The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

As the terrain became rockier, the caravan folded itself into a narrow formation and wound its way along a more circuitous route. To Gansukh, perched on the flat, sun-warmed crown of a rocky promontory, the elongated caravan looked like a serpent, fat and swollen with a recent meal. Sluggishly, it slithered around uprisings of crumbling rock. Beyond, a day’s ride back, lay the grasslands. They had found the edge of that endless sea and left it behind.

Now was the time for an ambush. There were numerous tactical advantages in this terrain: how the narrow track forced the caravan to spread itself out, making it more difficult for the patrols to guard it well; the rocks offered so many more hiding places from which to launch an assault; these same rocks provided cover for a retreat. Why had the Chinese attacked them in the lowlands? They had had inferior numbers, and the caravan had been stationary with a defensive perimeter established.

Gansukh shaded his eyes and peered at the tiny shapes darting around the bulky midsection of the serpentine caravan. The Torguud and their endless patrols, eternally vigilant and restless since the attack. Like an anthill after it had been probed with a stick.

His horse nickered softly. His mount had spotted another horse, one that it knew, and Gansukh caught himself hoping the approaching rider was Lian. He knew it couldn’t be, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he squashed the momentary thrill of the idea.

The horse was black, and the rider wore black. His long beard trailed behind him.

“Master Chucai.” Gansukh scrambled to his knees, thought about standing, and then realized, in an awkward reversal, that he would be taller than the other man. Instead, he remained on his knees. A ridge of stone pressed against his left knee, and he wobbled slightly as he offered a perfunctory bow.

Chucai nodded in return as he dismounted from his horse. He effortlessly scaled the spur of rock and stood with his feet spread apart. “They can see us quite easily,” he said, taking in the view.

Gansukh brushed a dusting of fine grit from his leggings as he got to his feet. “You are an imposing figure,” he pointed out, “and you don’t blend in well. I would hope that they see us.”

Chucai regarded him with a sidelong glance. “And you? Prior to my arrival, would they not have mistaken you for a Chinese raider?”

“Even if they had, they are too far away.” Gansukh thought of the archery contest with Tarbagatai a few days ago. “There are good archers in the Torguud, but they would have to ride much closer before they could hope to hit me. They are shooting up; I would be shooting down. My range is better. By then, I would hope they could tell the difference between one of their own and a Chinese archer.”

Chucai nodded. “There is a great deal of optimism in your thinking.”

“More strategic than optimistic,” Gansukh corrected.

“Of course,” Chucai acknowledged. “This location also offers us some privacy.”

“Yes, it does,” said Gansukh, wondering why that was important and fearing the reason at the same time.

“I too engage in what might be considered strategic thinking, albeit it with less optimism. In my position, I am called upon to make important decisions regarding the Khagan’s safety and well-being. Normally, I make those decisions without any need for discourse with those who will carry out my decisions. I order; you, and others like you, obey. That is how the empire continues to function.”

“Of course, Master Chucai.” Gansukh inclined his head.

“But these are not normal times, are they?”

Despite his confusion at Chucai’s appearance and a bit of annoyance at the interruption of his reconnaissance, Gansukh allowed a wry smile to cross his lips. The Khan of Khans was going to the sacred homelands of the Mongol people, where he would hunt a mystical animal at the behest of his shamans, all so that he might reassert his control of the empire. Meanwhile, his general, Subutai, was preparing to expand the empire past the distant lands conquered by his father, the greatest leader the Mongol people had ever known. No, these were not normal times.

“In these times, is it possible that members of the empire might be thinking more of themselves?” Chucai asked. “It is possible that they might place their own desires and wants above the desires and wants of the Khagan-and, by extension, the empire?”

Gansukh cleared his throat, weighing whether Chucai actually sought a response to this question or if this was one of those instances in which it might be best to simply wait for a clear directive to which he could respond. His eyes darted toward Chucai, noting that the Khagan’s advisor was staring at him intently, one eyebrow partially raised.

“It… it is possible,” Gansukh said. And then, with more bravery, “But, for some individuals, they always think thusly.”

“Does the empire then overlook their lack of duty-shall we say-because they are useful to the empire? What happens when they are no longer useful?”

