The Mongoliad: Book Two

by Neal Stephenson

  At this point, it was closer to a riot than to a camp.

  Gansukh found himself looking for Lian. Munokhoi and his men were surrounding the Khagan, and he had no place with them; the rest of the Imperial Guard would either be protecting the Khagan’s entourage or taking the battle to their attackers. He might be useful in helping stem the spread of the fires, but that sort of threat could be dealt with by anyone who could lift a bucket of water. His duty lay to the task given upon him by Chagatai and Master Chucai. Part of that duty was...Lian.

  He thought he saw her, a flash of that long black hair he often dreamed about. Shouting her name—even though part of him knew there was no hope of her hearing him—he started to run after her, but a large tent nearby erupted in a billowing column of fire. The heat was intense; coughing, he retreated from the inferno of the great tent, his arm raised as a desperate and pathetic shield against the heat.

  The leather walls of the tent cracked and shriveled, pulling back to reveal the glowing shafts of the wooden framework. Several of the poles had already begun to crumble, leaving only bright coals that hadn’t yet fallen into ash. The grass around the tent that hadn’t been trampled was starting to burn, tiny crawlers of fire eagerly seeking out other tents. A lost ox, confused and terrified, balked at the burning grass. It stood still, lowing plaintively, and waited for the fire to claim it.

  Gansukh veered away from the raging bonfire of the tent, tasting the acrid smoke on the back of his tongue. Nearby, horses—tied along a picket line—whickered fearfully and pulled against one another as they tried to flee in different directions. Gansukh caught sight of someone moving among them—the flash of a silk robe—and he stumbled as quickly as he could toward the terrified beasts.

  Lian was trying to untie one of the horses from the picket, a sturdy chestnut mare. Her hair was wild about her, a spray of blackness against the muted colors of her robe. The horse’s reins were tied tightly to the leather strap snaking across the ground, and Lian fought to keep the line under control so that she could undo the reins. Each time the mare bucked and strained, all her work was undone.

  “What are you doing?” he shouted. “We’re under attack.”

  She ignored him, though she had clearly heard him, as she left off trying to undo the knot. Instead, she caught the reins and tried to control the frantic mare.

  Gansukh put his hand on her shoulder. “Lian—”

  “I’m trying to escape, you idiot!” She whirled on him, her hair whipping fiercely around her head.

  “It’s too dangerous—” he started.

  “It will always be dangerous,” she snapped. “Why can’t you understand that? I’m a slave. A good time to escape doesn’t exist. I have to take the chances I’m given, and this one is good enough.” Her eyes reflected the fires surrounding them. “The guards are distracted,” she said. “By the time they think to look for me, I’ll have vanished into the night.”

  She let go of the horse’s tether with one hand, placing it on his chest. “Please, Gansukh. I have to go,” she said, staring at him.

  Gansukh glanced around, his gaze sweeping across the tumult of the camp: tents on fire; horsemen thundering by; men screaming, some in anger, some in fear, some in pain. “I don’t know who’s attacking or why, but they’re organized. They’re going to shoot at anyone on horseback.”

  “It’s dark,” she countered, taking a step closer to him, her hand drifting down his chest. “Everything is in turmoil. They’re focused on the Khagan. They won’t notice me.”

  He shook his head. “It’s too risky.”

  “Gansukh,” Lian said, “I have to try.” She drew in a deep breath and bit her lower lip. “If you care for me at all, you’ll help me.” Her eyes darted down, and for a second, she was so demure and fragile that he was overcome with a tremendous urge to crush her in his arms. “Let me go.”

  “Lian—” He raised his hand to touch her face, but she ducked under his arm. Her hand grabbed at the knife he had taken from her earlier—the one he had shoved in his belt. He grabbed for her, feeling her hair slip through his grasp, feeling the slippery silk of her gown against his fingertips.

  She sliced through the reins, and the mare reared back, flailing with its front hooves. Gansukh had to take a step back to avoid getting kicked, and Lian slipped beyond his reach. The mare spooked, no longer tethered to the picket, and Lian got both hands in its mane and hauled herself onto its back with a grace that surprised Gansukh. In a second, the horse and its rider were lost in the smoky pall that covered the camp.

