by James Frey
As soon as he learned of Endgame, the Player, the promise of apocalypse, he knew: this was to be his fate.
The Player will eradicate his competition one by one, hunt the other Players to the end of the Earth, destroy them and their lines along with them. He will be walking death, visiting torment and devastation upon the world.
He has to be Baitsakhan.
The Trials begin, and Baitsakhan shows the judges what he can do. Every child enters the arena with the weapon of his choosing. Baitsakhan favors the curved saber. He likes the feel of metal cutting through flesh. He’s taught himself how to fight, practicing with his cousins and watching the men of his camp come to blows after too much drink. Some fathers violate tradition and give their sons and daughters instruction on weaponry and battle. But Temür, a shepherd’s son, chooses the halberd, and is obviously self-taught as well. His feet are clumsy and his blows uncertain. Baitsakhan knocks him out easily with an elbow to the head. Qarajin, an older girl who sleeps in the ger beside his, wields a straight blade. Baitsakhan takes his time with her, enjoying the noises she makes when his saber flicks against her skin. She is a bloodied mess by the time she rests her knife on the ground and bows before him, ceding defeat. Buka, Hulagu, Oghul-qaimish, Bat, and Bold, one by one, the children fall before him or back away in fear. Some he knows; some are strangers to him, brought hundreds of kilometers across the Gobi to compete, as the law demands. Many are strong and skilled, but all of them are, in their secret hearts, afraid of pain. Pain doesn’t scare Baitsakhan; pain is his dearest friend.
His final competitor is an unexpected one: his cousin Esan, the youngest boy at the Trials. Barely six years old, he is only days past the qualifying age, and he has always seemed a useless boy. He is the kind adults like, bright-eyed and eager, with enough mischief in him to earn the respect of his peers. That Esan will go far, Baitsakhan has heard his parents say, with clansman pride.
Baitsakhan despises him.
Esan grins, an insouciant smile that betrays how little he cares about this, how little he needs it. He has cut his way through the competition on a lark, and his smile says, Let us fight, cousin; then let us walk away friends.
Baitsakhan bares his teeth.
He raises the saber, slashes at Esan. The younger boy dodges out of the way, then whirls around, swipes his own saber at Baitsakhan, nearly draws blood. He is fast. Baitsakhan will have to be faster. They dance around each other, blades sweeping out wide arcs in the dry summer air, clanging together as they dodge and parry. Baitsakhan moves on instinct, enjoying the feel of the saber—it’s like he was born with it in his hand, born knowing what to do with its deadly blade. The Donghu watch from the sidelines, shouting gleefully when Baitsakhan first draws blood, and again when Esan’s blade slices Baitsakhan’s cheek. He glories in the sharp pain of it—even his own pain is a precious jewel, to be polished to a shine. This is what the fearful creatures around him fail to understand, and this is why he will always triumph.
They are two whirling animals, fierce and wild. Esan’s foot lashes out, makes contact with the back of Baitsakhan’s knees, knocks him hard to the ground. When Esan crouches to take his advantage, Baitsakhan swipes his feet from under him. Then they are rolling on the ground, Baitsakhan’s grip tight on Esan’s wrist, forcing his saber into the dirt, Esan driving a fist into Baitsakhan’s gut and yanking his hair out of his scalp, the Donghu judges leaning in, trying fruitlessly to track the movements of the two young boys who now seem one impossible beast. And then—
Baitsakhan spots his opening. His knife flashes, blade meeting flesh.
He has killed enough animals to know how to deal a fatal blow, and how to avoid it. He knows exactly how hard to bear down if he wants to draw enough blood to win, but only enough. If he wants to spare Esan his life, he can do so.
Or he can slice through Esan’s jugular and spill the boy’s life force from his veins.
Baitsakhan must decide in a heartbeat—but really, the decision was made for him, the day he was born. Baitsakhan is who he is.
There can be only one choice.
He strikes.
The tangle of limbs goes still. Blood pools. Baitsakhan rises to his feet.
Esan does not.
Esan never will again.
