Tale of the Spinward March: The Great Khan (Tales of the Spinward March Book 1)

by David Winnie

  “Certainly, Father. My first impression would be a monarchy. The leader can educate the successor, preparing him to attain the throne. Continuity can be maintained with proper training and education; a Council like our own Kurultai and Great Khural can advise the leader by informing him the will of the people.”

  “Ah, and the weakness of your great Khan?” queried Tenzing.

  “The inevitable weakening of the Imperial line. The leader would have to have multiple avenues of partners to insure the purity and vitality of the family line.”

  “Could this be done with a single family?” asked Tenzing. “Is there a way to manipulate the family genes to ensure this weakening doesn’t occur?”

  Angkor pondered. “Possibly,” he said. “Genetic engineering has been going on for centuries, including our own genome. But to map and create a superior being…” his voice trailed off in thought.

  “But it could be done.”

  “Yes, almost certainly,” responded Angkor. “To be prudent, though, it would require a committee dedicated to the design of such an heir. Perhaps each generation created would have multiple candidates, each being trained to assume the rule of leader when the leader passed.”

  Tenzing held his arm up at the door of his yurt. “We will speak more of this later,” he told Angkor, “but for now, I wish you to keep today’s conversation secret. These people at supper tonight are some of my closest friends and allies, but not all would understand what I am going to achieve. Always remember, my son, if you don’t want something known, don’t say it.”

  The heady days of the festival passed to quickly for Angkor. Some days, he and his father wandered the streets and venues, admiring the goods displayed or the talents shown. Tenzing was quick witted and clever at the poetry competition.

  Angkor, to everyone’s delight, excelled at singing, his voice deep and rich. He had studied the customs of the Khalkha and knew most of the songs of his people. He sang the riding stories, the stories of the encampments during migration and the songs to the gods. His father was proud when Angkor won a small silver cup for his voice.

  It was the day of the Warriors Ride. Each rider was given two quivers of arrows. They would ride the course as rapidly as they could, firing their arrows at the twenty-four targets scattered about. Speed was important, but accuracy was critical.

  Angkor had not planned to ride. He had found a good spot to watch the race and settled in when a familiar form found him.

  Suishin stood before his younger brother, thick arms crossed over his bulging chest. Although still early in the day, he had a light sheen of perspiration. His jaw moved slightly as he chewed on a string of khat.

  “So, Little Brother, you have come to watch a man’s game,” Suishin’s voice was silky, insulting. “I heard you had won an award for singing. Did you sing about doing the wash or perhaps for your monthly cycle?”

  “No, I sang a better song. I sang of the great oaf who was clumsy and drunk and he soiled his pants as he crawled to the privy.” Angkor smiled and tilted his head. “It reminds me of you,” he needled.

  “Clumsy?” roared his brother. “CLUMSY! I will show you clumsy.” His great bulk weaved and bobbed. “I challenge you! Here, before these people! I challenge you to the Warriors Race! Let us see who the greater Khalkha warrior in this family is!” He swung a massive paw at his brother, stumbled and fell face first into the turf.

  Angkor grabbed Suishin’s topknot. He slapped his brother’s face a few times, perhaps harder than he should, and stated, “You are in no condition to ride, Brother. You would only serve to embarrass yourself and our father. Nonetheless, if you wish to continue this charade, I will be too glad to best you.” He released his brother, whose head bounced off the turf.

  Suishin glared at his sibling as he scrambled to his feet. Together, the brothers marched down to the officials table. “The sons of Tenzing have a matter of honor they wish to dispense with,” Angkor told the head official. “I think we should get it out of the way so the rest of the race can continue uninterrupted.”

  Tenzing heard the commotion and approached calmly. “Can this dispute be settled in any other way?” asked the official. “With mediation, perhaps?”

  Tenzing shook his head. “No. They have made an honorable request. I know my sons. If Angkor says it is an honor request, then there is good reason for this race. Though,” his voice lowered, “I would have expected better of my own sons. Let the race be done,” he declared, “so we can get to the important business of the day.” The crowd cheered.