  Gansukh spotted the knife lying on the ground, and with a curse, he scooped it up. He sawed through the first set of reins he could get his hands on. Unlike Lian, he kept his grip on the slippery reins, and after he had shoved the blade back into his belt, he swung up onto the horse. Slapping its rump, he set off after Lian at a gallop.

  * * *

  It was a privilege to protect the Khagan. Munokhoi’s entire adult life had been spent in that service, working diligently to be noticed for his courage and bravery; he was the fist of the Khagan, hard and ready to be used in the service of the Empire. It was his command that had been chosen to be the Imperial Guard accompanying Ögedei on his trip to the Burqan-qaldun, and he was given two more jaghun to command as well. Once they reached Burqan-qaldun, the Khagan would reward him with the silver paitze—the slim tablet that gave him command of a thousand men. He would be noyon—a general of the Khagan’s army—and he would no longer be shackled to court life. He would be allowed to excel at what he truly knew was his purpose: to actively hunt the Khagan’s enemies. He would not show them mercy; he would never stop pursuing them until every last man who dared to defy the Khagan was dead.

  The fires were no longer spreading. The Khagan was safe in his tent, surrounded by three arbans of armored soldiers. His patrols had circled around and disrupted the archers who had been pouring waves of fiery arrows on the camp.

  It was time to take the battle to the enemy. It was time to show them the wrath of the Khagan.

  He and his men jogged through the firelit camp. They were his handpicked elite, nine men who had each killed as many as he—men who would not balk or hesitate at his slightest command. Like him, they understood their duty—they were as defined by it as he was. They were Mongols.

  Camp followers and other soldiers scurried past Munokhoi’s arban as they fought the scattered fires: tamping down blazes with thick blankets, pouring protective circles of water or sour milk (any liquid they could get their hands on) around burning tents, hauling cargo and livestock to safer locations. Ash hung in the heated air; what little wind there was this night spent itself in confusion, blown back and forth by the small fires.

  The heat felt good on Munokhoi’s bare head. His sword glistened orange-red in the ruddy light as if it were already covered in blood. He held his buckler loosely in his left hand, almost unconscious of its presence. He did not expect to need it.

  Whoever the attackers were, they may have been bold and clever, but he knew they were cowards. They had sown panic and fear with their aerial bombardment, and might even be using the confusion and darkness to cover their assault, but these tactics were the refuge of frightened men. They did not have the superiority of numbers or skill; otherwise, they would not have hidden behind such tactics. They knew they were attacking the Khagan’s Imperial Guard—warriors without peers across the steppes—and they had already shown their fear.

  They knew they were going to die, and Munokhoi was only too happy to help them meet their end. There would be no glory for these craven ambushers. They would all die in the night; by morning, the only thing left would be leaking corpses. Carrion feed.

  He couldn’t help but hope that he might run across Gansukh. He had seen the bastard whelp run off to chase after the scheming Chinese bitch. He knew those two were plotting something—he had had men watching them both but had not learned anything useful enough to warrant alerting the Khagan or Master Chucai. It would be better
if some accident befell them. In the aftermath of this battle, no one would question two more dead bodies. Unfortunate victims of the nighttime raid.

  His hand tightened on his sword, and a wicked smile crossed his face. He’d prefer to kill them himself, of course, and the fantasy of cutting either or both of their heads off only fueled his bloodlust.

  They passed beyond the last row of tents, and as one, Munokhoi’s arban picked up speed. They were in open terrain now, and like wolves who had spotted their prey, they were eager to bring the battle to the enemy.

  An enemy that was coming to meet them too.

  The fires behind them scattered light across the armor of the approaching warriors. Chinese soldiers, Munokhoi noted, their armor ragged and mismatched. Only a few had plumes atop their pointed helmets. Far from home and so desperate in their attempt on the Khagan’s life, he thought as he pointed his sword. None of their families will ever know where they died. When he shouted the command to attack, his voice almost broke with laughter.