Gansukh shrugged, more casual than he felt. “They are discarded,” he said, opting to not shirk from the point he felt Chucai was trying to make.

“Discarded,” Chucai mused, stroking his beard. He seemed, to Gansukh, to be play acting, giving the moment more gravity than necessary, as if to frighten Gansukh. But why? Gansukh thought. Does he want me to confess to something? Have I not done all that he has asked in regards to the Khagan? His heart skipped a beat. Lian!

“Do you know why the Chinese attacked the Khagan’s caravan?” Chucai asked suddenly.

“The Chi-Chinese?” Gansukh stuttered.

“Yes, the Chinese raiders. Do you think they were trying to assassinate the Khagan or was there another goal? Thievery, perhaps?”

Gansukh swallowed heavily. He tried not to let his relief show. Chucai wasn’t asking about his relationship with Lian. “I don’t know, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, his chest relaxing. “I spent most of the attack as a prisoner.”

“Yes, so I have heard. And during this imprisonment-most embarrassing, if I may say so-you didn’t hear them talk of their plans?”

Gansukh felt his face flush. “They spoke Chinese, Master Chucai.”

“Oh yes, of course. And Lian hasn’t…?”

“Taught me Chinese?” Gansukh shook his head. “You may certainly ask her, Master Chucai, but I believe she will tell you she was having enough trouble teaching me the proper way of speaking Mongolian.”

Chucai laughed. “Well spoken,” he said. “What of their tactics, then? What of the Torguud response?”

Gansukh sensed that Chucai had changed his mind about his line of questioning. He wasn’t sure what he had said-or not said-but Chucai appeared to be mollified on some topic. Or perhaps he is simply setting it aside for now, he thought, admonishing himself to listen carefully to Chucai’s questions. “I am not a member of the Torguud,” Gansukh said carefully. “It would be presumptuous of me to speculate on their martial response.”

“Oh, very tactful,” Chucai said. “Lian’s instruction, I suspect.”

Bristling, Gansukh held his tongue and bowed his head slightly in return.

“The reason I ask,” Chucai continued, “is that there may be a strategic advantage gained by soliciting your opinion in a certain matter rather than simply giving you an order,” Chucai continued.

“I can only hope to be of service, Master Chucai,” Gansukh offered.

Chucai raised an eyebrow in response to Gansukh’s obsequious response. “I am going to ask Munokhoi to relinquish his position as captain of the Khagan’s private guard,” he said.

Gansukh’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, and his cheeks and forehead were suddenly hot in the sun. His knees trembled, and the landscape wavered slightly as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He had no idea what sort of expression was on his face, though he was certain Chucai could tell the statement had caught him off guard. Was this what he was referring to when he talked about men failing to follow the Khagan? he wondered. Had Chucai’s question had nothing to do with him after all?

In a moment of rare talkativeness, Chucai explained himself. “Munokhoi is unfit to lead the men out on the steppes”-he indicated the land spread out below them with a sweep of his arm-“or here in the mountains. Did he send you here to watch over the caravan? No. That was your decision. You saw the need to look over the terrain before the Khagan crossed it. Munokhoi thinks like a man who has spent his life behind walls.”

Gansukh scratched behind his right ear. “You need someone who has fought beyond the Khagan’s walls,” he said slowly, belaboring Chucai’s point.

Gansukh waited a moment for Chucai to continue, but he wasn’t terribly surprised when the Khagan’s advisor said nothing. This was a not uncommon gambit on Chucai’s part: to start a conversation, and then let it peter into silence. He had infinite patience: as a hunter, he could probably outwait even the most cautious deer; as a veteran of the Khagan’s courts, there was no one more skilled than he at making silence excruciating. The more he learned from Lian, the more Gansukh had understood the merits of Chucai’s techniques. People were more likely to believe something they felt like they had a hand in creating. Order a man, and he will dutifully comply; let him possess an idea as his own, will he not leap to implement it with great enthusiasm?

Gansukh couldn’t help but think of Ogedei’s decision to leave Karakorum for Burqan-qaldun. Had he not, in some small way, manipulated the Khagan into believing the idea was his?

“Master Chucai…” he began.

“Hmmm?” Chucai seemed to have forgotten he was there.

