The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Shortly after the hunting party left the confines of the valley, it ascended a narrow ridge, and Ogedei reined in his horse to admire the view. The valley was a long indentation that ran east to west, as if Tengri himself had reached down and dug a trough through the verdant forests that blanketed the lower slopes of Burqan-qaldun. The air was clear and crisp, and Ogedei could see the tiny shapes of his subjects moving among the colorful mushroom shapes of the ger.

I will build a palace, he decided, caught up in the crystalline clarity of the moment. I will have all the materials brought here. No trees will be cut down. No rocks moved. It will stay pristine-just the way it is today. He stared at his ger and fixed its position in his mind. The palace would be built in the exact same spot.

“My Khan?” Namkhai’s broad face was impassive, but there was the barest hint of a question in his voice.

“I am admiring the view, Namkhai,” Ogedei said. “Is it not a magnificent day?”

“It is, my Khan.”

“A man could accomplish anything he desired on a day like today, could he not?”

“He could, my Khan.” Namkhai’s stony mien cracked slightly, allowing a brief smile to escape.

“And there would be no reason to rush, would there? A man’s destiny will wait for him, yes?”

“It never arrives before he does, my Khan.”

Ogedei laughed. “A wrestler and a philosopher. You are filled with surprises, Namkhai. Once I have slain the bear, will you compose a song in my honor?”

“I regret not, my Khan.”

He is fearless, Ogedei thought. He does not shirk from telling me the truth, even though it might displease me. He glanced over his shoulder, taking in the rest of the hunting party, and his gaze lingered on Alchiq and Gansukh. Would that I had a tumen of men like him, there would be no stopping the Mongol Empire. He casually laid his hand on the shaft of the Spirit Banner, the tall pole stuck into a leather boot attached to his saddle. In his mind, he saw a sea of horses spanning from horizon to horizon, their manes flowing like waves. His hand tightened on the banner as the horsehair tassels whispered gently in the slight breeze.

By midafternoon, the hunting party had ascended into the forest that lay heavily about the shoulders of the mountain. Sunlight trickled in solid streams through the branches of the trees, and swarms of golden motes danced in the radiance. The hunting master and his dogs ranged in front of the main party, keeping company with the trio of Darkhat scouts. Chucai and Namkhai flanked Ogedei, and the remainder of the Torguud followed them in a clump. The other scouts were arranged in wide arcs on either side. There had been no sign of the bear yet, but Ogedei wasn’t terribly concerned.

His mount’s steady gait echoed throughout his body, knocking loose memories that had lain covered for many years. He had forgotten the pleasure of the hunt-his senses awake and marveling at the proliferation of details that his mind, taut like a bowstring, was readily processing. He was ready, quivering like one of the hunting master’s hounds, waiting for some sign of his quarry.

“It has been too long,” Ogedei remarked to Chucai. “I should hunt like this more often. Too much time has passed, and this,” he poked his stout belly, “has grown too large.”

“You are still a better hunter than most,” said Chucai, perfectly composed upon his black steed. “I, for one, have not hunted since before your father elevated me to my position at court.”

“Father!” Ogedei laughed jovially. “No one could match my father. I remember a time when he provided for the entire army. A buck, each and every night. He hunted alone and always brought one back.”

“Bashkiria, my Khan,” Chucai said. “Yes, I recall that campaign. There was more food than we could possibly eat. I gorged myself on venison on more than one occasion.”

“Life was simpler then, wasn’t it?” Ogedei said. “When we got hungry, we would hunt; when we were tired, we slept; when we wanted something…” He sighed and his hand idly patted his belly again.

“The empire has grown mighty, my Khan,” Chucai said silkily. “It has done so under your guidance, and many are thankful every day. The spirits are pleased with your efforts.”

Ogedei stretched in the saddle, working out the tension that had settled in the middle of his back from the ride. “The spirits stir slowly in this disused body,” he said.

Chucai hesitated, and then swallowed his words with a quiet “mmm.” He turned his attention to the forest around them, taking particular note of the lichens that mottled the bark of many trees.

