The Mongoliad: Book One

CHAPTER 8: THIS IS HOW MY FATHER HUNTED

The buck was mad with fear, its hooves tearing up clumps of earth and grass as it tried to escape. The central pathways had been blocked with makeshift fencing, and most of the narrow channels between the groupings of trees and brushes were protected by a soldier with a spear. Its sandy brown hide was dappled with red; it had tried to crash through the brush a few times already, only to be turned back by the metal point of a spear. None of the cuts were fatal; the privilege of the kill was saved for others.

It clattered to a stop in the center of the path, its hooves sliding on the river rock. Its ears flickered, reacting to the unnatural sound of the hunting party.

They were not quiet.

A spray of crossbow bolts ripped the air around the animal, and one jabbed deep into its right foreleg. It brayed with pain and tried to leap away, but the leg didn’t work quite right and the deer stumbled. It shied away from the laughter and shouts that came on quickly in the wake of the crossbow bolts.

Gansukh trailed the main hunting party, bow held at his side. He had an arrow nocked, but he was in no hurry to fire it. The garden had been turned into a fenced arena, and the nobles were hunting captive animals released into the enclosed space. When he had spotted the men setting up the barriers, he had realized how the hunt was going to be held, and at the time, his only concern had been making sure that he would be involved. Now that he was, he found he had no stomach for it. This wasn’t hunting. This was slaughter.

He was uncomfortably aware his attitude mirrored his presence at court these past few weeks: he was on the verge of Ögedei’s inner circle and, at the same time, a step outside it. Lian’s warning kept echoing in his head: it wasn’t just his actions that would be judged, but also what the others said about them. He had to hide his disapproval well, before someone noticed and said something to the Khagan.

“Missed!” Ögedei shouted at his companion as they jogged toward the quarry. Behind the pair, a retinue of red-faced, panting courtiers struggled to keep pace, lifting the hems of their robes as they ran. The Khagan was smiling widely, oblivious to the grass and mud stains on his saffron-gold robes. Clearly he was enjoying the hunt.

“I’ve got him next shot,” Munokhoi said as he slowed to finish loading his weapon. The multi-tiered crossbow—a complicated contraption of springs and levers—seemed to Gansukh to be more trouble than it was worth, but there was no arguing that, once it was loaded, it was a deadly instrument. Munokhoi grunted as he finished cocking the slide and raised it to fire.

Munokhoi kept his hair short to the point of baldness, and combined with the gauntness of his face, this gave Munokhoi a skeletal appearance, despite the youthful length of his facial hair. Thick and muscled, his arms were anything but the thin sticks of a corpse. A pale scar ran from behind his left ear and disappeared into his tunic. There was no shortage of rumors as to how Munokhoi had earned the scar, but Gansukh hadn’t cared enough to figure out which one was true. Every warrior had stories about their scars, and most of them were lies.

From behind them, Gansukh watched as Munokhoi focused on the target. Ögedei was still breathing heavily, but the Day Guard stood like a stone, his chest barely moving. The muscles in Munokhoi’s neck tightened as he put pressure on the wide trigger of the crossbow, and he leaned into the recoil of the weapon as he released all three bolts.

The buck was turning as the bolts hit it, and two of them slammed into its neck and shoulder. The third caught it in the eye, spraying blood and humor as it drove clean into the animal’s skull. Its front legs buckled and it fell into a plot of peonies.

“Just one of a dozen marvelous killing machines the Chinese have invented.” Munokhoi grinned and offered the crossbow to Ögedei. “Clever little bastards,” he laughed as he strode toward the fallen deer.

The hunting party flocked around Ögedei, making noises of pleasure and encouragement at the sight of the weapon in his hands. Gansukh didn’t even bother getting any closer. He could see well enough from where he was.

Beyond the clump of fawning courtiers and nobles, Munokhoi stood over the dead animal and raised his sword. Sunlight caught his blade, turning it into a flash of silver as it came down, and the buck’s head was severed with a wet crunch. He knelt and lifted the head by its antlers, blood running down his hands. “For the Lord of All Under the Blue Sky,” he said, turning the head toward Ögedei, “I humbly present this trophy.”