“This is an unusual circumstance that I find myself in,” Gansukh said. “As you say, typically you would simply inform me of your decision, and I would carry it out. Yet, you come to me now and appear to want my input on a certain matter.”

Chucai nodded absently, his attention still on the landscape below.

“Yet, I doubt that you haven’t thought through every consequence of every possible decision already. Do you expect me to have better insight on this matter than you? Or am I supposed to change your mind?”

“Change my mind?” Chucai raised an eyebrow. “What choice do you think I have made?”

Gansukh regarded the Khagan’s advisor warily, a response to Chucai’s question hanging in his throat. Why else would he have come all the way up here to tell me this? Does he want me to ask for the position? Gansukh rejected that idea almost as soon as it came into his head, but it wouldn’t go away. Me, a Torguud captain. There would be certain benefits, of course. And while there were many in the Khagan’s service who wouldn’t trust him, much like he had earned Tarbagatai’s admiration, he could win them over. All he had to do was demonstrate the depth of his allegiance to the Khagan-and wasn’t this entire hunting expedition the result of his efforts to show his devotion to the Khagan? The men would drift toward him. He had led men before; he could do it again.

But what of Munokhoi? Awkwardly, Gansukh felt a pang of empathy for the man. Cruel and self-serving as he was, he had served the Khagan well for many years, otherwise he never would have been promoted to his current position. It was unnerving to see how easily he could be pushed aside, and for someone who was such an outsider. What would stop Chucai from doing the same to me? Gansukh wondered.

And Lian? What would her reaction be? Would she see it as Gansukh choosing the Khagan over her? It is what I would be doing, he admitted to himself. Would she attempt to escape again, and would he be forced to go after her? Would he be ordered to put her to death for disobedience?

Gansukh took a deep breath to calm his addled nerves. His mind was twisting itself into knots, trying to examine all the possible outcomes. He felt like he was playing that Chinese game that Lian had told him about-black and white pebbles on a wooden board; rules she explained in less than two minutes; followed by an hour-long conversation about strategy that had numbed his mind. Chucai was clearly a master at weiqi, and Gansukh felt as if he was playing his first game, already on the defensive.

Don’t think of it like a game you don’t understand, he realized. Think of it in terms of something you are good at. What are the options for a warrior who feels he is cornered and on the defensive? Think more strategically. What is the best defense?

Shifting roles. Becoming the attacker. Fighting back.

“What is your goal, Master Chucai?” Gansukh asked.

For a moment Chucai’s expression remained blank, and Gansukh flushed, his guts tightening with dread that he had spoken too bluntly. But then Chucai’s eyebrows crept up, and the corners of a bemused smile peeked through his beard. Though he didn’t understand Chucai’s reaction, it was better than the one he had anticipated.

“That is a very direct and astute question, Gansukh,” Chucai said. “Mistress Lian has told me-on numerous occasions, in fact-that you are prone to speaking your mind. Even with all of her efforts to obscure that tendency beneath layers of courtly civility.”

Gansukh felt his face redden even more, but he didn’t break the other man’s gaze. Do not lessen your assault.

“Sun and rain and good seed will not produce a crop from fallow ground.” Chucai’s smile broadened. “I know you are a warrior and a hunter, but surely you understand that basic tenet of farming, yes?”

“Yes, Master Chucai.” Gansukh kept his annoyance out of his voice.

“Does a farmer give up if his land is bad, or does he find new land?”

“He finds new land.”

“And while he is searching for new land, what of his family, of his horses and cows?”

“He must still provide for them.”

“So, it follows that fertile ground must be found-quickly-and the farmer must continue to plant his seeds, cultivate his tender plants, and reap his harvest as he always does, with as little disruption as possible.”

“With all due respect, Master Chucai, there is no way to remove Munokhoi from his position without some disruption.”

“Of course not,” Chucai snorted impatiently.

“Replacing him with me would be… very disruptive,” Gansukh pointed out. Even if he were a good choice to replace Munokhoi, such a decision would only further enrage the already hotheaded Torguud captain.

Chucai lifted a finger and touched it to his lips. “Would it? Don’t you think the empire would benefit more from advancing you than it would lose by discarding Munokhoi?”