  The Chinese were charging too, a lumbering line of spears and swords that seemed no more threatening than an annoyingly thorny hedge. Baring his teeth, Munokhoi ran ahead of his arban, exulting in the lust for battle. As he closed with the line of soldiers, he saw isolated faces more clearly: faces twisted with desperation, eyes wide with barely contained panic, mouths already flopping and panting, like tired hounds.

  He swung his sword and felt it slide off a shoulder guard and bite deep into the flesh beneath. As the Chinese man stumbled, Munokhoi kicked him in the leg. He screamed with delight as the man fell to the dirt, and after he wrenched his sword free, he stomped on the flailing soldier until he felt bones break under his heel.

  Another soldier came at him, and he raised his buckler to block the man’s wild swing. The impact jarred his arm, and he swept his buckler wide to brush his assailant’s sword away. But there was no need. His assailant was staring dumbly at the spurting stump of his own arm. One of Munokhoi’s men had severed the arm with a massive stroke, leaving the Chinese man shocked and defenseless. His last moment was spent vainly trying to find his missing arm before Munokhoi’s sword sliced through his throat and ended the search.

  Munokhoi caught his man’s eye and nodded in recognition. The Mongol grinned back, pleased to have both served and been acknowledged by his master; in the next second, his expression changed as a great thunder shattered the night air.

  The Mongol was wrenched off his feet, his upper body snapping backward as if he had been struck by the fist of a vengeful spirit. He sprawled on the ground, dead, his chest a shattered mess of leather, bone, and steaming fragments of some black material. The air was heavy with an acrid smoke, something fouler than the smoke stench from the burning tents. It was a stink Munokhoi knew, but it took him a few seconds to place it.

  Chinese black powder.

  They would fill clay pots with the powder, as well as rocks and shards of metal. Coupled with a fuse, these pots were smoking bombs that exploded, hurling their contents into a mass of attackers with devastating effects. Many a Chinese citadel required more effort—and more men—than expected due to these Chinese firebombs.

  It hadn’t been a pot that had killed his man but something else. Something that threw metal and black powder, almost like a catapult but not unlike a crossbow.

  Munokhoi adjusted his grip on his sword, swallowing the tiny glob of fear in the back of his throat. He sucked air in through his nose, taking the metallic stink of the Chinese weapon deep into his chest. Death can come quickly, he thought. Better to die with his sword red with Chinese blood than to stand dumbly like a stupid cow.

  He charged toward the fighting, swinging his sword heavily as if he were butchering an ox for a feast. A Chinese soldier parried him weakly, stepping back under the force of the blow, and Munokhoi smashed his sword down again, breaking the man’s guard and feeling the heavy shock of impact. The soldier groaned and collapsed; Munokhoi tried to pull his sword free of the dying man, but the blade was caught in the bones of the man’s chest.

  Nearby, a Mongol fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach. His Chinese attacker raised his sword to deliver a killing blow, his face alight with triumph, and Munokhoi quickly drew his dagger as he charged. He got his shoulder under the man’s sword arm, forcing the weapon away from the downed soldier, and he stabbed upward with his dagger, finding the soft spot beneath the chin. The man choked, spitting blood, and more blood gushed from the hole in his neck as Munokhoi pulled the dagger free.

  The blood was hot on his arm and chin. Some of the blood splashed on his lips, and he touched it with his tongue, savoring the sweet taste.

  The fear fell away. This was all that he needed. “For the Khagan!” he screamed, wrenching the sword from the dying Chinese soldier’s hands.

  As if in answer, the thunder sounded again, and the strength of its breath threw both one of his Mongol warriors and his Chinese opponent to the ground. Wildly inaccurate, he thought, sniffing the air for its tangy scent, but still quite dangerous.

  He wanted it. There was a sensation in his groin not unlike what he had felt when he had first put his hands on the tiered crossbow made by the Chinese or when he had first seen Chucai’s new whore. This was something he did not possess, that he was not the master of, and the thrill of conquest coursed through his body.

  He would not be denied.

  “For the Khagan!” he screamed again. For my glory, he thought.

