Eric Flint: Much Fall Of Blood

"I serve only God," said Borshar, above the hubbub.

"And anyway," said Bortai. "He is protected by his status. No matter what he has done, no matter what he has been accused of, no Mongol may raise a hand to him, let alone cut him down."

"I am not a Mongol. And if you read the words of our writ of safe conduct carefully, you will see that it says we are to defend the tarkhan from outside threats. Those words are specifically used."

"So?" said the Gatu Orkhan.

"So it does not say that I am obliged to defend him from myself," said Erik, throwing down a gauntlet. He didn't know if this gesture meant anything to the Golden Horde. But it was the traditional way of issuing a challenge. By the cheers they understood.

"If no one was holding me back," said Tulkun, looking around, "his bodyguard would have to defend him. Although we despise the son of Dishmaq."

The Ilkhan's men suddenly found themselves being held by grinning Golden Horde men."You cannot spill blood at the kurultai," said Bortai. "And a foreigner spilling the blood of one of our blood…"

"We'll wrestle," said Erik.

The crowd cheered deafeningly. Erik had gathered it was an even more popular entertainment here than in Iceland.

The tarkhan came forward. "You son of Iblis. Your death will be a suitable lesson. And our Lord has desired it my dreams. Besides, you insulted me."

Tulkun said "Erik. He trained at Alamut."

An assassin.

Bortai felt her blood run cold.

Erik was a great fighter. She'd seen that. But no foreigner had skills at the noble art compared to the Mongol. And this Borshar would have been taught to kill in many ways.

Erik loosened his sword belt. "Can some of you help me out of my armor?"

Erik knew enough about Alamut, the assassins castle, to be wary. But Borshar was not equally wary about the Knights of the Holy Trinity, or Icelandic wrestlers.

Erik changed that quite quickly. He threw Borshar hard over his shoulder. The man from Alamut rolled with practiced ease. But he did not come forward with such unwariness the second time. And Erik noticed he was flexing his fingers and that each nail had been sharpened. Borshar plainly wanted him to notice. "There is a death on each nail, dog. The peacock angel waits for you."

As Erik expected, he tried to kick Erik in the crotch. Erik helped his foot in a neat arc upwards. And then the fight was on.

Erik smelled the sudden stench of magic and slapped the assassin, with cupped hands, simultaneously on both ears. Erik didn't quite know why he'd chosen to do that, but the miasma of magic-use cleared.

Erik was limited in that Borshar's nails really might have a poison on them. And he did not want to make the man bleed.

Within two minutes, though, he knew how it would end-and by the growing look on his face, first of surprise and then of desperation, so did Borshar.

The Alamut assassin was very skilled at unarmed fighting, true. Probably even more skilled than Erik, in terms of sheer technique.

But skill and technique are not all there was to fighting-fighting of any kind, much less wrestling. There was also strength, stamina, and most of all the near-instant reactions of a body that trained constantly.

Borshar was good. But he had done little exercise since leaving Jerusalem. Erik trained every day, for several hours, and had for many years now. There was probably no man alive who was in better fighting condition than he was-and if there was such a man, it certainly wasn't Borshar.

There could only be one end. Again, Borshar was just that little bit too slow in his reactions, and again Erik slammed him to the ground. When he came up, the Alamut assassin drew a hidden knife from his boot.

The audience hissed. Bortai cried out a warning. But Erik had been expecting something like this. He evaded the knife thrust, seized Borshar under the arm and threw him over his shoulder. Then, followed the half-stunned Borshar to the ground and slid both arms under the assassin's armpits. In an instant, Erik had his hands clasped behind Borshar's neck and heaved him to his feet.

The huge audience was silent. That was a deadly hold and they all knew it-provided the man using it was strong enough.

Erik was immensely strong. Much stronger that he looked, with his lean frame. Not quite as strong as Manfred, true. But quite strong enough.

His muscles heaved. Borshar's eyes seemed as wide as saucers. The assassin's arms flailed about uselessly, the knife slipped out of his grasp.

There came an audible crack. Erik heaved again, just to make sure the spine was severed, and then let Borshar's lifeless body fall to the ground.

There was no blood. Not a drop.

The other thing there was none of was Gatu and his inner circle. They too had realized soon enough how the match must end, and had used the distraction of the fight to make an escape.

As soon as someone realized this the meeting broke up in chaos. Men ran for their horses.

Erik, standing panting a little, asked Tulkun just what was happening. "They fear that he will try to mobilize his personal guard into an attack. They are all that is available to him, because most clan heads are here. Even from the Blue Horde. And he will have almost no support now."

Erik sighed. "It never ends. Give me a hand with my armor, would you?"

Erik was about two-thirds re-armored, when Manfred and the knights came riding up. "We're invited to join the hunt, Erik. According to Bortai, that's a signal honor. We brought your horse."

So, tired or not, Erik found himself riding out that afternoon as part of the Mongol hunt.

Only the prey, it seemed, had kept a river-barge on standby.

With only one candidate the election of the new khan was rapidly accomplished. Also, even if the Knights had been included in the hunt, it was not an affair for non-Mongols.

By midmorning the next day, a summons came for Manfred and Eberhart. Erik stood up to accompany Manfred, but the guard-captain of the escort arban respectfully shook his head. "No Tortoise Orkhan," he said. "It is only an invitation to Manfred Khan and his advisor. They say that he can take only one knight-a Ritter Von Stael-with him as a bodyguard."

"They think you're dangerous, Erik," said Manfred, grinning. "Serves you right for killing notorious assassins."

"Who is going to translate for you?"

"Lady Bortai will be there," said the Mongol guard-captain.

Erik had to be happy with that. He rather wished she was here with him instead.

He had to wait several hours before Manfred and Eberhart came back. In a roaring good humor. A little drunk, both of them. "You didn't miss much, Erik," said Manfred in a voice that said exactly the opposite. "The new Great Khan's a crusty old devil, but very generous with his wine. Real wine, especially for us."

Eberhart sat down on the three-legged stool. "The emperor will be very pleased with the outcome of this adventure, anyway. We have powerful new allies, flanking Lithuania."

But Manfred seemed oddly lugubrious, all of a sudden. He shook his head. "I'm not so sure how well this is turning out. Erik is in real trouble."

"Me?" said Erik.

"Yes, you," said Manfred. "The Great Khan of the Golden Horde thinks you're a fine fellow. At least three clans want to adopt you for doing the Golden Horde a favor with the tarkhan Borshar. But the Great Khan has heard that you're trifling with the affections of an innocent, poor young Mongol maiden. He thinks you should approach her kin to ask for her hand or back off."

Erik blushed to the roots of his hair. "Does everyone know my business? I suppose going to see Kildai would be a start. Although, Manfred, I don't know how these things are done among the Golden Horde. I've done something wrong. They all seem to have heard the story of my first greeting to her. And every single one I meet, from grandmothers to generals, seems to be smirking and sniggering."