Gansukh didn’t like the way Chucai was twisting his words; and behind his calm facade, there lurked another series of barbed questions, waiting to entrap Gansukh. And then, within the span of a heartbeat, Gansukh realized a way out of this predicament. “There is another who would be more suitable,” he offered. “Brother Namkhai.”

Chucai shrugged slightly, his finger remaining against his lips. Realizing Chucai had already considered Namkhai, Gansukh rushed to explain his thinking. “I’m not suggesting Namkhai because I am trying to shirk my duties to you or the Khagan, Master Chucai. It is not that I feel I am unworthy of the position-I am worthy of it-it is just that…”

Chucai’s expression suggested he was listening intently to Gansukh’s words, but that they weren’t quite enough to convince him.

Gansukh thought rapidly, trying to verbalize key reasons that would support his claim. “Namkhai is a steppes rider too, plus he has been with the men longer. He knows them as well as they know him. I do not know many of the men.”

Chucai gave him a tiny nod. Keep talking.

“I have seen Namkhai stand up to Munokhoi when Munokhoi has been caught up in rage, irrational and unable to command. The men respond to Namkhai’s leadership. They will respect him more quickly.”

“Respect is an important quality to have in a leader,” Chucai offered as encouragement for Gansukh to keep talking.

“And Munokhoi does not resent Namkhai like he resents me. The perceived insult would be less grave and the reaction less severe.”

“Would it be?” Chucai considered Gansukh’s words. “There is some wisdom behind your suggestion, Gansukh. Even as hastily offered as it is.” He smiled fleetingly, and then his expression deadened. “But you speak of Munokhoi’s reaction being less severe…”

“Yes,” Gansukh agreed.

“There will still be a reaction,” Chucai said. “His resentment of you will not be lessened. It will simply be unburdened, no longer shackled by the strictures of his rank.”

Gansukh sucked in a quick breath. Munokhoi would be free to come after Lian. Ever since the gladiator match between the two Westerners, Munokhoi’s furtive glances made Gansukh think of a wary predator-biding his time.

Chucai had to be aware that this would be a likely outcome of stripping Munokhoi of his rank. He found his hands clenching into fists as his temper flared, a reaction that Lian would have chided him for. He could almost hear her voice: this is the reaction he expects you to have. Though he was tempted to accuse of Chucai of playing a deadly game, Gansukh calmed his breathing and stared at his hands until he could force them to relax.

“Namkhai is a good choice, Gansukh,” Chucai said, ignoring Gansukh’s mental distress. “A better choice, in many ways.”

Gansukh felt a strange mixture of elation and disappointment at Chucai’s words. The emotional rush was confounding. On the battlefield, such confusion-this temerity and second-guessing about one’s decisions-was deadly. He needed to keep focused.

“However, that is all he will ever be,” Chucai explained. “He does not have the same broad-mindedness that Chagatai Khan saw in you when he selected you as his emissary. Namkhai has not been to the far edges of the empire; he has not been exposed to different martial cultures.” Chucai fixed Gansukh with his fierce gaze. “He has not watched his brothers die in the streets of foreign cities. He has not truly faced death, and as such, cannot tell his men how to be strong at such a time.”

Gansukh dropped his gaze, the crazy welter of emotions racing around his brain falling silent in the face of Chucai’s praise. “You honor me too much, Master Chucai,” he muttered.

Chucai was silent for a moment. “Perhaps,” he offered. “Still, recent revelations have made it clear that if the empire is to maintain its strength, it needs less blind devotion and more…”

“More what, Master Chucai?”

“Are you asking as a Torguud captain or a free warrior of the steppes-one who thinks more of his needs than the needs of the empire?”

Gansukh hesitated, sensing a trap. “My apologies, Master Chucai. I was merely asking as a concerned warrior of the empire, who only seeks to assist the Khagan in any way that the Khagan wishes.”

Chucai laughed. “You are much less a fool than anyone takes you for, Gansukh.”

Gansukh chuckled. “Please do not tell anyone otherwise.”

“Oh, I won’t.” Chucai sighed as he played with the trailing end of his beard for a moment. “It would have been much easier to address your problem with the weight of the Torguud guard behind you.”

Gansukh tensed as Chucai’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “That problem is my own, Master Chucai. It is best I dealt with it directly.”