  * * *

  The walls of Ögedei’s ger were draped in shiny panels of embroidered blue silk, masking the rough leather of the outer layer. An iron brazier, its top twisted into an intricate array of blooming flowers, sat on a thick Persian carpet. It was filled with glowing coals, and it heated the room evenly against the chill of the night air. Furs and pillows were scattered near the brazier, transforming the floor into a soft terrain that extended almost to the silk-draped walls. The intent was to create a space not unlike his rooms at Karakorum, a refuge from the less hospitable reality of traveling, but this luxury was nothing more than a prison to Ögedei, a blatant reminder that he was isolated from what was happening.

  “Do you not hear the sounds of battle?” he growled at the two men who stood near the laced flap of the ger. “I should be out there—fighting! I should be leading my men into battle.” He raised his hands at the men, clawing at the air. “My hands should be covered in the blood of my enemies.”

  The slimmer of the two men stroked his long black mustache. “It would be fine sport, my Khan,” he offered. “But—”

  Ögedei snarled and stepped closer to the man, the muscles in his neck straining. Daring him to continue.

  The guard fell silent, and his hand dropped to his side. His mustache drooped.

  The other guard, broad in the chest and arm, cleared his throat nervously. “They have come to kill you, my Khan, and for that, they are fools. If you were to step outside of this tent, would you not be giving these fools what they seek?”

  Ögedei stormed over to stand too close to the second guard. He loomed over the shorter man, breathing heavily on the crest of his helmet like an old bull challenging a young rival. Daring the man to look up at him, to give him an excuse...

  The guard stared at his boots.

  “Pah.” Ögedei spat on the carpet, and he rudely shoved the man with his shoulder as he returned his attention to the first guard. “What is your name?” he demanded.

  “Chaagan, my Khan,” the first guard said, dropping to his knee and bowing his head. The second man, recovering from the Khagan’s shove, did the same. “And I am Alagh,” he said.

  “Selected by Munokhoi for your obstinacy and allegiance to his command, no doubt,” Ögedei continued. He started to pace around the tent, the hem of his cloak stirring up a tiny cloud of dust in his wake. The coals in the brazier seemed to wink at the three men.

  “Yes, my Khan,” Chaagan replied.

  Ögedei caught himself clenching and unclenching his hand. He wanted
the security of his giant cup—wanted the strength that the wine would give him—and his hands could not hide his desire for the drink. I am weak. He squeezed his fist tightly, as if he could crush that thought into dust.

  Was this not the purpose of his journey? To cast off the shackles of the wine and regain his dignity and honor. To have his subjects look upon him with faces filled with devotion and respect. Not the way they refused to look at him now, embarrassed by his drunkenness. By his weakness.

  He kicked at a pillow, and his foot met little resistance against feather stuffing. The action was so unrewarding that he kicked another one, harder. The results were similar, and instead of kicking a third cushion, he scooped it up and tore at it with his hands. The silken fabric resisted his efforts, taunting him with its soft resilience, and growling deep in his throat, he pulled his dagger free of its sheath and stabbed the pillow instead. Cutting and tearing, he released a cloud of goose feathers, an explosion of white snow that filled the tent with yet more reminders of how soft he had become. Whirling, he stabbed and slashed at the floating feathers, striking at invisible enemies—laughing phantoms that darted and hid behind the screen of floating feathers.

  Eventually—his arms aching, his chest heaving—he relented. Leaning over, one hand propped against his thigh, he glared at the insolent feather clinging to the shining blade of his dagger. All of his effort amounted to nothing: his blade was clean, and his enemies were still there, floating just out of reach.

  Ögedei glanced at the two soldiers standing guard, examining their faces for any reaction. Chaagan and Alagh stared at the opposite wall, their expressions blank and stoic; judging by their unblinking fascination with the tent wall, they had seen nothing at all of what had transpired over the last few minutes.

  “I am the Khagan,” Ögedei sighed, flicking the feather off the blade and sliding his dagger back into its sheath. He walked over and stood directly in front of Chaagan. “Would you die for me?” he asked.