“Keep it,” said Ögedei. “I have far more impressive trophies in my collection.” He laughed, gestured for a servant to bring him another wineskin, which he traded the massive crossbow for, and took a huge thirst-slaking swig.

Another deer was already being led into the garden, and as soon as its handler pulled the rope from about its head, it bolted. It bounded toward the eastern wall and eventually realized there was no escape in that direction. It turned right, disappeared for a second behind a clump of trees, and then came into view again, at the crest of a small rise near the southern edge of the garden. It was still frightened, but it was far enough away that the lure of the short grasses at its feet was stronger. It looked about briefly and then dipped its head cautiously toward the grass.

Ögedei belched and seemed to notice Gansukh for the first time. “What do you think of my guard’s new toy?” he asked, loudly enough that the attention of the hunting party swung toward Gansukh. “It is an impressive weapon, is it not?”

Gansukh bowed his head, recalling Lian’s warnings about reputations and perceptions at court. Not even the Khan of Khans was immune to the lure of the favorite activity. “It seems to shoot very well, Khagan.”

Ögedei looked at Munokhoi, who had put down the severed deer head. The Torguud’s arms were coated with blood. “Yes,” he said, “it does, doesn’t it?”

Gansukh winced internally at the stress Ögedei had put on his words, and judging by Munokhoi’s expression, he had heard the same inference.

Before Gansukh could figure out a way to turn the conversation, Ögedei waved the wineskin at the servant holding the crossbow. “Show me how it works,” he said, and when the servant froze, Ögedei shook his head. “Not you,” he snarled. “Gansukh.”

The servant almost fainted with relief and rushed toward Gansukh, all but throwing the complicated crossbow at him. He would need both hands empty to hold the thing, and suddenly he couldn’t remember the sequence of knobs and levers Munokhoi had had to operate to wind it. The servant thrust the weapon at him, entreating him with his eyes to take it, but Gansukh made no move to do so. “With all respect, Khagan,” he said, forming each word carefully and slowly, “I believe we should leave some of these Chinese contraptions to the Chinese. I hunt best in the way my father taught me—with a simple bow.”

His bow had belonged to his father’s father, a simple recurve of wood and horn and sinew, worn and repaired over the generations. Like the sky, he thought as he took several steps forward to put him a little bit in front of the cluster of bodies around the Khagan. It would never change. It felt right in his hands. There was no complicated machinery that drove it. It was just an extension of his own arm.

Munokhoi snorted. “That old stick? Good for hunting sickly oxen, I’m sure.”

Gansukh allowed himself a slight grin as he gauged the distance to his quarry. The buck was still grazing on the hillock, keeping a wary eye on the hunting party. Yes, he thought as he lifted his bow and took aim, let him do all the talking. He is better at it than you. A difficult shot, but not an impossible one. Gansukh inhaled slowly until his chest was full, and then he held his breath until he was sure his frame had settled. His arms were like stone. The point didn’t waver. Waiting…

“Too far,” Munokhoi said, too loudly. A slur of noise went through the hunting party, assent voiced but not as pointedly—as publicly—as Munokhoi’s dismissal.

The buck reacted to the sound, sensing danger, and it raised its head. The muscles in its legs quivered, but it was too late. Gansukh’s arrow, released on the heels of the noise from the gathered crowd, struck the deer in the breast. The buck staggered once, blood trickling down its white fur, and then it collapsed.

There was no sound coming from the group now, and Gansukh steeled himself to not turn and look at them. “And that,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is how my father hunted.”

Ögedei’s mighty laugh broke the silence. “I see your father was as good a marksman as mine.”

Gansukh turned to face Ögedei, bowing his head respectfully at the suggested compliment. When he raised his head, he realized Ögedei was still looking at him with that penetrating gaze he had seen before, when he had first arrived. It was as if a cloud had cleared from the Khagan’s sight, and he was seeing something that had been hidden from him for a long time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gansukh watched the servant put Munokhoi’s Chinese contraption down on the grass. No one else seemed to notice, or care.