Ogedei considered insisting that Master Chucai reveal what was on his mind, but the Khagan could guess what words had been repressed. He knew he was rotund and out of shape, just as he knew where he had hidden a pair of wineskins in his saddlebags. Chucai would speak in the obsequious language of the court for only so long before his tongue would get the better of him, and in this case, he would be speaking the truth. All he had to do was stretch out his right hand, dig around in the saddlebag on that side of his horse, and he could lay his hand on that disappointment. He hadn’t been able to abandon his thirst entirely. His strength of will had improved immeasurably, but it was still nothing more than a newborn babe. Easily smothered.

There was too much silence in the air for the Khagan’s comfort, and he turned to Namkhai and said, by way of changing the subject, “Have you ever brought down a beast as mighty as this?”

Namkhai shook his head. “The great bear is going to be a mighty challenge, my Khan,” he said. “Arrows alone might not be enough to penetrate its hide.”

“The dogs will weary it.” Ogedei waved a hand in the direction of the snapping pack who yearned to be freed of their yokes. “When they are done, when they have blooded it, then it will be my turn.”

“It may take down one of our hunters before then,” said Namkhai. “A wounded beast is dangerous. Perhaps we could set a trap for it with spears. Harass it until we can drive it into impaling itself.”

Ogedei shook his head. “Where is the honor in that?”

Namkhai looked at him with heavily lidded eyes and only shrugged.

“Harass it, bleed it even, if that allows us to trap it, but I must kill it. That is what the spirits want. I must deliver the killing blow so that I can take in its spirit. How else will the spirit of the Great Bear know who it must fill?

Namkhai shook his head. “You have a great challenge before you, O Great Khagan,” he said. “May the Blue Wolf favor you.”

Ogedei felt his blood surge in his ears, a sudden pounding as his heart beat more heavily in his chest. Just like Chucai, he thought wildly, he doubts that I can do it. His hands tightened on his reins, and he felt his neck muscles tense in preparation of the shout that was beginning to swell from his belly. With a great deal of difficulty, he swallowed his ire. He has no faith, he realized, and instead of letting his anger out, he shoved it back down, deep into his belly. I will show him. I will show them all.

In his mind, he could see himself wrestling with the bear, armed only with a curved sword. Towering on its hind legs, foam flecking its enormous jaws, it raged and snarled at him. He stabbed it, over and over, ignoring its ineffective swipes at his armor with its giant paws. It tried to pin him, tried to bite his throat with its sharp teeth, but he plunged his sword deep within that open mouth, ramming the blade back and up and into the bear’s brain.

Let them doubt me, Ogedei thought. I can-I will-do this.

On the last stroke, his hand had been steady. He did not waver. He did not hesitate.

Gansukh rode on the right rear flank of the hunting party, his eyes scanning the forest. A beast as old and venerated as the Darkhat spoke of would have terrorized this area for so long that it would make little effort to hide itself. He watched the groupings of smaller saplings for signs that some of them had been rudely forced aside. He read the patterns on the bark, looking for the white scars left by claws being sharpened. Would it hide its kills? Gansukh doubted so, and he kept an eye out for the carrion birds that would circle around the rotting carcasses of the bear’s prey, picking at the dead until there was nothing left.

He also kept watch for Munokhoi. The ex-Torguud captain was not part of the hunting party. He had carefully examined every face of the forty-plus men the Khagan had brought with him. Nor had he expected that Munokhoi would have joined the group. Too many of the men would have noticed the ostracized ex-captain’s presence and said something. No, Munokhoi was in the woods, though he did not know how close.

As the hunting party made its way through the woods, Gansukh drifted farther and farther away from the main host. If Munokhoi was trailing them, waiting for an opportunity, then it would be best if he was out of sight of the Khagan’s host. Offering himself as bait.

Sometimes the easiest way to catch a predator was to pretend to be prey.

As the morning wore on, he found his vigilance flagging. There were too many shadows under the trees. Hunting in the woods was much more tiring than hunting on the steppes.

