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Vincent had been punctual, but no one had shown up to take the money yet. Half an hour later, he was still waiting on the bridge, a leather sack with one thousand gold coins at his feet. A tenth of an ounce a piece, they were worth about three hundred thousand Earth dollars or euros. Vincent was amazed at how easy it was to count in the new system. Only a few days prior, ounces were alien to him, and he would have said each coin was three point five grams. Now, thinking in miles, yards, feet, and ounces was like a second nature to him.

In the distance, streaks of riders were flowing south. The Mongols were divided into smaller groups. They were well organized, Vincent noted. Mobile units, ready to disperse or regroup in a blink.

As a larger group passed by the tree line, one of the riders detached from the rest and approached the bridge, trotting leisurely. It was a woman of middle age with simple, plain clothes. The only detail that made her stand out was a pair of deer antlers held by a harness behind her back.

"Get behind me," the woman said, offering a hand.

Vincent obeyed. The horse was larger than the Zen Mounts he had noticed before, yet smaller than the War Mounts. Its tag was Horse. Plain and simple. Not even levels. The position was awkward. Vincent did not dare grab the woman by the midriff, so he held on by the back of the saddle while leaning back to avoid being poked in the eyes by the antlers.

"You are a good rider," the woman said.

"I had a good instructor…" Vincent said, the words giddy, the pause sad. Memories assaulted him… His ex, Shelly, had been his instructor, and riding was one of the best things in their relationship.

The woman pulled the reins abruptly, making the horse stop. She turned and looked Vincent in the eyes. Her penetrating, clear blue eyes made Vincent uncomfortable. She shrugged and spurred the horse on. "Don't sit until invited, don't speak until given permission, eat or drink anything offered to you. Address the Great Khan as the Khan, no less, no more. Don’t forget the the, it makes the difference between the Great Khan and the lesser ones."

"And how should I address you?" Vincent asked.

"I'm the Shaman."

Two minutes later, they entered a smaller copse of trees south of the forest where they arrived. A lush carpet was laid on the ground, and a man appearing in his early sixties sat on it, legs underneath him, in front of a low table. The woman dismounted, and Vincent followed. He didn't dare to use Inspect or Insight without permission.

"He's the one?" the man asked in Common tongue.

"Yes, the Khan," the woman said. "He's the Summoned I saw in my vision. My patron showed me he has an important message to deliver."

Vision? Really?

"You heard the Shaman. Speak," the Khan ordered.

Vincent bowed slightly. "May I ask the Khan the purpose of his trip?"

The man frowned. "What a silly question. We are visiting old friends. We say hi, they offer us gifts, and we leave," he gestured toward the town.

The implications were clear. A tour to extract a protection tax. Whoever refused was going to have its crops burnt and villages destroyed. For how long had this been going? Vincent wondered. There were many questions, but for now, he had to assume that paying the tax was the lesser evil.

"The King of Hungary is in Pragwyn," Vincent said. "He's leaving soon with Beauhemia's taxes. If the Khan hurries, the Khan will catch him. He has no more than sixty guards. Fifty-six, now. I killed four of them. I can prove anything I said."

"Let's have tea," the Khan gestured. "You have proof, you say?"

"Yes, the Khan." Vincent sat on the opposite side of the table, crossing his legs under him. "This small device will show the Khan scenes our spy captured."

Putting his smartphone on the table, Vincent first played the recording with the three ravens from the forest, then a few captions from Pragwyn. The Hungarian King and a group of Knights were visible in a castle's courtyard, with the first ordering the latter to prepare to depart at midnight.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Is your spy a bird?" the Khan asked with an expression of amazement.

"A small construct," Vincent bobbed his head. "So, is the Khan interested in the deal?"

"First, we drink tea, and Shaman tells story," the Khan said, snapping his fingers. Two servants rushed to put three small cups on the table, pouring hot liquid from a cylindrical opaque recipient. There was no fire nearby, so the container was likely a thermos. Maybe magical? Vincent had to bite his tongue to stop himself from asking.

Waiting for the Khan to drink first, Vincent smelled the scent of the infusion and then took a sip. It was Jasmin-scented but darker than the usual green tea, yet lighter than black tea.

The Shaman began to speak. "This story begins with the decline of the great Mongol empire, which once stretched from the Pacific to the Baltic Sea."

"My ancestors bit more than they could chew," the Khan nodded."

"Mongol tribes merged into the local population, or were lost to war, plagues—"

"In the past, our ancestors didn't wash, but now we do," the Khan said rapidly on an inhale of the Shaman, appearing hell-bent on making a point they were civilized people.