In the stands, a woman’s keening cry. This, Baitsakhan knows without looking up, will be Esan’s mother. He knows other things too: that it is not intended for children to die in the Trials, but it is not unprecedented. Accidents happen.
No one will know the truth.
That the feel of the blade tearing open Esan’s throat is something Baitsakhan will revisit in his dreams.
That killing this boy is the purest joy he’s ever known, better than slaughtering cows and dogs, better than the bloody corpses that populate his dreams. He is already eager to do it again.
That he has found his true calling.
He reveals none of this. Instead he fakes sorrow. He is good at faking, and getting better every day. He apologizes to his aunt, and nods sadly when she acknowledges that it was a noble death, and that Baitsakhan will make an excellent Player. He allows his father to clap a hard hand on his shoulder, and pretends not to enjoy the extra helpings of dessert they give him every night that week. They are so eager to reassure him: Life is a battle, and sometimes there are casualties.
These are lessons every Donghu learns in time. Life on the steppe is hard, and death is a part of that life. Death served in battle, in the pursuit of glory, is a great honor. Few are forced to learn so young, and Baitsakhan allows his people to believe that their comfort has meaning for him.
Soon his training will begin. He has six years to learn how to Play and how to win—six years to learn how best to hurt and maim and kill. Until then, he will bide his time. He will seem sorry.
If he were capable of astonishment, he would be astonished at how easy it is. These creatures, like cows, just wanting to be led. He leads them to whatever conclusions he needs them to draw.
Only his mother seems to understand the truth. He may not understand emotion, but it proves useful to recognize it in others, and so he has studied. He sees the fear in her eyes when she looks at him, the caution in her movements, like she knows he is dangerous.
“Your aunt will always love Esan,” she tells him one afternoon, while they are taking their tea. “She will survive his loss, but she will never forget it.”
“I know that,” Baitsakhan says, cramming another poppy-seed bun into his mouth. His aunt’s pain is an ongoing pleasure. He has become a very solicitous nephew, stopping by her ger with meats and sweets nearly every evening. He likes to simply watch her face, her nearly imperceptible flinch whenever he says Esan’s name.
“Yes,” his mother says, in a strange voice. “I thought you did.”
She rises from the table then, and begins tidying up the ger. Their home, like all the homes of their tribe, is a simple wood structure covered in felt—like a tent, it can be assembled and disassembled with ease, loaded onto the camels, and carried with them wherever they go. Inside, his mother has created a riot of opulence and color. The soft, polished red of the wooden supporting poles gives the interior a warm glow. The ground and gently curving walls are layered with a rainbow of tapestries. The ger sometimes feels like a living creature. It makes Baitsakhan feel dead inside, as if it long ago sucked out all his color and breath.
She tends to it like it is her child.
When he was very small, Baitsakhan’s mother told him stories of other small children and the mothers who loved them. He wondered whether his mother loved him, what that would look like, and why he should care. These are things he no longer wonders about. Love is simply a word that tethers his mother to him, obligates her to feed and clothe him, which suits his convenience—for now.
But his mother sees him too clearly, Baitsakhan thinks.
Someday that will need to be dealt with.
To be the Player-elect is good.
As soon as the Trials
are decided and Baitsakhan is named, his people respect the power he will someday wield. Baitsakhan is no longer required to tend the herd or feed scraps to the dogs. As the seasons change and the tribe migrates, Baitsakhan is not called upon to join the men who build the new gers, and he is not forced to join the other children when they help the women with their chores. Baitsakhan is spared these menial duties, because his only job is training for Endgame. When the time comes to ride, he is accorded the finest of horses. When the time comes to hunt, he is honored with the chance to take the death blow. He receives the choicest cuts of meat and the thickest leather shoes. His young cousins do whatever he tells them, and even his brother, Jalair, already married with a child of his own, has begun to obey his commands, treating him like a respected elder. Baitsakhan makes the twins hand over their sweets, and when he orders them to go for days without eating, they fast until they are half starved. Baitsakhan wonders if they are foolish enough to starve themselves to death, simply on his word.
