The Mongoliad: Book Three

by Neal Stephenson

  “Is there going to be shooting or talking here today?” The new speaker was a stocky man, wide in the neck and gregarious in his expressions. He and a half dozen other Torguud had wandered up while Gansukh and Tarbagatai had been admiring each other’s bow. The newcomer planted his feet wide and put his hands on his hips as he voiced his jovial query. He looked like nothing more than a smaller version of Namkhai, and Gansukh realized the similarity was not accidental. Namkhai had a cousin in the Torguud. What is his name?

  Tarbagatai came to his rescue. “There will be more talking than shooting now that you are here, Sübegei.”

  “Is that so?” Sübegei laughed. “Someone has to bore your enemies so they will stand still long enough for you to hit them.” He gestured toward the archery targets. “Come on, you two. We heard there was going to be a contest.”

  “Still have some money from last night, eh?” Gansukh asked.

  “I understand you have forty-nine more cows than you know what to do with,” Sübegei said. “Maybe we can help you part with some of them.”

  “What makes you think I know what to do with the first one?” Gansukh said, and the group laughed uproariously. He grinned at Tarbagatai and motioned the younger man toward the crooked line of dark rocks that marked the edge of archery field. “How shall we do this?” he asked.

  Sübegei overheard him and offered his own interpretation of the rules. “Seven arrows,” he said. “Tarbagatai gets dark fletching; Gansukh will have the light-colored fletching.” He gestured at the archers who had just finished shooting, and they started to dig through their quivers to assemble the requisite arrows. There were some friendly disagreements about what constituted light and dark among the arrows.

  Sübegei rolled his eyes and shrugged at Gansukh’s inquiring glance. “You’ll be judged for speed and accuracy,” he continued, ignoring the altogether too-complicated process of arrow selection. “The archer who finishes first will be awarded one additional point, and then we’ll examine the targets. Does that sound fair?”

  Gansukh gave Tarbagatai back his bow and received his own in turn. “That sounds fair,” he said as he slipped the string loose and bent his bow to restring it properly. Tarbagatai agreed too, and both men stepped up to the edge of the range and collected their arrows. Gansukh took the other arrows out of his quiver, placing them on the ground, and arranged his seven carefully so they were ready to be pulled. He noticed Tarbagatai lagging behind him, the younger man carefully copying every motion—the mountain archer wasn’t going to make the same mistake he had last time when he had failed to set up his arrows for rapid shooting.

  Gansukh nocked the first arrow and looked down the range, checking the location of each of the targets. There were ten targets in all, but no more than two were at any given distance, and they started fairly close—not much more than ten strides away. He would start with the closest pair—that would allow him to gauge the distance more readily—and he suspected Tarbagatai would employ the same tactic. But Gansukh also suspected Tarbagatai would be seduced by possibility of the extra point for firing all his arrows first, and in his mind, Gansukh had already conceded that point. He knew Tarbagatai was faster, so he had to be more accurate.

  “Quiet,” Sübegei called behind him, and when the assembled soldiers didn’t stop their chatter quickly enough, he raised his voice. “Shut up, you louts!”

  Gansukh turned his head to the left and glanced at Tarbagatai; the mountain archer favored him with a tiny grin. “Are you ready?” Tarbagatai asked, and Gansukh nodded. As the crowd finally settled down, Gansukh returned his attention down range. The morning sun made the red paint gleam, and a slight breeze wafted up the rise. The conditions were perfect.

  “Archers!” Sübegei cried. “Ready!” Gansukh raised his bow, pulling the string back to his ear. His shoulders were tight, and he tried to relax. He tried to focus on the first target, but something seemed amiss. A bead of sweat slid down the left side of his face, almost going into his eye, and he blinked heavily.

  “Fire!” Sübegei shouted, and Tarbagatai let out a tiny grunt as he released his arrow.

  Gansukh took one step back.

  He heard a whisper of sound, the fluttering noise of an arrow as it passes. He sensed more than saw a black blur flying past him, moving from his left to his right. Without thinking, he stepped forward and turned, causing Tarbagatai to flinch, fumbling his second arrow. Gansukh ignored him, looking across the river for his target.