His horse shifted its gait, dancing around the moss-covered hump of an old log, and Gansukh squirmed in his saddle. He was no stranger to riding long distances with a full bladder, but that didn’t make the experience any less uncomfortable. He had pissed from saddleback often enough, but it was easiest when he could look ahead and see that his horse wouldn’t need to change its gait. Here, in the forest, the ground was uneven and the occasional branch tried to grab his horse. Performing the necessary contortions and managing his horse was a little more complicated. Stopping to relieve himself would be simpler.

He pulled his horse to a halt, dismounted, and looped his reins around a low branch of a nearby sapling. He opened one of his saddlebags and retrieved a handful of dried berries. His horse snorted as he offered the treat, its breath warm on his palm. “I’ll be right back,” he said with an affectionate pat between its ears.

He walked a few paces away, adjusting the bow slung over his shoulder. He undid his sash to make water over the gnarled roots of an immense oak. The tree leaned crookedly, an aged malingerer that refused to point in the same direction as its surrounding brethren. Gansukh let out a sigh of satisfaction as the pressure of his bladder lessened.

He was, not unlike other wild animals in the forest, marking his territory. If the hunting party was anywhere near the bear’s cave-and the lack of bear sign suggested they weren’t very close-he would have been more circumspect in his pissing. It wasn’t so much that such behavior was rude-one animal to another; it was that four-legged predators had a much better sense of smell than the two-legged kind. Urine carried a very distinct odor, and leaving such a stain would only alert them of his presence.

A grim smile touched his lips as he finished. Munokhoi had pissed all over his gear. Such a feral response, one wolf marking the territory of another.

He started to retie his sash, and then paused, his senses suddenly alert. He didn’t turn his head, but he tried to read as much of his peripheral surroundings as he could. He listened intently to the sounds of the forest: the rustling of the leaves as they were stroked by the gentle caress of the wind, the creaking and croaking of insects, the crunching sound of his horse’s jaws as it chewed on long grass that it had pulled up, and the distant chatter of birds.

Close by, it was too quiet. An uneasy silence.

His horse raised its head, ears flicking. Its nostrils widened as it smelled the breeze.

Gansukh left his sash half tied and, slowly, put his hands on his bow.

His horse wasn’t frightened by the scent, which meant whatever was out there in the woods wasn’t the bear-or a wolf or some other predator.

He heard the arrow, a rustling that whispered through the trees. It hit its target with a meaty thwap, and his horse let out a dreadful scream. It reared, a long black-fletched arrow protruding from its neck. Blood spattered from the wound, and the beast stumbled as it found its range of movement limited by the reins tied to the sapling. It snorted, its eyes wide with fear and pain, and then it stumbled again, falling heavily against the nearby tree.

Gansukh had instinctively dropped to a crouch as soon as he had heard the arrow, his back pressed against the thick trunk of the leaning oak. He unslung his bow and quickly reset the string, a series of motions his hands performed automatically, unconsciously.

His horse collapsed, its body shuddering with pained breaths. Each one was shorter and more violent than the last. The grass around its head glistened with blood. It couldn’t lie its head down; the reins were still caught in the tree. The fletching on the arrow in its neck matched the arrow he had broken the day before.

Gansukh’s eyes were drawn to the quiver of arrows nestled among his saddlebags. He had no idea where Munokhoi was. The other man would be moving to a better position, but he had no idea how long that would take. He couldn’t stay where he was for long.

If he could just reach his arrows… Even one would be enough.

He shifted his weight, readying himself, and his foot slipped. He glanced down, remembering why the roots of the tree would be wet, and noticed a fist-size rock close to his left boot. He pitched it downslope, hoping it would make a great deal of noise as it rolled through the brush. As soon as he hurled the rock, he made a mad dash for his fallen steed. He didn’t have time to release his quiver from the straps holding it in place; all he could do was grab a handful of arrows.

He kept running, his eyes scanning for a suitable hiding place. An arrow sang past his head, and he changed his direction, forcing Munokhoi to adjust his aim. Gansukh spotted the ragged shape of a giant stump, nearly waist-high, and he dashed toward it, skidding across the ground as he tried to slow his headlong rush. An arrow smacked heavily into the moss-covered wood above his head as he scrambled to cover.