  Catcalls and jeers surrounded the brothers from the unruly crowd. Gamblers immediately set odds. Business was brisk with Suishin being favored by a wide margin. The commotion continued as they entered the equipment tent. Suishin selected a modern bow, all plastic and exotic materials. He thumbed the bowstring and leered at Angkor, who had selected a traditional bow.

  The corral was next. Twenty fine mounts were trotted out and run through their paces while the sons of Tenzing watched. Suishin gave a shout as he chose a massive war horse from Europe. The beast was impressive, with a large chest and confident stride. Angkor selected a traditional pony. The warhorse, he knew, would be fast and provide a stable platform for firing the bow. But his pony was quick, agile. Its eyes were bright and Angkor could feel it quivering beneath him. The horse was excited to be running this race too, he knew. Perhaps its ancestors rode with the great horde in ancient times and the beast could feel it in his blood.

  They trotted to the start line. “Once around the course,” the starter told them. “One target per arrow. There is a penalty for a missed target. Are you ready? GO!”

  The crowd roared as the sons of Tenzing tore from the line. Suishin’s horse thundered to the lead, as Angkor thought it would. Confidently, his brother twisted from left to right, firing bolt after bolt into the targets as they presented themselves. Angkor matched him, arrow for arrow from just behind, watching for the opening.

  A tight turn to the left and Angkor and his pony darted past. Now his brother was behind, watching as Angkor twisted with smooth grace and fired arrow after arrow into the targets as he passed. The bottom half of the course was even more convoluted. Suishin’s steed was bred for charging across an open battlefield carrying a heavy knight. Angkor’s pony was nimbler and quick; his lead grew at each turn.

  Angkor screamed a cry of victory as he and his horse dashed to the finish. Suishin abandoned his shooting at targets and began to whip his horse, desperately trying to catch his younger brother. Angkor and his pony hunkered and sprinted the last hundred yards to the cheering crowd, crossing the line easily ahead of his brother. He stopped past the line, patting the horse appreciatively.

  “The winner and point of honor for the sons of Tenzing goes to the younger, Angkor,” declared the official.

  “NO!” roared Suishin, “He cheated, he must have cheated!” Before anyone could respond, Suishin’s last arrow was knocked and fired. The aim was true; it went through Angkor’s thigh and into the heart of the pony. Angkor was able to leap clear of the dying horse, which screamed and writhed as it fell.

  Tenzing appeared, knife in hand. In one motion, he cut the dying pony’s throat, relieving its misery.

  Now only a concerned father, he knelt and checked Angkor’s wound. “Thanks to the gods it was a target arrowhead, not a flared war arrow,” Tenzing breathed. The wound was clean and while bleeding messily, could be repaired by a few passes of a surgeon’s stitcher.

  His eyes blazing, he strode to Suishin, grabbed him and threw him from his horse. “You have dishonored me and our entire clan!” he growled. His fists rained down on his firstborn. “I cannot, and I will not have such a display of cowardice from my own family on display like this.” He began to kick the cowering Suishin, who curled into a ball as Tenzing released his fury.

  Finally, tiring, Tenzing stopped his assault and spat on Suishin. His attention turned to Angkor. “You have won today’s point of honor, my son.” Tenzing said.
“And your brother will not long forget this. Come, let’s get your leg fixed. Then you will leave for your university.”

  “But Mother, I must say good bye to my mother,” Angkor protested, his voice weak from the blood loss. “And the Great Race will be over in two days. I must see the end of the Great Race.”

  “I will speak to your mother,” Tenzing said, “and there will be other Great Races. A rider from Occident is two days ahead anyway; it is a foregone conclusion he will win.” Angkor remembered the Occident rider with the unusual hat in the group that trotted away at the beginning of the race.

  “As you wish, Father.”

  “Bring that,” Tenzing ordered his guards, pointing at Suishin, as he tromped away.

  It would be twenty years before Angkor witnessed another Great Race.

  Chapter 6

  April 2031

  They were the oddest quintet crossing the market square in the old city.

  Xaid Singh, a native Indian from Calcutta, led his classmates through the throng. A charismatic young man, his chubby frame could be found at the center of any social occasion. He was accompanied by close friend, Dawlish Zultan, a giant, brooding Turk from the Persian Empire. Unlike his classmates, Dawlish attended Delhi University to prepare for a military career. His uncle was the defense minister and Dawlish was expected to replace him one day.