Thank goodness those times are past you…

"—or decadence, under the influence of Brindabella, the Archetype of childishness and games," the Shaman finished the sentence.

"They thought sex was sinful, and all men were cutting their privates to remain cast and forever children," the Khan grimaced.

"Ew!" Vincent exclaimed. Peter Pan syndrome to the extreme! "Are Archetypes responsible for specific countries, Shaman?"

"They have preferences, but they are not restricted to one region. Forget about that. My story is about a visionary Khan and his Blue Horde. Realizing the truth, he recalled all his forces to a smaller area. Then, he allowed the local populations autonomy as long they paid tribute. And the Mongols, by his law, remained nomadic, their armies touring the empire. Everything is smooth, except for—"

"Hungary?"

"The Corvins rebelled against the Horde and swore allegiance to the Raven, one of the most dangerous Archetypes," the Khan said. "They created a counter to our archers using black magic."

"The Black Knights?" Vincent asked.

"Them. We can shoot hundreds of arrows in one, and they'll keep coming. How did you manage to kill four of them?"

"I made them fall into a ravine… Blunt trauma could work. Maces, halberds." Or explosions, Vincent thought. "Prioritizing the central nervous system— the brain and the spine."

"Going into melee range didn't work well for us in the past," the Khan said, "Even against fifty Dark Knights, we risk heavy losses. And with Ludwing and his best people there…"

"Plan B, then. I will bring you the money myself, the Khan," Vincent said. "But I want something in return."

"I'm listening," the Khan crossed his arms, leaning back.

"We need protection. Leave the Shaman and a part of your army here."

The Khan stretched his right hand laterally, staring through Vincent. A servant filled his cup with tea. "Do you see anything?" he asked the Shaman, drinking the liquid in one go.

"No," she said, "But in my last vision, I felt this meeting was an auspicious one."

"Tell the men to set camp," the Khan told an attendant before returning his attention to Vincent. "Pragwyn is a big city… I guess they have a lot of money… the tribute must be proportionate. If you deliver a hundred thousand gold coins by tomorrow evening, I'll leave my best shock troops behind and renounce Krivoburg's tribute. The Shaman is not my servant; she's a friend. She will stay if she decides so."

"I will stay," the woman said. "My old bones are curious."

"May I bother the Khan with two small requests before I go?" The Khan nodded, and Vincent continued: "In the forest behind us lives a friend, a tiger, and his family. Please don't hunt them."

"He’s already under my protection," the Shaman said. "It's an intelligent beast."

"As for the second favor, let's keep our dealings secret. It will keep our common enemy in the dark and offer future opportunities."

The Shaman frowned at the young man, warning him silently he had made a faux step. Discretion was implied. The Mongol ruler was not a blabbermouth. Nevertheless, there were no more serious consequences. The Khan flickered his fingers, signaling Vincent was dismissed.

----------------------------------------

It took Vincent and his small group of accomplices all day to finish the preparation, using the police quarters to keep the plan a secret from everyone else. The less they knew, the safer everybody was. Thomas, recruited into the gang, has closed the police office, and they were not expecting visits. The men-at-arms were locals living in their own homes.

Seven small barrels of magically reinforced steel hoofs and oak staves were in the inner courtyard, all filled with pig iron. On a laptop's screen, the drone showed them a castle's bailey in Pragwyn. A cart with similar barrels was parked on a side, with three knights walking around and the other three guarding it at close range. The laptop also displayed simulated fields of vision, marking what and what the guards saw.

"There are no blind spots," Irene said. "Please, let's forget about it!" she grabbed Vincent's hand.

Her touch was warm and pleasant. "There are no blind spots if one walks," Vincent said, putting his free hand over hers in a reassurance gesture. A friendly gesture, he convinced himself. "I'll teleport."

"Actually, you're using a wormhole," Bee said.

"Wormholeport, whatever. Let's get through with it; you guys are making me nervous."

Vincent started to dress in a Dark Knight's armor, assembled from the pieces they captured. Despite the blacksmith's efforts, it was bent in some places and had a few bullet holes, but considering the darkness, he hoped no one would notice. He wore chair foam pieces underneath and between the armor parts to minimize the noise.

There was only the matter of disguising his identity to magical scanning. He called up his Disguise ability and manually entered inside the fields: Harry Janosh, Dark Knight level sixty, and Evolved human. Then he changed his mind. What if he was asked stupid questions that only a Dark Knight would know to answer? He modified his class to Dark Squire, level twenty, and was ready to rock and roll.