The upper part of the stump had become hollow over time, and there were numerous gaps in the bark. Shifting back and forth between several of the larger holes, he spied on the upward slope. Such scouting was torturous, but he kept at it, hoping to catch some flicker of movement that would indicate Munokhoi’s position.

A shaft of light was eclipsed, and Gansukh fumbled with one of his precious arrows. Holding its fletching with his right hand, he tried to lay the arrow across his bow but it didn’t seem to catch, and he tore his gaze away from his secret spy hole to see what was wrong.

The arrow in his hand was too short, missing its head and a portion of the shaft. It had snapped off during his dash to safety. Cursing, he threw it aside and grabbed another one, visually checking this one before laying it across his bow.

He peered through the bark hole again, moving his head from side to side to increase his field of view. Had he missed his chance? He ground his teeth in frustration and leaped to his feet, drawing his string back and loosing an arrow. He immediately fell back to his crouched position, peering through the gaps.

He didn’t expect to hit Munokhoi, but his arrow drew a response. He heard a hollow thock as one of Munokhoi’s arrows sunk into the old bark. He prepped another arrow and stood up again. He tried not to focus on anything in particular, waiting a fraction of a second for something to move, some target to suggest itself. He sensed motion without actually seeing it, and loosed his second arrow.

At this range, without having time to aim properly, it was next to impossible to hit his target. He could only hope to draw Munokhoi closer. He counted his remaining arrows-three-and decided he didn’t have enough to play this game with Munokhoi.

A booming noise echoed through the forest, and something heavy crashed into the stump, knocking great holes in the wood. Bark pelted Gansukh, and like a startled deer, he sprinted away from his hiding place. He dashed through a clump of spiny bushes, branches clawing at his bow and clothing, and slid to a stop behind an aged spruce. His heart pounded in his chest, and the echo of the thunder still rang in his ears.

Smoke came through the trees, a gray haze that drifted slowly downslope. The upper portion of his previous hiding place looked as if it had been clawed by a giant bear; ragged strips of bark poked up from the crown of the stump like crooked fingers.

There was no bear. Gansukh had heard nothing prior to the sudden boom, nor had there been any subsequent sound of a large animal crashing through the underbrush. It could not have been a lightning strike either. The sky was clear of clouds, and no fire had been started. It had to have been Munokhoi, but what sort of sorcery was it?

Gansukh remembered the night of the Chinese raid. When he had been chasing Lian, he had heard similar booming noises. Afterward, some of the Torguud had spoken of a Chinese weapon, a portable cannon that used fire to hurl shards of metal and pottery with incredible force.

Looking at the wreckage of the stump, Gansukh imagined what such a weapon would do to him. His armor would offer no protection. But the handheld cannon had to be cumbersome to wield, otherwise Munokhoi would have used it when he had first attacked. He wouldn’t have waited until Gansukh had been hiding. In fact, Gansukh theorized, he had only used it because he hadn’t been able to get a clear shot with his bow. I would have done the same, he thought, risking another glance. If your target is obscured, make him move or make his hiding place no longer safe.

Munokhoi had both bow and fire thrower, and Gansukh had only three arrows. He was at a disadvantage, but he thought he knew what Munokhoi was thinking.

An arrow struck the trunk of the tree above Gansukh’s head, and he didn’t flinch. He glanced at it, noting its angle and orientation in the tree, and rose to his feet, mentally reversing its flight path as he drew his bow back and loosed an arrow. It disappeared into a thicket to the right of the last tendrils of drifting smoke, and as he ducked back behind the tree, he noted movement in the brush.

He had to coax Munokhoi close enough that the ex-Torguud captain would try to use the Chinese weapon again. Gansukh suspected it would take Munokhoi some time to ready the weapon-his attention would be devoted to that task. That would be Gansukh’s opportunity to get a clear shot. He had to have time to aim his arrows. He had to see his target without being seen.

Gansukh poked his head out once more, and another arrow hissed past. He darted in the other direction, up slope but still away from Munokhoi. He paused behind every large tree-varying the time spent in cover so that Munokhoi couldn’t anticipate when he would emerge again. He kept looking for a suitable hiding place, and finally spotted a fallen tree that had lodged between two other trees. The trio of trees made for excellent cover-he could stand upright and still be hidden from view-and the long trunk of the fallen tree provided him the means to crawl away from cover without being seen.