  They were joined by a new friend from Egypt, Salaam Sarkis, a nervous second year from Thebes. The diminutive Egyptian boy scuttled about, eager to please his older classmates, cowering if anyone paid direct attention to him. Angkor and Grrrscnk brought up the rear. Grrrscnk, now at full grown Hecht, seven feet tall with a four-foot tail lashing back and forth as she strode through the crowd. None but the bravest being would say anything to the toothy alien. She was only matched in height by Dawlish and her sleek feathers were a stunning white, intermixed with amber and opal stripes.

  Delhi was a modern city, the jewel of Pan Asia. The largest of all the Asian metropolises to survive the wars of the Third Millennium, it boasted great skyscrapers and vast conglomerates while still maintaining its old-world charm. Air cars, private and public, raced along carefully regulated lanes in the skies, while oxen-drawn wagons and handcarts rolled through clean boulevards. Cries to prayer rang from the various temples throughout the city, alongside billboards advertising their ecclesiastical wares.

  Delphi Market was the melting pot of Earth and alien culture. Pepper pot stews and curry were hawked next to stoocha root and granth steaks. Grrrscnk would grumble good naturedly (they thought :) “I cannot fathom why you monkeys insist on burning delicious meat before you eat!”

  Bolts of cloth, gems and jewelry, sublime and prosaic knick-knacks and gee-haws, it was all there. Music from dozens of worlds filled the air, from graceful lilting to teeth grinding screeches and howls. Aerialists hung from ledges and lamp posts performing acts of derring-do. Street performers blew fire, juggled, sang songs and told jokes. Magicians marveled with cards and coins, scarfs changing into canes or beasts.

  Pickpockets and other criminals preyed on the tight crowds. The police were ever-present, more inclined to keep order than monitor low level criminal activity. But woe to the being who was caught with its hand (or whatever appendage they had to use) in the pocket of another. Indian law frowned heavily on thieves.

  That particular Saturday, they were pushing their way through the crowds, arguing as always about the latest law or news story back home, whether Ankara or Hecht. It was mostly good natured chatter between young friends on a beautiful day.

  And then Angkor saw her.

  He happened to turn toward the tea seller in the sari of seafoam green, just as she also turned to face him. She was as tall as Angkor, fair skinned to his swarthy. She gasped under her breath at the sight of him, then found her voice. “Tea, sahib?”

  He felt foolish, standing there staring at her. Her features were Hindi, long face tapering into a pointed chin. She had a golden halo of surprising soft, curly blonde hair. Her eyes were crystalline blue, perfect almond shaped that startled his heart. Her brow raised as she leaned nearer to him. “Tea? Sahib, would you like some tea?” she asked as speaking to a child.

  “Tea? Ah, uh, yes, I would like some tea. Yes, please,” Angkor fumbled. She gave him a shy smile as she pulled a paper cup from her bag. She wore a plastic jug on her back and poured the warm drink through its hose, offering lemon and sugar as she twisted to face him again. Afraid to speak, Angkor just nodded, admiring her lithe form as she prepared his drink. She handed the cup to him and held her thin, delicate, ring-less hand out.

  “Three rupees, Sahib.”

  He handed her his credit chip, her pale hand ran it through the scanner at her belt, and she smiled again, melting Angkor’s young heart. Before he could speak, she had bowed and gracefully melted back into the crowd.

  “An interesting looking monkey,” hissed Grrrscnk. “Is the she a friend of yours?”

  “What? No, just a street vendor,” Angkor answered. “Oh, my, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, yes, delicious,” grumbled Grrrscnk.

  Xaid, Dawlish and Salaam appeared. “Hey, who’s your friend?” asked Salaam.

  “A tea girl,” responded Angkor.

  “What’s her name?” pressed Salaam, “She’s very pretty.”

  Confusion swept across Angkor’s face. “I-I don’t know,” he said, “I forgot to ask.”