The early autumn sunrise spilled into the valley too slowly for young Ögedei. He lay prone on the frozen ground at the edge of a marshy clearing. Cold seeped into his bones and the dim light played tricks on his eyes. The hunting conditions were less than ideal, and he had been lying there too long.

Before the sun had threatened to peek over the ridge, Ögedei had been watching two shapes in the grass near the river’s edge, alternately sure they were animals or his older brothers in their hide jackets. His muscles were starting to cramp. Even if he could be sure of the identity of his quarry, he might not be able to pull his bow well enough to shoot it.

He pushed himself up on his hands and knees and inched forward. The brittle grass stalks scraped against his shoulders. The sound was like tree branches thrashing in his ears, and he was sure his quarry could hear him.

Ögedei pressed his belly and chest to the ground and breathed out slowly. He was nearly within shooting distance. If he nocked his arrow, stood and shot in one motion, he’d have a reasonable chance of bringing down a deer.

But if the shapes were his brothers, there would be no end of ridicule around the fire that night, and more than ridicule if he actually hit one of them.

Ögedei cursed under his breath and slowly got up on his knees. He had to be sure. Suddenly the quiet of the valley was broken by loud laughter, and Ögedei felt all the air rush out of his lungs. He remained still for another few seconds, listening for the ridicule that was sure to be coming, and when it didn’t, the fact his brothers weren’t laughing at him did little to lessen the sting of what might have happened. He waited for another burst of laughter, and then he stood and strode forward as if he had just entered the clearing, unconcerned now with the loud rustle his body made against the brush. Jochi, his eldest brother, had turned toward the sound, and he waved in recognition.

“Third Brother! Come over here. Chagatai is telling of his great exploits last night,” he laughed.

Ögedei smiled as he jogged toward his older brothers. He felt no shame at the nickname, for it was the simple truth: of Genghis Khan’s four sons, only Tolui was younger.

Of the siblings, it was generally agreed that Chagatai was the fairest, and his ability to spin a tale as well as any court entertainer certainly contributed to his ability to charm the women in the camp. Jochi relied more on his position as the eldest son, and Tolui managed to parlay his ever-present maladies into a constant flock of attentive and doting women who followed him everywhere. While Ögedei thought the image he saw in the water pail was somewhat comely, most said he was much like his father—both in physical appearance and mannerisms.

“She had such natural bounty,” Chagatai exclaimed to Ögedei as the younger brother approached. He held his hands out in front of his chest, as though this gesture was enough for Ögedei to understand all he needed to know about the story he had been telling Jochi.

“Have you ever been with a woman with small breasts?” Ögedei asked.

Chagatai screwed up his face with an expression of mock outrage, and Ögedei laughed, forgetting his disappointment.

“Indeed, Chagatai, it seems every girl you bed has fully ripened,” Jochi teased. It wasn’t just his height that made it clear he was the oldest of the three. There were already lines around his eyes, and his gaze was much more direct and piercing. He stood with his shoulders thrown back as if he were ready to accept the weight of leadership. He raised his hands and began to massage the air in front of him. “Ooo! Firm!”

Chagatai backhanded him across the shoulder. “Those are my melons!”

Their laughter was cut short by a new voice booming across the clearing: “I’m impressed!”

From the line of trees behind where Ögedei had been lying, an imposing figure and four other men strode into the morning sunlight. Light glinted off the gold around Genghis Khan’s neck, and that same light seemed to vanish into their black cloaks.

“Truly, what great hunters are my three sons,” Genghis said. “You’ve killed your deer and skinned them already, because here you are, telling stories. Come, show me what you have taken.”