“Yes, Gansukh,” Chucai said. “That would be for the best. Much less disruptive that way. Much less.”

Gansukh did not watch Chucai mount his horse and ride away. He stared down at the snaking caravan, his eyes following the tiny dots of the Torguud riders as they patrolled.

He wondered which one was Munokhoi.

He could wait until the caravan was in range, and then he could solve his problem with a single arrow. It would be so much easier.

Gansukh sighed and shook his head. While an arrow was efficient, it would have consequences that could be as equally disastrous. No, he had to find another way. A less disruptive way.

Patience, he told himself as he walked back to his horse. A true hunter knows to wait until his prey shows itself.

When the caravan reached the Kherlen River, it was greeted by a contingent of twenty horsemen. Each rider carried a pole with a sky-blue banner that snapped and whipped in the wind as the party galloped toward the caravan. The Torguud parted for the riders, and they swept through like a sudden squall of rain. As they reached the dense cluster of mounted guard near the Khagan’s ger, they reined as one and dismounted in near-unison, each landing swiftly on the ground and dropping to bent knee. Sky-blue arrowheads woven into their robes marked them. Darkhat. Guardians of the lands sacred to Genghis Khan-his birthplace, his tomb, and region beyond. Burqan-qaldun.

Some of the Torguud shuffled nervously, attempting to keep their horses at ease. The Darkhat remained still, waiting for Ogedei to emerge from his ger. The tableau remained frozen for what seemed to be an inordinately long time, and then the flaps of Ogedei’s ger were thrown back, and the Khan of Khans emerged.

Ogedei leaned against the railing of the narrow platform, and stared thickly at the Darkhat host as if he could not account for their sudden appearance in his camp. Just as he seemed about to lose interest in their presence, one of the Darkhat shot to his feet and raised both arms in salute to the Khagan.

“Hail, Ogedei Khagan,” he said. “I, Ghaltai, welcome you to the lands of your father.”

“Hail, Ghaltai, faithful and eternal servant of my father’s legacy,” Ogedei replied. He waved an arm to encompass the other Darkhat. “Hail, faithful servants.”

Ghaltai was not a tall man, but he was stocky, with thick weather-beaten skin. His eyes were thin, almond-shaped slits in his face. “What brings you to these lands, O Khagan, with so mighty a retinue?” he asked.

“A pilgrimage,” Ogedei replied. “We will need your guides to take us through the mountain passes.”

“That we can gladly provide,” said Ghaltai with a bow.

“Oh, yes,” Ogedei said as if the idea had just occurred to him. “My father’s grave. I wish to see it.” His gaze roamed over the assembled Torguud until he spotted Munokhoi. “The caravan will continue without me,” he instructed. “I will catch up with it by nightfall.”

“My Khan-” Munokhoi began.

“You have your orders, Captain.”

Ogedei shuddered slightly, surprised by the voice at his elbow.

Chucai stood a respectful distance behind the Khagan, but with his height, he still seemed to tower over the slumped figure of the Khagan. “Your task is to ensure the safety of the caravan,” he explained. “Namkhai and a few others will accompany the Khagan. As will I.” He inclined his head toward Ogedei. “With your leave, of course, Khagan. I too would like to pay my respects to your father, my late friend.”

“Of course,” said Ogedei thickly, a grimace twisting his mouth into an ugly sneer.

The windswept plain between the Kherlen and Bruchi Rivers was filled with wild grasses. Closer to the rivers, ash and cedar trees grew, leaning toward the flowing water. A rounded boulder, taller than a man seated on a horse, lay in the center of the plain. It was such an anomaly in the landscape that Chucai’s gaze was drawn to the distant crag of Burqan-qaldun, and he wondered how far the massive rock had traveled to end up in this field.

The stone was the only marker of Genghis Khan’s interment. There were no pavilions of gold and silver, no field of banners, no sculptures or monuments. Just the rock, in an untouched plain of wild grass, at the confluence of the Kherlen and Bruchi Rivers. As Genghis had wished.

Chucai, Ghaltai, and the rest of the honor guard remained at a respectful distance as Ogedei dismounted and approached the boulder. The Khagan sank to his knees, head bowed in prayer.