He made it to the other side of the barrier without being hit by an arrow, and he caught his breath before he carefully poked his head out for a quick peek. He saw no sign of Munokhoi, and he shifted to the center of his cover. Grabbing onto the thick bark of the fallen tree, he hoisted himself up to risk another look. An arrow skipped off the bark, not far from his head. It vanished into the forest behind him as he dropped back down.

Munokhoi was still coming. Gansukh didn’t have a lot of time with which to accomplish his ruse. He dropped to his belly and began worming his way along the ground. When he had gone several body lengths, he got to his knees and slowly rose to a half crouch, peering over the dead tree. He had chosen a spot where a leafy fern had spouted from the trunk, and he was confident he wouldn’t be seen.

His ruse had worked. He could see Munokhoi clearly, kneeling behind a large bush. His bow lay on the ground beside him, and he was busy stuffing something into an iron tube held cradled in one arm.

Gansukh nocked one of his two remaining arrows and, holding the bow sideways so that he wouldn’t reveal himself prematurely, he drew back the string. Rising slowly to a standing position-his thighs quivering at the glacial pace of his motion-he aimed carefully. Munokhoi sensed his presence right before he let go of the bowstring, and Gansukh had a brief glimpse of the ex-Torguud captain’s wild eyes before he ducked back down behind the log.

Gansukh scrambled farther to his left, not worrying too much about being quiet, and finding another fern to obscure him, he risked another glance over the log.

Munokhoi was gone, but he had left a leather satchel on the ground. Gansukh wasted a few seconds peering at where Munokhoi had been crouching, trying to ascertain any other sign that his arrow had struck its target, and movement in the nearby bush warned him in time. Munokhoi’s arrow shredded the leaves of the fern as he ducked. That one would have hit him if he hadn’t moved.

He saw a gap between the tree trunk and the ground and realized he had gone as far as he readily could. The gap grew wider on his left, and Munokhoi would be able to track his movement.

The Chinese weapon thundered again, and Gansukh flinched even though he was protected by the dead tree. Wood splintered and cracked nearby, and he looked upslope to see a spindly tree start to topple. Munokhoi’s cannon blast had destroyed the tree’s trunk, and the tree was falling right toward him. Its looming branches were like a hundred eager hands, reaching for him.

Gansukh scrambled out of the tree’s path, and the trunk missed him-striking the heavy log and rebounding. It slid downhill, its branches clawing and tearing at his clothes. He tripped and struggled to free himself of the tree’s clutches. After being dragged a few paces, he managed to roll free of the branches, still clutching his bow.

But he had lost his last arrow.

His heart racing, he ran, weaving through the trees to spoil Munokhoi’s aim. Arrows whistled through the branches around him as he fled, and some of them smacked into trees, sounding like a flat hand swatting a horse’s rump. Run faster, young pony, run faster.

As the arrows faltered, he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings: Where was the brush thickest? Could he find a hollow log to hide inside? Were the shadows beneath a copse of evergreens dark enough?

None of these places mattered though if he didn’t have an arrow. All he needed was one clear shot, but there had to be some bait for Munokhoi. How to best the hunter at his game? Where could he hide that Munokhoi wouldn’t think to look for him?

The forest had gotten thicker, the trees bristling with densely packed branches. He stopped beside a wide alder with a generous shroud of thick branches. The owl falls upon its prey from above, he thought, mentally charting a path up through the branches of the tree. The hare doesn’t see the owl until it is too late.

He draped his bow around his neck so that it lay close to his chest. Branches poked at his face as he began to climb, and his heart leaped into his throat when one branch snapped as he put his weight on it. He looked down once, and his head started to swim as he saw how far off the ground he was, but he tamped his fear down and kept going. He paused once more, balancing on one foot, to hack at a relatively straight branch with his knife. Finally, he found a pair of thick branches that would work as a perch, and he steadied himself against the rough trunk.

