June, 1540 A.D.

Mercedes Lackey Eric Flint Dave Freer

Much Fall Of Blood

A plain on the south bank of the Lower Danube

The ochre dust hung in the air, heavy with the smell of sweating horses. It muffled the yarring yells and the thunder of hooves, a little. But only a little. Kildai's willow-root club sent the head flying, bouncing away from the pack of riders, shouldering their horses forward. It hooked, by the hair, in a small bush. Kildai's pony was smaller than the average Mongol horse, but very quick on her feet. Good on her turns, and she could accelerate. He broke from the crush and leaned out of the saddle to club the head onward toward the post.

Just before he was knocked out of the saddle, he saw Gatu Orkhan talking to a man in a hooded cloak on the high dais. It was odd how some moments were caught like a fly in the amber of memory-perfectly preserved when all else faded and decayed. A strand of lank blond hair hung out of that hood. The native Vlachs-some of them at least-had the occasional blond head. As did the Rus. But what would either be doing here, at the great kurultai, on the high dais? The Mongol traditions of their forefathers might be dying away in everyday life, here in the lands that remained to the Golden Horde, but not on this occasion. That was not a place for a slave. Not now.

The sight distracted Kildai even in middle of the great game.

Being knocked senseless was the smallest price you could pay for that. But he would swear that something had actually knocked him out of the saddle. Something that felt like a great hand.

Mercedes Lackey Eric Flint Dave Freer

Much Fall Of Blood

Catiche, Slovenia

Count Mindaug had achieved the remarkable. Not only had he escaped Jagiellon and found other-admittedly dangerous-protection, but he had spirited his library away too.