Ögedei looked at Chagatai first, and seeing nothing but panic in Second Brother’s face, he turned his gaze toward the river. His cheeks burned with shame, and all the bitterness of the failed hunt churned his stomach. Genghis and his four men surrounded them easily, as they stood rooted to the ground. Like frightened deer, the thought flashed through Ögedei’s mind. If Genghis had been alone, if there were no witnesses to the Great Khan’s discovery of his sons’ failed hunt, they might have escaped with only the sting of their father’s tongue. As it was, they were liable to receive a real lashing.

“Father—” Jochi started.

“We have more than seventeen hundred mouths to feed.” Genghis spoke without rancor or anger, but they knew better. “The farmers of this territory cannot supply us with enough food—even if we were to eat them as well.”

Ögedei shivered uncontrollably, not just at the thought of cannibalism, but the calm and effortless way his father suggested the possibility.

“I know you are not skilled hunters, but I sent you out to learn how to hunt,” Genghis said, responding to the statement Jochi would not be allowed to finish. “We need provisions. Every member of the tribe must be able to—”

Ögedei silenced his father with an upraised hand, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see a pair of the Great Khan’s guards react as if Ögedei had slapped his father. He ignored them, raising a finger to his lips. He turned his head slightly, enough to see his father’s face.

“Deer,” he mouthed, and pointed. Downstream, on the opposite bank, stood two good-sized does and a huge buck.

Genghis’s eyes followed his son’s finger, and with a nod, he motioned for the guards nearest the river to kneel. The familial discipline was forgotten as the group instinctively focused on their prey. The guards slowly lowered themselves to the ground; their swords were of no use in this hunt, and they were only in the way of the hunters. Jochi and Chagatai began to creep along the riverbank, their boots crunching softly on the river rock. Genghis unslung his bow and stepped toward the river, his eyes locked on the deer. Ögedei was at his side, bow ready as well, and as one they moved into the shallows, their boots submerging in the icy water.

The deer heard Jochi and Chagatai and looked up, presenting perfect broadside targets for Genghis and Ögedei. The two men were ready, and their bowstrings hummed at nearly the same instant.

Two arrows buried deep into the neck of the buck, the soft slap of the impacts nearly inaudible across the river. The does started, though, much closer to the sound, and bounded off, disappearing into the woods. The buck struggled to keep its footing and then pitched forward, falling into the river where it thrashed helplessly.

Ögedei whooped loudly and, raising his knees high with every step, splashed downstream as quickly as he could to stop the downed buck from floating away.

“Good shot,” shouted Chagatai. The guards whistled their appreciation, and Jochi even clapped as Ögedei splashed past.

The deer had stopped kicking, and the river was starting to tug at its body as Ögedei reached it. He stopped with a splash, made sure he wasn’t standing on loose rocks, and grabbed at the deer’s rack of antlers. “Help me,” he shouted.

“No!” Genghis’s voice cut across the water.

Bracing his feet, Ögedei looked back over his shoulder. Jochi and Chagatai were halfway across the river, and they too had stopped at the sound of their father’s voice.

“You two,” Genghis said, “go back to camp with the women; this is not your kill.”

Chagatai looked crestfallen immediately, and his shoulders slumped. Jochi hesitated.

“Go back!” Genghis roared, and Ögedei’s older brothers reacted quickly to their father’s tone and reversed their course. They stood, dripping, on the bank, unwilling to fully depart from the scene, and Genghis’s personal guard came down to stand with them as Genghis drew a great bone-handled skinning knife from his sash and strode into the river.

Ögedei felt his balance slipping, and he had to turn back to the dead deer. The buck was bigger than he had thought, and his grip wasn’t very good. He couldn’t pull it out of the river by its antlers. He needed to get in a better position, and as he was trying to get behind the animal’s hindquarters, his father appeared at his side and slung his left arm around the shoulders of the dead animal.

“Ready?” Genghis asked, his face close to Ögedei’s.