He held his arm out, measuring the length of the branch he had cut. Satisfied that it was both long and straight enough, he trimmed it down and then carefully set about stripping off the bark. There were a few tiny buds, and he cut them back, smoothing out the shaft with delicate strokes of his knife. Once all the knobs and burrs were gone, he whittled one end to as fine a point as possible, and then he cut a deep notch in the other end. The last step was to peel back the soft wood on either side of the notch so that he could create makeshift fletching from leaves stuffed under the flaps.

It wouldn’t fly very far and, judging by the gentle curve he hadn’t been able to work out in the shaft, it would pull to the right. But it was an arrow nonetheless.

Settling in to wait, he laid his rough arrow across his bow and kept his right fingers loosely curled around the leafy end. He kept his breathing shallow and measured, ignoring as best he could the cramps and aches that came from holding one position too long. The branch on which he was standing was narrower than his feet, and he couldn’t shift his footing too much without danger of slipping. He watched the landscape below, constantly scanning for some sign of his prey. I am a patient owl.

The hare came.

Down below, Munokhoi stole through the forest. He didn’t step on a single branch, and he eased through the brush more readily and silently than the wind. His bow was held ready, and Gansukh couldn’t tell if he was still carrying the Chinese fire thrower. Munokhoi’s head swung back and forth, his eyes taking in every brush and branch, but he never looked up.

Gansukh drew his bow back slowly, cringing at the slightest creak of the wood. Munokhoi was going to pass on his right, and the best shot would be when the ex-Torguud captain was abreast of him, presenting his own right side to Gansukh. He could take the shot now, but the range was farther than he trusted his ready-made arrow. He had to wait. He held his breath and aimed, feeling the bow become an extension of his body.

As Munokhoi passed Gansukh’s tree, he paused, his head swiveling back and forth. His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed something out of place in the wood.

Gansukh released his pent-up breath, his fingers opening. His bow sang, and there was a flutter of leaves.

Munokhoi took a step back, and looked down at the shaft of fresh wood protruding from his chest. Shock registered on his face for a moment before he toppled to the ground, disappearing from Gansukh’s view

Gansukh let out a whoop of elation as he half clambered, half fell down the tree. The hunt wasn’t over yet, though. He had to be sure Munokhoi was dead. He doubted his arrow had been fatal. He had to get close and slit his throat. Leave nothing to chance.

Munokhoi lay on his back, blood spattered across his jacket and the branches of a nearby bush. He stared up at the panoply of the forest, and his face was contorted in a grimace. Gansukh’s arrow was imbedded in the right side of his chest, sticking nearly straight up.

Gansukh approached cautiously. While Munokhoi seemed dead, his right hand lay concealed beneath his leg. Such positioning could be a coincidence. It could also be a trap.

Trying to keep as much distance as possible, Gansukh stooped over Munokhoi’s body to reach for the arrow. If Munokhoi was only feigning death, he would react when the arrow was pulled out. Gansukh clutched his knife tightly as he leaned over his fallen foe.

Munokhoi let out a blood-curdling scream as Gansukh yanked the arrow out. The ex-Torguud captain sat upright, his hand-holding a dagger-shooting out from behind his leg. Even though he had expected such a surprise, Gansukh seized up in terror, as though he were facing not a mortal man but an evil spirit. Munokhoi’s dagger tangled in Gansukh’s half-tied sash, and he slapped his left hand down, trying to grab Munokhoi’s wrist. He made contact, stopping the thrust, and as he started a tug-of-war his feet were swept out from under him as Munokhoi twisted on the ground.

He landed on his back with a thud, his knife slipping out of his grip, and Munokhoi rolled atop him, pinning his right arm to the ground with a knee. Blood dripped from the wound in Munokhoi’s chest, dotting Gansukh’s jacket. Munokhoi spat in Gansukh’s face, his breath heavy with the stink of airag. “You are weak,” he growled. Gansukh still had a hold on Munokhoi’s wrist, and he held Munokhoi off, barely. The dagger inched closer to his throat.

