Free The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) by Mark Teppo Page B

the arena, and once inside the tent, they had forced him to strip out of his armor. As long as he complied with their gestures, they only prodded him with the weighted staves; they did not want to hurt him, and Haakon—biding his time—did not relish the idea of trying to escape with a broken arm or leg. Once he had removed his armor, his arms and legs were bound. A crude leather sack was forced over his head. Only then had he panicked.
    Some creature had perished in the bag; he could smell—and taste—the taint of its blood. He tried to shake the bag off his head, but as he thrashed about, he only managed to force the rough hide more firmly against his mouth and nose. He could hear their laughter, and as he struggled against a black tide that threatened to overwhelm him, their laughter became the last thing he remembered.
    When he came to his senses, he was in a cage, buffeted by the cart as it bounced over muddy ruts of a wide track through the Polish forest. Since then, the only thing that had changed was the landscape. The trees, shorter and fewer in number, gave way to rocky terrain and then gently rolling plains covered with silky, tall grass.
    The caravan was long, though much of his immediate view was blocked by similar cages on the carts in front and behind him—other prizes from Christendom.
    The man in the cart just behind Haakon’s was huge. His red hair and beard overflowed his tiny head, and his body—wedged against the cage’s bars and in the cramped corners—was covered with a layer of fine red hair.
A wrestler
, Haakon thought. He fervently hoped their destination was not another gladiator-style arena. He did not wish to fight this man.
    The captive in the next cart forward lay on his back and did not move overmuch; Haakon suspected he would not survive their journey.
    And so Haakon waited. In time, his body grew accustomed to the shifting motion of the wooden cart; he listened to the Mongols as they shouted at the oxen, slowly absorbing the sounds of their language; he could tell when the cooks shifted from green wood to dried dung for their fires; when it rained, he would roll against the bars of his cage and let the bitter water sluice down his grimy face and into his mouth. He slept as often as the rattling motion of the cart allowed. At night, he studied the sky, trying to find the shapes he knew: the eyes of Thiassi, thrown into the heavens by Odin after the All-Father plucked them from the
jötunn
’s head; the deer (Duneyrr, Duraþrór, Dvalinn, and Dáinn) who cavorted in the branches of the World Tree; and the trio of bright stars that represented the distaff of Frigg. Below the horizon, he watched the passage of the caravan guards, memorizing the schedule of their shifts. Even if an opportunity presented itself to escape, he was not inclined to take it. Where would he run?
    His captors were taking him someplace, for some reason. He’d know soon enough. Perhaps too soon.
    The rhythmic creaking and jolting of cage and cart, the guttural curses of the handler and his assistant, the infrequent lowing of the oxen, the mournful sighs and whispers of wind over the endless grass, filled Haakon’s mind and brought him a strange, contemplative peace. He had many, many hours to remember his training...and to prepare for whatever ordeal awaited him.
    Your enemy will arrive when he is ready.
At Týrshammar, Feronantus had been their
oplo
, and the elder veteran’s style had been much different than Taran’s training at the Legnica chapter house. Haakon had struggled with winning the first crossing of the swords, and while he knew his greatest weakness was committing too heavily to his initial strike, he had not been able to come up with a better tactic.
Learn to wait
, the old master of Týrshammar had told him.
Even though it may seem impossible, when your blood is hammering in your ears andyour hands are eager to bury the sword point in your enemy’s skull, hold back. Watch. Wait!
    For the