn prevented our being run down.
Our blades clashed, and disengaging, I thrust suddenly. I felt my point tear cloth, and then his blade struck me on the skull, and my helmet rang with the force of the blow. Rushing his horse into me, he struck viciously. Off-balance I fell from my horse.
As my body struck the dust, a tremendous shout went up, and he wheeled his horse to ride me down. However, rolling free, I sprang to my feet, and as he leaned to strike me, I threw myself against the side of the charging horse and under his sword arm.
It was such a feat as I had practiced many times with the acrobats and bareback riders who would mount and dismount from running horses. Catching the pommel and Yury himself, I swung to his horse’s back behind him. With one arm across his throat, I brought my sword up, but his horse wheeled suddenly, and we were both thrown to the ground.
Thanks to my acrobatic training I was instantly up, but badly shaken, and there was blood on my face from somewhere. Yury got up, but he had several steps to recover his sword, and the wild Petchenegs yelled angrily for me to kill him. This time I did not delay because of gallantry or an attempt to prolong the battle, I simply lacked the strength to go after him and needed to catch my wind.
He caught up his sword and came for me, all the fire and fury gone now. He was cold and deadly, meaning to kill me now with no further nonsense.
How long had the fight lasted? Only seconds, perhaps, certainly no more than a few minutes, but I no longer dared think of simply delaying. To survive at all, I must fight only to win.
He came at me, feinted and lunged. Springing away, I moved in again quickly and went for his face, narrowly missing. We circled, our blades touching, almost caressing, then mine leaped past his thrust hard. The point took him in the chest but at the end of my lunge. I felt his chain mail give before that lovely Toledo steel, and recovering, I saw a spot of blood on his chest only inches to the right of his heart.
We circled, and then he drove at me fiercely, demanding all my skill to ward off his attack. My blade lowered, and he drew his blade back for one tremendous swing, and there flashed into my mind how my father had once saved his life in a battle aboard ship. Dropping to one knee, as his weight came forward over his right leg and his blade started down, I thrust upward into his throat.
At the last it was more his doing than mine, for his descending blade and the force of his swing were enough to send my blade through his throat and into his skull. He gave a choking scream, and his sword fell, banging on my helm. His body twisted as he fell, pulling the blade from my grip, but springing up, and with a tremendous jerk, I wrenched it free.
The old Khan rode out to me as I stood gasping for breath, holding my bloody sword.
“It was well fought.”
“I owe him an apology,” I said. “He was a brave fighter and a strong man. I but spoke to gain time.”
“You are honest.”
“You gave me opportunity; I give you truth.”
Abaka Khan had ridden up beside the old warrior. “This is my son,” the Khan said. “He was long from my side.”
“A strong son makes a father proud.”
There was a wineskin on the saddle of Abaka Khan. I indicated it.
“Abaka Khan, I once gave you a drink. I would have one now.”
He took the wineskin from his saddle, and I held it high, before drinking. “Yol bolsun!” I shouted. “May there be a road!”
“Yo lbolsun!” The shout went up from a thousand throats, and holding the wineskin high, I squirted the wine into my throat, parched from battle.
Handing the skin back to him, I said, “It was a good drink. Remind me that I owe you one.”
The old Khan pointed. “There is your horse. Ride to your company and tell them we come with the rising sun, and what they have we will take.”
Stepping into the saddle, I faced them, the short, powerful old man and his tall, slender son. “I shall tell them, and we shall meet you, but many of your men will die.”
“Where there is gold”—he shrugged his heavy shoulders—”there is blood.”
Turning my horse, I lifted my blade in salute, for they were good men and strong, but before this hour came again many would lie with their throats choked on the dryness of death.
“Yol bolsun!” I shouted, and the hills rang with their reply. “Yol bolsun!”
40
The low shore that is the north shore of the Black Sea between the mouths of the Dnieper and the Dniester is cut far inland by a number of drowned valleys that form inlets in the flood plains of the coast. There are no forests there, only clumps of willow, black poplar, and European alder with some mixture of filbert, maple, pear, and apple. Wild grape vines climb into the highest branches of the trees.
The drowned valleys form long narrow bays or estuaries into which the rivers empty. Into one of these emptied the Bug, the river that had been our companion on our trek to the sea.
Between two of these estuaries we prepared to meet the attack of the Petchenegs, forerunners of the great Mongol tribes that even now were stirring restlessly on the far-off steppes of Asia.
Behind us were the waters of the Black Sea, on either side of us a fork of an estuary. The Hansgraf directed preparations for defense, and each of us knew it would be a fight to the death. There could be no retreat, and no escape unless the boats arrived. The forces arrayed against us outnumbered us by ten to one, at least.
On our right, beginning close along the shore of the inlet was a dense thicket of brush, its millions of branches tightly interwoven and overgrown by grape vines. This barrier, which the Hansgraf immediately elected to use, was several hundred yards in width and extended almost a quarter of a mile across the neck of land we had chosen to defend.
For horsemen this was an impenetrable barrier and a trap for all who might attempt it. There was a narrow stretch of sandy beach between the thicket and the water, and there we piled driftwood to make a barrier. Beyond this we sowed some hundreds of caltrops. These were made of metal or hardened wood so devised that one of their four points always stood up, a deadly defense against cavalry charges.
The remaining area we must defend was protected in part by a thick wood, a tangle of willow, poplar, and grape vines, along with some thorny brush whose name I did not know. Branches were cut from trees and wedged between other trees to make a continuous fence. Inside of this and outside as well were set up sharp-pointed sticks of all sizes, their ends thrust into the ground on an angle that faced a charge.