Before he had become Genghis Khan, Ogedei’s father was a simple man named Temujin. When he was nine, he was promised to Borte-daughter of Dei-sechen, of the Onggirat tribe-and he eventually married her six years later. Their marriage was interrupted by Merkit raiders who had never forgiven a theft by Temujin’s father. He had stolen Hoelun, a woman intended for their clan leader, and the Merkits saw the theft of Borte as due compensation for their loss. They also intended to kill Temujin, but after three days of searching for him among the woods and bogs surrounding Burqan-qaldun, they gave up. Temujin, as the stories went, stood in this valley and swore in the presence of Burqan-qaldun, the great mountain that had kept him safe, that he would rescue Borte.

Not only did he rescue his wife, but with the assistance of friendly clans he defeated the Merkits, beginning what was to become the unification of all the Mongol peoples under his rule.

The empire started here, Chucai reflected. One man. One promise. He shivered slightly, dismissing the chill as nothing more than an icy gust of wind finding its way inside the collar of his jacket. He recalled the vision thrust upon him in the wake of the Chinese attack on the caravan: the endless herd of wild horses, their manes flowing like clouds-the never-ending empire. Born out of Temujin’s love for Borte.

“Your tribe has dwelled in these lands for some time, have they not?” Chucai asked Ghaltai, pushing aside these idle, and yet troubling, thoughts.

“For many generations,” the Darkhat rider replied.

“After Temujin became Genghis Khan, he came back to Burqan-qaldun,” Chucai said. “What did he find here?”

Ghaltai made a show of looking around the wide plain, and then shrugged. “Open sky.”

Chucai gave him the look that normally withered visiting dignitaries who presumed to be important enough to warrant disturbing the Khan. Ghaltai, nonplussed, met his gaze.

“Tell me about the banner,” Chucai said. And when Ghaltai pretended to not understand, Chucai leaned toward the Darkhat and lowered his voice. “It was old when Genghis raised it as the standard for the empire, and it is older now. It should be a dead piece of wood, but why does it thrust forth new growth?”

Ghaltai’s weather-beaten face paled. “I–I do not know of what you speak,” he said.

“You know something,” Chucai hissed, unwilling to let the Darkhat’s reticence get in the way of learning something about the history of the banner. “Tell me.”

“There is a legend,” Ghaltai began after a moment of reflection. “Before Borte Chino mated with Qo’ai Maral, when Tengri walked this land-”

Chucai snorted derisively before he could stop himself, and seeing Ghaltai’s expression, he offered an apologetic nod.

“The people who lived here taught the birds to fly in formation and the bees to gather in swarms. When the Wolf and the Doe mated, these wise men gave this knowledge as a wedding gift. Teach your children, they said, so that they may grow to become the strongest clans under the Eternal Blue Heaven.”

“But the clans did not unite until Genghis brought them together,” Chucai pointed out. Ghaltai’s story sounded like yet another fable that had become truth, another fanciful explanation for Genghis’s rise to power. He had heard so many of these stories over the years; in fact, he and Genghis had laughed together about a number of them. They were the idle stories that belonged to the uneducated-the superstitious who would flock to a passionate visionary and follow him anyway.

“The clans were waiting,” Ghaltai said with an unsettling fervor. “They were waiting for someone to claim the legacy of Borte Chino and Qo’ai Maral. My father’s father led the Darkhat when Genghis returned to Burqan-qaldun. He told his father, who, in turn, told me when I was old enough to take his place, that Genghis was visited by Tengri in a vision. Tengri told him where to find the sacred grove, the place where Wolf and Doe first laid together. Beyond the mountain. Genghis went there alone, and-”

“And when he returned, he had the banner,” Chucai said, filling in the last detail of Ghaltai’s story. “But you don’t know where or how he found it.”

Ghaltai nodded. “We guard the way to the grove, but we do not venture onto the path.”

Squinting, Chucai raised his face toward the mountain. “Ogedei Khan has had a vision as well,” he said. “He has come to hunt a bear in the sacred grove.” When Ghaltai did not respond, he lowered his gaze and looked over at the Darkhat rider.

Ghaltai sat rigidly in his saddle, and he would not meet Chucai’s gaze. “It is a place of powerful spirits,” was all that he would say.