Gansukh bucked his hips, trying to throw Munokhoi off balance, and when that failed, he tried to kick his leg up high enough to hit Munokhoi in the back of the head, but the ex-captain was leaning too far forward, bearing down with all of his weight. Gansukh bucked again, but this time he tried to extricate his right hand from beneath Munokhoi’s knee. He managed to pull his arm free, without his own knife, but an empty hand was good enough. He dug his fingers into Munokhoi’s jacket, searching for the bloody arrow wound with his thumb.

Munokhoi howled as Gansukh ground his thumb into the open wound. Gansukh bucked again, and Munokhoi’s weight lessened on his chest. Gansukh heaved, rolling onto his side, finally throwing Munokhoi off.

He scrambled for his knife, found it, and then lunged after Munokhoi. As Gansukh charged, Munokhoi braced his hands against the ground and lashed out with a foot, but Gansukh twisted his body enough so that the foot struck him on the shoulder instead of the face. He grabbed at the leg, shoving it to one side so that he could more readily stab at the other man’s stomach with his knife.

Munokhoi brought his other leg up, attempting to trap Gansukh between his thighs. He batted Gansukh’s outstretched hand aside, and as the pair collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs, he began to squeeze with his legs.

Gansukh struggled to free himself. Munokhoi’s legs were constricting his range of motion-one of his arms was pinned at his side-and he was going to have trouble defending himself from Munokhoi’s blade. Gansukh lashed out blindly with his knife, feeling the blade cut fabric and flesh. Munokhoi grunted, and his legs loosened. As Gansukh scrambled out of Munokhoi’s grip, he kept slashing with his blade. Munokhoi began kicking, and Gansukh retreated before one of the other man’s boots connected with his face. There was blood on his knife and on his hand.

Munokhoi rolled away too, using the motion to propel himself into a crouch and from there to an upright position. He favored his left leg, and there was a bright wash of blood running down the side of his pants. Munokhoi’s gaze was charged with feral rage, his mouth contorted into a savage grimace. He stood ready to fight, oblivious to the wounds he had received.

Gansukh had seen this blindness to injury before. Men who refused to lie down and die, no matter how many arrows stuck out of their bodies or how many times they had been stabbed or cut. He had even heard of a man who continued to fight with a severed arm until his heart had pumped nearly all of the blood out of his body.

He wasn’t surprised that Munokhoi would be filled with this invincible bloodlust. In fact, he was prepared to call upon it himself. After everything, Munokhoi was not going to walk out of the forest. Gansukh was going to be the survivor of this fight. “You are nothing,” he hissed. “I will leave your corpse for the scavengers.”

Munokhoi’s response was a snarl of raw hatred and a lightning-fast lunge. Gansukh darted to the side, staying away from Munokhoi’s knife and keeping to the other man’s wounded side, but Munokhoi grabbed his left arm and tried to pull him close. He slashed at Munokhoi’s neck with his knife, and Munokhoi tumbled forward, shoving his shoulder. He stepped back, stumbling slightly, and Munokhoi slipped behind him, making ready to slit his throat like a sheep.

Gansukh contorted his body, trapping Munokhoi’s arm with his own. They were locked together now, each straining to overpower the other. Whoever lost control first would lose his life. Their faces reddened with anger and effort as they twisted in a macabre dance, trying to break each other’s hold. Trying to drive their knives deep into flesh. They were evenly matched, unable to gain the advantage while keeping the other’s knife at bay. Munokhoi slipped his arm over Gansukh’s wrist, attempting an arm lock, and Gansukh wriggled free and nearly managed to throw Munokhoi in return.

Munokhoi recovered and stabbed at Gansukh’s side, but there wasn’t enough speed or force to his blow, and Gansukh was able to stop the blow by grabbing Munokhoi’s wrist and pushing his hand away. Growling with frustration, Munokhoi hurled himself forward, thrusting with his chest. He snapped at Gansukh’s cheek with his teeth. Gansukh pulled his head back, and Munokhoi lurched farther up his chest, still straining to bite. He latched onto Gansukh’s ear, grinding his jaws together. He shook his head back and forth, like a dog worrying a piece of raw meat.