  Dawlish shook his head. “Angkor, my friend, you are going to die a virgin.” He stretched his long frame above the crowd, spied the tea girl and moved to her. A few minutes later he had a steaming cup of tea, and information.

  “Her name is Sophia; she is a resident of the city,” he reported. “She is eighteen and hopes to get a job as a secretary or receptionist.” He took a sip of tea and made a face. “A new job would be a good idea,” he moaned as he spat it out. “This is horrible! Oh, and for whatever reason, she thinks Angkor is cute.”

  Dawlish straightened. “Clearly, if she finds a lowly Mongolian preferable to a magnificent Turk man…” his voice trailed off, a sparkle in his eye.

  Angkor sipped the tea. It was terrible, too cold and too much lemon. But he imagined he could detect her aroma on the cup. Inhaling deeply, he said, “It’s not so bad. Come on, we’re here to shop; let’s go shopping.”

  Try as he might, Angkor couldn’t get the tea girl out of his mind. Her Hindi face with such pale skin and blond hair was so unusual. He would lie in his bed, staring at the ceiling, visualizing her lovely face and blue eyes.

  He struggled in his classes all week. Normally, he could push distractions to one side while studying. Not this girl. Sophia! Such a lovely name. “English,” he thought. But how would an English girl look Hindi?

  The end of the week finally arrived. Without waiting for his friends, Angkor raced to the market on Saturday morning. Two hours and he was beginning to feel desperate when he felt a tug on his sleeve.

  “Tea, Sahib?” She stood there, in a blue sari, her head tipped demurely, a faint smile on her face. He stood as stone again, dumbfounded and staring. She was every bit as beautiful as he remembered. “Would you like some tea?” she asked again.

  “Tea, yes, I would like some tea,” he stammered. Her smile got bigger and she pulled the cup from her bag, poured the tea and added lemon. She added a bit of honey and handed him the drink. The tea was worse than the week before. He grimaced.

  “I am sorry, Sahib,” she said, lowering her head. “My master reuses the leaves; it makes the tea weak and bitter. Please, take this poor cup for free.”

  “No, it is fine,” he lied. He handed her his credit chip. “Please, take the money. I do not wish to cause you trouble.”

  She nodded and scanned his card. “Thank you, Sahib. Your kindness for this poor girl is more than generous.”

  Angkor struggled to find just the right words. He swallowed and stammered, “Think nothing of it.”

  He shifted from foot to foot, looking up and
down, tasting words and then discarding them. He wanted to be glib, he wanted to appear confident. He looked into her opal eyes and felt his courage sink. “Yes?” she queried. Her mouth opened slightly, her eyes expecting.

  “I, uh…um,” he was frantic now, “Uhhh…”

  Her face fell. “I have to go now,” she said. “I must sell the rest of my tea and pay my master for the jar for today.”

  “Wait!” he cried. He brushed his hands on his pants, then held one out. “I am Angkor, son of Tenzing.”

  She took his hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Angkor, son of Tenzing,” she replied. “I am Sophia Marshall. Perhaps I shall see you again here at the market another time.”

  She released his hand and strolled away. She looked over her shoulder and mouthed, “’bye.”

  Angkor watched her back until she disappeared into the crowd. “She certainly has nice hips,” he decided.

  “I cannot believe how stupid you monkeys are!” Grrrscnk tossed another piece of meat in her mouth and smacked her jaws as she chewed. “The Hecht way is much better.”

  “How is that?” argued Salaam. “How would you know? I have never seen you with a Hecht male, so just how do you know your Hecht way is better?”

  Angkor’s friends had found him at the market. They were eating lunch at one of the few eateries that would serve raw meat for a Hecht. (Although many patrons left when the six-foot meat eater entered.) They were discussing Angkor’s failure that morning with the tea girl, Sophia.

  Grrrscnk snapped her jaw in irritation. “Hecht females select their mates when they are ready to lay eggs. She selects the male and they fffschrt. He then builds the nest and the female lays the eggs. Both take care of the eggs until they hatch. The male hunts when the first egg starts to hatch. He must bring food, because we are born hungry.”

  She chomped down another piece of meat. “My father failed to have food when I escaped the shell. So, I ate my first brother as he hatched.”