They will do anything for him.
Just like everyone else.
Yes, to be the Player-elect is good—almost like being a king.
But to be the Player is better—almost like being a god.
Baitsakhan watches the current Player carefully, hating him from head to toe. Al-Ulagan wastes his opportunities. He could have anything he wanted from his people. He could torment them with his capricious whims. Instead he bows and scrapes like the lowest of men. He pretends to be a servant to his line, rather than its despot. It is disgusting. Every time he smiles, which is often, Baitsakhan imagines a fist powering through his teeth, knocking them down his throat. The thought of the blood pouring out and those hollow sockets left behind helps Baitsakhan smile back.
Someday Baitsakhan will be the Player, and he will do it better. But if he is going to reach this goal, he must obey his trainer, the sour, elderly man who is meant to mold him into a warrior. He is meant to do everything Surengan says, to be respectful and compliant, even though he is young and powerful and Surengan is old and decrepit.
This too is disgusting.
Still, Baitsakhan is careful and disciplined—and he knows that Surengan has much to teach him about the infliction of pain. As the years pass, Surengan shows him many outstanding new ways to kill. Baitsakhan learns the body’s weaknesses, the points of pressure that will cause even the strongest of men to shriek and wet themselves. He and Surengan explore the rich spectrum of pain, all the ways to break a human mind, force it to its limits and beyond so it can be bent to Baitsakhan’s will. Where before, he took his pleasure with animals only in the dark where no one could see, now he is encouraged to practice his craft on the herd. There’s no need for Surengan to know the extra efforts he takes, practicing his knife work. Whether he slaughters the goats efficiently or takes his time with it, eking out every last second of agonizing life, they end up just as dead.
Surengan tells him that the Players of other lines travel all over the globe, exposing themselves to the world’s peoples. Not so for the Donghu Player. Baitsakhan learns their strange languages and mores, yes, but only for the advantage it will give him in the game. He stays close to home; he stays untainted by the so-called modern world.
There is nothing of value in the land beyond the steppe, Surengan tells him, and Baitsakhan believes it.
Out there, somewhere, foolish people crowd together in cities of glass and neon, hiding their brute animal nature beneath the lie called civilization.
Out there, people are weak and confused. They have grown distant from their inner beast.
Out there, Surengan tells him, the Players of other bloodlines have been corrupted by modernity, weakened by the luxuries of the so-called modern world.
Here on the steppe, life is hard but honest. Here on the bare rock, under the pitiless sun, lies like civilization wither and die, like a tourist lost in the desert, corpse wrinkled up like a prune.
This, Surengan tells him, is why the Donghu will triumph in Endgame. The Donghu Player will have no mercy, no vulnerability, only purpose. The Donghu Player will be a creature of pure violence, tearing a swath of death through his opponents.
This lesson is one Baitsakhan eagerly heeds.
Surengan also teaches him much about the history of the Donghu Line, its glorious birth in the Gobi desert, where a lord of the sky created the first man and woman from clay. For 800 years, the Donghu ruled with the blessing of the gods, pillaging and tyrannizing tribes all across the steppe. Surengan tells him of the day of darkness in 150 BCE, when a Xiongnu prince slaughtered the Donghu leaders, and of the hundreds of generations since, desert warlords dreaming of their conquering past and the promised future, days to come in which they would triumph over humanity’s inferior bloodlines and rule. Dreaming, above all, of Endgame.
Baitsakhan listens obediently to all of this but does not hear. He does his best to feign pride in his line, allegiance to the Donghu people; he promises Surengan that he understands what it means to be the Player, that it requires selflessness and self-sacrifice, and putting himself in service to a greater good.
Baitsakhan lies.
He cares nothing for his people, their past or their future.
He craves Endgame for its promise of blood, tidal waves of it unleashed on an unsuspecting Earth. He is an artist of death, and Endgame will be his greatest canvas. He will lie about his true purpose, he will disguise his true self, for as long as necessary. And when he is alone, he laughs at the gullibility of Surengan, at the sorry, misplaced pride of the Donghu people. He laughs at the idea that he would sacrifice himself for the greater good or anything else.