Gansukh felt blood flowing down his neck. He wanted to jerk his head away, but he knew if he did it would only increase Munokhoi’s blood rage. But letting Munokhoi gnaw on his flesh wasn’t helping either. He twisted his body, trying to slip his shoulder against Munokhoi’s chest, and he felt Munokhoi’s grip loosen on his right wrist.

The hand holding the knife.

Gansukh jerked his hand up, wrenching his wrist free of Munokhoi’s grasp, and he drove his blade swift and deep into Munokhoi’s neck.

Munokhoi shivered and jerked his head back. His jaw had locked, and he tore a piece of Gansukh’s earlobe free. Gansukh retaliated by yanking his blade forward and then pulling it back, tearing a deep slash across Munokhoi’s throat. Munokhoi started to choke, and when he spat the piece of Gansukh’s ear out, blood spattered from his mouth.

Gansukh tried to shove him away, but Munokhoi, eyes bright with spite, clung to him like a leech as he staggered and fell. Munokhoi coughed up a gout of blood when Gansukh landed on top of him, and he weakly tried to fend off Gansukh’s blade. Gansukh stabbed Munokhoi again and again-in the chest, in the neck. Blood flowed freely from the copious wounds, and Munokhoi’s motions became more and more feeble. His skin paled, his mouth went slack, and finally his eyes lost their mad gleam. Only when he no longer showed any reaction to being stabbed did Gansukh finally stop. Leaving his knife imbedded in Munokhoi’s chest, Gansukh slid off the dead body and crawled a short distance away. Bent over, he threw up again and again until the bloodlust was purged from his being.

At last the bloody work was done.

Late in the afternoon, the hunting party rested by a stream that gurgled happily along a rock-strewn course. The horses drank their fill and quietly nosed around, cropping the tender grasses that grew along the bank. Ogedei had been only too happy to get out of his saddle, and he moved a little stiffly as he walked back and forth along the river’s track.

Namkhai took the opportunity of this rest to check on his men, and he walked among them, making small talk and inquiring of what they had seen (or hadn’t, in the case of bear sign). Of all the host, only the old rider-Alchiq-didn’t dismount. He stayed in his saddle, quietly chewing on a piece of salted meat.

“Where’s Gansukh?” Namkhai asked.

Alchiq nodded past Namkhai’s shoulder, his expression unchanging, his mouth moving slowly around the jerky.

Namkhai turned and spotted Gansukh emerging from the forest. Ogedei’s young pony raised a hand in greeting when he saw Namkhai looking at him, and he angled his horse toward the two men. “Hai, Namkhai,” he said.

“Hai, Gansukh,” Namkhai said. “You fell behind.” He looked around and spotted the short shaman and his equally tiny pony. “Even the old wizard got here before you.”

“I saw a squirrel,” Gansukh offered as an explanation.

Namkhai stared at the young rider, considering what he saw. Gansukh sat stiffly in his saddle, and his clothing was rumpled and ill fitting. The left side of his face was turned away, a posture that seemed forced and awkward-as if he were hiding something from Namkhai’s view. Though he seemed both dazed and exhausted, his face was at ease, with a tiny satisfied smile. There was a blotch on his neck, a dark stain that hadn’t been completely wiped away.

“It was a very big squirrel,” he said in response to Namkhai’s quizzical eyebrow.

Namkhai nodded thoughtfully as he let his gaze roam over Gansukh’s mount. It was a darker color than he remembered, and both the saddle and the cloak bound to the cantle were much finer and less travel-stained than he would expect of a horse rider like Gansukh. “I do not like squirrels,” he said finally.

Alchiq chuckled, and then spat a chewed bit of meat on the ground. “Who does?” he said innocently. “Nasty rodents. That one will not be missed.”

Namkhai laughed. “No,” he said. “Not in the slightest.” He bowed his head to Gansukh once more. “That is a beautiful horse,” he said. “I suspect such an animal would cost… fifty cows or so. A suitable payment for outstanding debts, don’t you think?”

Gansukh patted the horse’s neck. “Suitable enough,” he said. “I am satisfied.”

“As am I,” Namkhai said.