  Looking for the source of the arrow that would have hit him if he hadn’t taken that backward step.

  Behind him the crowd was making noise—not all of it pleasant—and Tarbagatai had stepped back from the edge of the range, his eyes wide. Gansukh studiously ignored all of the distractions, his eyes scanning for some sign of Munokhoi.

  He was out there. Gansukh hadn’t imagined the arrow.

  “Gansukh, hold,” Sübegei tried to get his attention. “Put your bow down.”

  Growling in his throat, Gansukh lowered his arms and let out the tension in his bowstring. His eyes kept scanning the row of ger, looking for any sign of movement. Finally, he relented, letting out a pent-up rush of air. “I am sorry, Tarbagatai,” he said, looking toward the mountain archer. “That was very unsporting of me. I was...” he cast about for some suitable explanation, “momentarily dazzled by the sun. Disoriented.” He let out a short bark of laughter. “I was so frightened by your first arrow that I thought I was in the midst of a terrifying battle.”

  Tarbagatai raised an eyebrow, but the tension remained in his face and shoulders. “You are a bad liar, Gansukh.”

  “Bah,” Gansukh said, dismissing Tarbagatai’s claim. “It is a good thing to be bad at, don’t you think?”

  Tarbagatai managed a weak grin.

  Gansukh glanced at the row of ger again. “Shall we try again?” he asked, even though part of him wanted to charge across the river and search for the elusive Munokhoi. “I promise to be less frightened of your magnificent shooting.”

  Someone in the crowd groaned noisily, and a voice piped up: “Make him give you his bow if he does it again!”

  Gansukh nodded in agreement. “Fair enough. You may have my bow if I am nothing less than virtuous in my shooting.”

  Tarbagatai tried to remain aloof, but his gaze lingered overlong on Gansukh’s bow. “I suppose we can try again,” he said.

  Gansukh gestured at the crowd. “My opponent will need two more arrows,” he called.

  “Only one,” Tarbagatai corrected. He pointed. “I’ll keep that first one.” Tarbagatai’s first shot was dead-center in the nearest target’s red heart.

  “Fair enough,” Gansukh said, squinting at the target.

  An arrow was provided, and Sübegei counted them off again. Gansukh shot slowly, striving for accuracy, and Tarbagatai took care with his shots as well, knowing that Gansukh would not be rushing. Still, in very little time, the quivers of both archers were empty.

  “Extra point for Tarbagatai,” Sübegei called. The crowd shouted, pleased with the performance of both men. “Let us go check the arrows,” Sübegei said, and the crowd moved forward, sweeping both Tarbagatai and Gansukh up with it.

  Gansukh let the group pass around him, and once the bulk of the men were past, he turned to his right and walked in a straight line, his eyes scanning the ground for the straight shaft of dark arrow.

  He didn’t have to walk far. Munokhoi’s arrow was buried in the scrub grass, and only a short span of the shaft and the fletching were visible. Gansukh looked back, tracing the path of the arrow, and gauged from between which two ger Munokhoi had most likely shot the arrow. He stepped purposefully on the shaft, breaking it beneath his boot, and then went to join the others.

  The flaps of Gansukh’s ger sagged open like the slack mouth of a dead man, and Gansukh knew what he would find inside. He paused, out of direct line with the opening, and looked around once more, checking for any out of the ordinary movement.

  He had seen
no sign of Munokhoi since the incident with the arrow at the archery range, but he knew that meant little. The ex–Torguud captain was watching him, stalking him throughout the camp. Waiting for an opportunity to strike with impunity.

  The fact that Munokhoi hadn’t openly assaulted him meant the ex-captain was still aware of the consequences of assassinating another Mongol, especially one whose death the Khagan would notice. In some ways, that made him more dangerous.

  Satisfied that there was no one watching him, Gansukh approached his ger and cautiously peeked inside. As he suspected, all of his gear was in disarray. Munokhoi had been here and had taken out his frustrations on Gansukh’s belongings. Gansukh wrinkled his nose as he smelled the acrid stench of urine. Munokhoi had done more than shred his shirts and slash all of his water skins; he had pissed all over everything.