He could smell his father’s breath—meat, garlic, the slightly sour aroma of airag. For an instant, he was a baby again, being held close by his father—this strange man he had never seen before, but who looked at him with fierce eyes. He had felt—without knowing these concepts—safe…protected…

“Lift!” shouted Genghis, and Ögedei stumbled back, the buck’s body lurching toward the bank. He stumbled over his own feet and slammed hard to the ground, the buck’s antlers jabbing him painfully in the thighs. The deer’s head lay in his lap, its body mostly out of the river.

Genghis stepped up onto the bank and looked down at Ögedei, a peculiar expression on his face.

“What?” Ögedei asked. Then, taking his father’s expression as disapproval, he contended, “If we’d kept talking, the deer would have heard—”

Genghis shook his head. “That was the right decision,” he said. “I am not angry that you interrupted me.”

Ögedei tried to reason what his father was thinking.

“Why did you choose the buck?” Genghis asked.

Ögedei glanced at his brothers and the guards, and made a snap decision. Tell him the truth. “Father, it was the best choice. It never crossed my mind to shoot one of the females. I should have. I’m sorry—”

Genghis waved off the apology. He sank down to the ground beside Ögedei. He pushed the skinning knife into the ground between them, and then he looked back across the bank at the other men. “Do you know what your brothers would have done?”

Ögedei wasn’t sure of the right answer, but sensed Genghis was going to tell him the answer anyway, and so he stayed silent.

“They would have known I would take the buck and they would have chosen a doe.”

Ögedei’s stomach knotted again, and suddenly he was the foolish stripling again. The one who had nearly shot one of his brothers, mistaking him for a deer. “We would have had more meat,” he said, the words burning in his throat.

“Yes, that’s right, Ögedei. We would have had more meat.”

Ögedei stared at the animal in his lap. He wanted to shove it away. The thrill of the kill was fleeing, and all that remained was the sickening shame of his own inability to think beyond his own desires.

“You took the buck because you wanted it,” Genghis said. “You wanted the prize it offered. You didn’t defer to me or ask my permission, and you didn’t hesitate.”

Ögedei looked at his father, but the Great Khan was still looking over the river, his eyes unfocused.

“You did,” his father said slowly, “exactly as I would have done.” He looked at Ögedei finally.

Ögedei stared at his father, searching his face for some explanation of the sadness he heard in his father’s voice. He sensed everything around him—the hardness of the buck’s antlers in his hands; the water of the river flowing beside them; his breath, in the cold morning air, mingling with his father’s; the deep lines around his father’s eyes that had been drawn there by the sun and the weight of his position; the sudden emptiness in his stomach as his fear and panic vanished—and he knew there was more to his father’s words than a simple compliment. For a moment, it was just the two of them on the riverbank, and the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Father and son. More alike than not.

Genghis nodded, and the moment passed. He pushed himself up from the grass and undid the leather tethers at his belt for the skinning knife’s sheath.

“What are you doing?” Ögedei asked.

“It’s not my kill,” said Genghis. He looked down at Ögedei once more, and then turned on his heel and walked into the river.

Ögedei looked at the knife in the ground. He recognized it as his grandfather’s. An object that predated him, predated even his father. He pulled the blade free of the wet earth. The metal glinted dully in the bright morning sunlight. It was a long blade, but weighted well, and it moved easily in his hand.

He pushed himself out from beneath the corpse of the deer and considered the animal’s bulk. Perhaps half the weight of a pony. It would take more than one trip to carry it back to camp, even after it had been parted. It would take the better part of the day to haul all the meat back to camp.

Ögedei looked across the river. Genghis had reached the far side, and one of the guards had given the Great Khan his cloak. “Hey,” he shouted. “One of you. Stay with me and help carry back this meat.”

A long moment followed where the only sound was the river gurgling between them, and then Genghis threw back his head and laughed. He shooed Jochi and Chagatai off, sending them back toward the camp, and two of the guards followed. Genghis spoke to the remaining pair, and the one who had given the Great Khan his cloak nodded. The Great Khan looked back at Ögedei one last time and then left, a guard following him.

By the time the remaining guard made it across the water, Ögedei had gutted the deer and was peeling the skin back from its haunches, revealing the lean meat beneath.