The Mongoliad: Book Three

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Gansukh and Alchiq were spotted before they were able to get high enough on the hill to have a clear shot at the pair of archers behind the boulders. But they were high enough-and close enough-that the two Westerners had to deal with them before they could go back to killing Mongols in the valley. In that sense, they had done all they could to save the Khagan, but as the tall Westerner turned his fearsome bow on them, Gansukh realized his own life was now in mortal danger.

The long arrows of the Westerner were not deterred by brush or tree trunks less than a hand’s breadth in width. One of the broadhead arrows punched completely through the twisted roots he had been lying behind, the tip scratching his shoulder, and he stared at the razor-sharp arrowhead for a moment. So much power, he thought with a shudder. He scrambled over the roots, diving for the security of a jumble of rock. His shoulders remained clenched during his frantic dash, and even after he was nestled securely behind the rocks, he couldn’t relax. Would the rocks be protection enough?

The other archer, a gaunt man with black hair and bristling whiskers, had a bow like his and Alchiq’s. Deadly enough, and Gansukh couldn’t ignore him entirely, but the real target was the tall man.

Gansukh laid another arrow across his bow as he slowly peered around the edge of his shelter. Alchiq’s bow sang behind him, and he risked a glance as Alchiq’s arrow flew toward its target. He could see the edge of a man’s cloak, fluttering behind the rocks. He stood, held his breath for a second-waiting-and then released his arrow. He snatched another arrow for his quiver, laid it across the notch, pulled the string and released. The fluttering cloth was still there, and his second arrow pinned it to the ground.

He ducked down, duck-walked to his left as far as he could without exposing himself, readied another arrow, and rose to his feet again. He exhaled, staring at the wild eyes of the black-haired man for a second as he looked up from tugging at his pinned cloak, and then Gansukh released his arrow.

Even as the arrow flew from his bow, he knew it was going to miss. The man was leaning to his left, straining against his pinned cloak. Gansukh reached for another arrow, got it nocked, and was starting to pull the string back when the tall man stood up. Gansukh released early-much too early-and his arrow flipped out of his bow like a feather flying off a duck’s back. The man convulsed his body, a strange motion that made sense to Gansukh as soon as he saw what it accomplished, and then Gansukh was throwing himself to the ground to avoid the tall man’s long arrow.

Hands and chest pressed against the ground, breath stirring up dust, Gansukh stared up at the arrow quivering in the rock upslope of him. The head wasn’t buried deep in the stone, but enough that the arrow stood out straight. It quivered, as if were an angry wasp trying to sting the rock to death.

“Again,” Alchiq hissed at him from a spot above and to his left.

“You first,” Gansukh whispered back, still transfixed by the rock-piercing arrow.

The horses were scattering, and by his count, R?dwulf had killed six. Istvan had killed the horse of the one they thought was the Khagan, and he had almost put an arrow into that man’s purple jacket. Almost.

R?dwulf knew that if he didn’t manage to kill the Khagan in the first few seconds, he probably wouldn’t get the opportunity. Their location was far enough from the bear’s cave that hitting a moving target-one that was doing its best to evade his arrows-was going to be very difficult. As soon as the hunting party dissolved into a confused mass of horses and men, he gave up trying for the Khagan. He focused on the slow-moving ones. And the horses. If they had to walk or run, it meant they stayed in range longer. He would have more time to kill them.

Except for the pair of archers who had climbed up to the bear’s cave. He had glimpsed white hair on one, and he knew, without a doubt, that it was Alchiq. He knew what they were going to do, and he told Istvan to keep an eye on them. Let them think they are getting close, he had said. And then we’ll deal with them.

They had gone upslope though, which presented a bit of a problem, but it wasn’t an insurmountable issue. He would have to break off shooting at the men and horses to deal with them.

He tracked one last target, a tall man with a flowing beard astride a beautiful black horse, and with a twinge of guilt, he put an arrow in the horse’s flank. He grinned as both horse and rider went down, the man’s leg pinned to the horse’s flank by his arrow.

Istvan cursed, and R?dwulf glanced over his shoulder. The Hungarian was pulling at his cloak, which appeared to be caught on something. Istvan stopped suddenly, raising his head and looking behind upslope. R?dwulf threw himself toward the rocks as another arrow whistled down from above. Istvan grunted as the arrow sliced through the meat of his arm.

R?dwulf turned, his hands positioning an arrow on his bow with unconscious alacrity. He drew the string of his longbow back, sighted, and when the Mongol he was aiming at fumbled his arrow, he loosed his own shaft with a sigh.

He was impressed at the speed with which the Mongol dropped out of sight.

Setting another arrow across his bow, he stepped to his right and kicked at the arrow pinning Istvan’s cloak to the ground. The arrow snapped off, and he stepped forward into a wide stance with his left foot. He was out from behind the rock, but he had a clear view of the hillside. If either of the two Mongols moved, he would put an arrow right through them.

He hoped it would be Alchiq.

The Mongols rose together, and for a second he hesitated, torn between targets. Letting a blasphemous curse slip, he loosed his arrow, aiming for the gray-haired bastard who had dogged them endlessly, and then he tried to move back to the protection of the rock.

He made it, but something slammed into his right hip and he leaned back against the stone, teeth clenched against the ribbon of fire running up his side.

A Mongol arrow jutted out of his hip, and when he moved, it moved too. It had pierced the flat bone, and would be hard to get out.

“Istvan,” he snarled, looking around for the Hungarian. The other man wasn’t there, and R?dwulf wasted a few precious seconds wondering where he had gone. Had he fled? Had he been hit as well and tumbled down the hillside?

It doesn’t matter, he told himself, returning his attention to the arrow in his hip. He had to get it out. It was going to interfere with his shooting. He gripped the shaft, and a fresh wave of pain slammed through his body. Break it off, he commanded his hands. There isn’t time to pull it out.

With a savage chop of his hand, he snapped the shaft of the arrow off, and the resulting pain brought tears to his eyes. He threw his head back against the rock, gasping for breath, straining against the vibrant colors that threatened to block his vision. The pain ebbed, and he could move his hip now without debilitating agony.

He reached for his bow, which had slipped to the ground next to the rocks. Bending was difficult, but he managed to hook his fingers around the horn end of the bow and tug it toward him. Just as he was maneuvering himself back upright, he heard the crunching noise of a boot against loose rock.

Alchiq stood above him, not ten paces away. His bow was drawn and the tip of the arrow was pointed at R?dwulf’s heart.

The tall Englishman didn’t flinch as the gray-haired Mongol released his arrow. It flew straight and true, and he heard it hit its target. So this is what it feels like… and then all sense and meaning passed.