  Gansukh sighed, and calmly laced up the flaps on his ger. He had come to Karakorum with nothing more than what fit in a pair of saddlebags on his horse; he could survive being reduced to that again. In some ways, Munokhoi’s wanton destruction was a blessing—a reminder of who he really was. Most of the clothing he had acquired at Karakorum wasn’t all that functional out on the open steppe, and Gansukh felt oddly free of the weight of those belongings.

  I am a Mongol clansman. I belong outside—the steppes beneath my feet, Eternal Blue Sky above my head. I want nothing else.

  He had his knife, his sword, his bow, and his horse. On the first night of the trip, he had sewn a tiny pocket on the inside of his favorite jacket—a home for the lacquer box and the sprig. At the time he hadn’t given the urge to do so much thought, but now he was glad he had.

  He did not understand the importance of the tiny twig, but it had meant something to the shaman and Ögedei. The sprig, in some ways, was the reason the Khagan was taking this trip. Ögedei had told him to hang on to it until the Khagan found himself worthy of it once more. Worthy of what? It didn’t matter; it was Gansukh’s job to keep it safe.

  The afternoon shadows were getting long as Gansukh wandered past the fighters’ cages. There were only six men left now, and they all had suffered minor injuries during the last round of bouts for the Khagan’s entertainment. The red-haired giant had lost a chunk out of his left forearm when his opponent had desperately tried to chew his way out of the giant’s crushing bear hug. The one who braided his beard had almost lost an eye.

  Gansukh drifted past Haakon’s cage, watching the young man as he calmly and slowly performed a series of exercises that worked the muscles in his upper body. He had stripped off his ragged shirt, and the cut across his chest was red and swollen, but it looked like it wasn’t infected. The bruise on his cheek had turned a sullen purple color.

  Haakon noticed Gansukh and brought his hands together in the traditional greeting. Gansukh responded in kind, somewhat amused by the youth’s efforts to learn the local customs. “Hai, Haakon,” he said. “Your wound heals well?”

  “Yes, friend Gansukh,” Haakon replied. “I am a valuable cow.” His accent had gotten better.

  Gansukh couldn’t help but grin. “That you are.”

  “Knife for me next time?”

  Gansukh shook his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t—” He realized Haakon wasn’t speaking to him, and when he followed the Northerner’s gaze, he found a gray-haired Mongol standing a few paces behind him. In a flash, Gansukh read his history: the slight bow to his legs, the deep lines around his eyes, and the seasoned darkness of his aged skin. This man had been a horse rider his entire life.

  “I suspected he knew our tongue,” the gray-haired man said as he came abreast Gansukh.

  Bewildered, Gansukh tried to understand what had just transpired between the prisoner and the gray-haired rider. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “My name is Alchiq,” the rider said. “I was this one’s age when Genghis Khan brought the clans together. I have served the empire ever since.” He turned his attention to Gansukh. “You were at Kozelsk,” he said, “with Batu Khan.”

  “I may have been,” Gansukh said.

  Alchiq offered him a smile that didn’t go all the way to his eyes. “You were. You opened the gates so that the Khan’s army could take their revenge for their fallen brothers.”

  Gansukh flinched. “You must be mistaken,” he said. “I was just a scout. I never...”

  Haakon was staring intently at him, studying Gansukh’s face. Gansukh swallowed heavily and pushed away the memories of Kozelsk that were threatening to surface and changed the subject. “You gave the knife to the Kitayan.”

  Alchiq nodded. “I did.” He too was watching Gansukh closely, watching for some reaction in Gansukh’s eyes to his admission.

  “Why?”

  “To see how well this one could fight. To see what he would do if he was given an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity for what?”

  “The Torguud captain—Namkhai—is a very large man,” Alchiq said. He held up his fist, showing it to Haakon. “He has a big hand, yes?”

  Haakon raised a hand and touched his bruised cheek. “Big hand,” he echoed.

  Alchiq walked up to the cage, his hand still clenched in a fist. “I know you, Skjaldbræður.” He opened his hand and slapped the bars of the cage, grinning at Haakon’s reaction.

  Alchiq gestured for Gansukh to follow him, and when Gansukh opened his mouth to ask a question, Alchiq shook his head. The gray-haired man waited until they had passed the last cage before he spoke. “The boy listens too intently,” he said by way of explanation. “He spies on us from his cage.”