Baitsakhan Plays only for Baitsakhan. He kills for the sake of killing.
Pain is his only god, and he serves it well.
The antelope streaks across the steppe, leaps gracefully over the dry riverbed, runs and runs but cannot escape its bloody, imminent death. The men of the tribe chase behind it, spears raised, two of them letting fly.
One blade slices through the air, stabs the antelope through the heart, dropping it in a lifeless heap of meat and bone.
The other, released at the wrong moment and the wrong angle, takes a disastrous turn, buries its tip in the chest of one of the men.
As the man grunts with surprise and pain, then crumples into the dirt, Baitsakhan stops abruptly. He fingers his own spear, almost confused to find it still in his hand.
So many times, he has envisioned this moment, casually allowing his weapon to find its way into one of his own people—and not just any of his own, but this one, this man.
His father.
He has always thought it would be fun to kill one of his own, and now fate has done it for him.
Baitsakhan will simply have to take advantage of the unexpected opportunity, before time runs out. The men shout and wail; Baitsakhan’s father bleeds and bleeds into the steppe. Baitsakhan kneels by his side.
“It is good that a son be with his father in the last moments,” he hears a voice behind him say, and he can sense the other men of the tribe pulling back to a respectful distance, giving him the privacy he needs to say good-bye. Baitsakhan bows his head, rests a hand on his father’s chest.
His father neither weeps or moans. He’s always prided himself a strong man, one who will greet death stoically, as a friend.
We’ll see, Baitsakhan thinks. Then he presses a fist into his father’s wound.
The man spasms, limbs shuddering and mouth and tongue working like there’s something he needs to say. No sound comes out, only bubbles of spit and blood, but Baitsakhan can imagine the message his father has for him.
No.
Stop.
Please.
He presses harder into the wound, then twists his hand sharply to maximize the agony. It would be better, he thinks, if there were more screaming. But he can see the pain in his father’s eyes, and that will have to be good enough.
His experiments with animals have shown him that a body under enough strai
n will simply give up. Surengan has taught him that the same is true for humans. A heart will do whatever necessary to put its body out of its misery.
It is Surengan who has helped him understand the exact amount of strain and torment the human body can bear.
“Don’t die, Father,” Baitsakhan says, loudly, so the other men can hear. But his hands bear another message for the man, pressing and tearing at the gaping wound. Die slowly, they say, slowly and painfully, but surely.
Baitsakhan is given the honor of carrying the corpse back to camp. He anticipates his mother’s expression when he lays the burden before her, the way she will shriek her grief to the heavens. Her pain, he thinks, will be nearly as entertaining as his father’s death.
But she denies him the pleasure, merely kneeling beside the body, kissing its cold forehead, then meeting Baitsakhan’s eyes.
“So it is done,” she says coolly, her gaze blank. It’s as if she knows exactly what he wants to see, and is denying him, simply out of spite.
Most emotions are foreign to Baitsakhan, but he understands hate.
He has never hated her more.
In the wake of his father’s death, there are some who say to Baitsakhan, “Now you are a man.” They watch him, expecting that his father’s death will transform him in some way.
Baitsakhan wonders if they know something he does not, and so he watches himself, curious, waiting to feel.
He feels only relief.
With his father gone, there is one less person to keep track of his comings and goings, one less person to gauge his behavior, catch him in his lies.
There is one less person to keep an eye on his baby sister.
Baitsakhan has discovered that pain is most pleasurable when inflicted on those who are the weakest, and those who are the closest to him.
Little Arslan is both.
When she was first born, she was like an animal—poking and prodding her was like torturing a wild dog, if somewhat less enjoyable. For if he cut off his sister’s finger, someone was sure to notice, and this was a risk Baitsakhan was unwilling to take. As the Player-elect, he is expected to be brutal but disciplined, cruel but honorable. Honor means nothing to Baitsakhan, but being the Player means everything, so he’s smart enough to play by Surengan’s rules. Even if he dreams of a day when he will no longer have to.