  “That word you said. Skold—”

  “Skjaldbræður,” Alchiq corrected.

  “What does it mean?”

  “How long did Kozelsk hold Batu Khan at bay?” Alchiq asked, seeming to not hear Gansukh’s question. “Seven weeks?”

  “Something like that,” Gansukh replied, somewhat flustered by the change in topic. “I don’t recall exactly.”

  “And how many experienced fighters did that city have? Once the gates were open, how many hardened warriors did we find?” He poked Gansukh in the chest. “How many did you kill?”

  Gansukh rolled his tongue around his mouth. “A handful,” he lied.

  Alchiq pursed his lips. “A handful? Batu let his army raze the city so that the West would know his anger at being denied, but the damage was done. There was a tiny garrison in that city, and the rest were old men, women, and children. They held off the entire might of the Khagan’s army for nearly two moons. Batu sent word back to Karakorum that he needed more men, that the West was so bountiful that his army could not carry all the wealth they were plundering. But that wasn’t the truth, was it? The armies of the empire had gotten soft. They had become accustomed to their enemies running in fear when they saw the banners of the Mongol Empire. Subutai recognized the danger, but Batu did not. The other Khans did not.” Alchiq jerked his head in the direction of Haakon’s cage. “There are others like him. Other Skjaldbræður. They will not yield to us. They will never stop fighting us.”

  “You’ve fought them,” Gansukh said, realizing Alchiq had answered his previous question in a roundabout way.

  Alchiq nodded. “Ten of them took on an entire jaghun. They lost one man. I killed him. I snuck up on him and broke him when he was collecting water.” He let out a short laugh that was void of any humor. “And then I ran.”

  “There is no shame in that,” Gansukh said.

  “I was not seeking your approval, boy.” Alchiq poked Gansukh in the chest again.

  Gansukh caught Alchiq’s finger and pushed his hand away. “I wasn’t offering any,” he snapped.

  Alchiq brayed with laughter, and he slapped Gansukh with good humor on the arm. “Try not to confuse your enemies with your friends, young pony,” he said. “I spent many years being angry at the wrong people, and now those years are gone. What do I have to show for it?”

  Gansukh recalled the disarray in his ger, and his irritation subsided. “My apologies, vene
rable goat,” he said, his tone only slightly mocking.

  “The Khagan begins his hunt in the morning,” Alchiq said. “You and I will be joining him. We must be wary of being hunted ourselves.”

  “Of course,” Gansukh nodded. “It would be an honor to join you.” Internally, his guts tightened. Hunted. If he hadn’t dealt with Munokhoi by then, he would be leaving Lian unprotected. He had to warn her.

  It was only some time later that he realized Alchiq had been talking about something else entirely.

  I will kill them both—pony and goat.

  Munokhoi sat cross-legged in his ger, calmly chewing on a slice of salted meat. His mind was restless, buzzing with plans and ideas. In a metal brazier, a tiny flame danced, the only illumination in his ger. Shadows danced all around, a capering festival of spooky figures that moved in accordance with the shivering delight Munokhoi felt inside.

  He had shadowed Gansukh all day, and other than the single arrow fired during the archery contest had not revealed his presence. He had shoved his fist in his mouth to stop from giggling aloud when Gansukh had finally gone back to his wrecked ger. Oh, how satisfying it had been to drink dry all of Gansukh’s skins and then slice them with his knife. And then, a half hour later, the supreme pleasure at passing that same liquid there. I have stolen nothing, he had thought as he pissed all over the sleeping furs and the ruined clothing.

  Listening to the gray-haired fool and Gansukh talk by the prisoners’ cages, it had been difficult to contain his rage when he learned that the old man Alchiq had given the Kitayan the knife! After the first fight, Munokhoi thought Gansukh might stoop to some dangerous subterfuge in an effort to embarrass him and he had watched for some sign that such a plan was in the making, but he hadn’t suspected that Gansukh might have an accomplice. The old man had a foxlike cunning, and giving a blade to a prisoner was a very dangerous ploy. Their plan could have gone awry quite easily, but they had gotten lucky instead.