The Mongoliad: Book One

Ogedei looked at Munokhoi, who had put down the severed deer head. The Torguud’s arms were coated with blood. “Yes,” he said, “it does, doesn’t it?”

Gansukh winced internally at the stress Ogedei had put on his words, and judging by Munokhoi’s expression, he had heard the same inference.

Before Gansukh could figure out a way to turn the conversation, Ogedei waved the wineskin at the servant holding the crossbow. “Show me how it works,” he said, and when the servant froze, Ogedei shook his head. “Not you,” he snarled. “Gansukh.”

The servant almost fainted with relief and rushed toward Gansukh, all but throwing the complicated crossbow at him. He would need both hands empty to hold the thing, and suddenly he couldn’t remember the sequence of knobs and levers Munokhoi had had to operate to wind it. The servant thrust the weapon at him, entreating him with his eyes to take it, but Gansukh made no move to do so. “With all respect, Khagan,” he said, forming each word carefully and slowly, “I believe we should leave some of these Chinese contraptions to the Chinese. I hunt best in the way my father taught me—with a simple bow.”

His bow had belonged to his father’s father, a simple recurve of wood and horn and sinew, worn and repaired over the generations. Like the sky, he thought as he took several steps forward to put him a little bit in front of the cluster of bodies around the Khagan. It would never change. It felt right in his hands. There was no complicated machinery that drove it. It was just an extension of his own arm.

Munokhoi snorted. “That old stick? Good for hunting sickly oxen, I’m sure.”

Gansukh allowed himself a slight grin as he gauged the distance to his quarry. The buck was still grazing on the hillock, keeping a wary eye on the hunting party. Yes, he thought as he lifted his bow and took aim, let him do all the talking. He is better at it than you. A difficult shot, but not an impossible one. Gansukh inhaled slowly until his chest was full, and then he held his breath until he was sure his frame had settled. His arms were like stone. The point didn’t waver. Waiting…

“Too far,” Munokhoi said, too loudly. A slur of noise went through the hunting party, assent voiced but not as pointedly—as publicly—as Munokhoi’s dismissal.

The buck reacted to the sound, sensing danger, and it raised its head. The muscles in its legs quivered, but it was too late. Gansukh’s arrow, released on the heels of the noise from the gathered crowd, struck the deer in the breast. The buck staggered once, blood trickling down its white fur, and then it collapsed.

There was no sound coming from the group now, and Gansukh steeled himself to not turn and look at them. “And that,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is how my father hunted.”

Ogedei’s mighty laugh broke the silence. “I see your father was as good a marksman as mine.”

Gansukh turned to face Ogedei, bowing his head respectfully at the suggested compliment. When he raised his head, he realized Ogedei was still looking at him with that penetrating gaze he had seen before, when he had first arrived. It was as if a cloud had cleared from the Khagan’s sight, and he was seeing something that had been hidden from him for a long time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Gansukh watched the servant put Munokhoi’s Chinese contraption down on the grass. No one else seemed to notice, or care.

The early autumn sunrise spilled into the valley too slowly for young Ogedei. He lay prone on the frozen ground at the edge of a marshy clearing. Cold seeped into his bones and the dim light played tricks on his eyes. The hunting conditions were less than ideal, and he had been lying there too long.

Before the sun had threatened to peek over the ridge, Ogedei had been watching two shapes in the grass near the river’s edge, alternately sure they were animals or his older brothers in their hide jackets. His muscles were starting to cramp. Even if he could be sure of the identity of his quarry, he might not be able to pull his bow well enough to shoot it.

He pushed himself up on his hands and knees and inched forward. The brittle grass stalks scraped against his shoulders. The sound was like tree branches thrashing in his ears, and he was sure his quarry could hear him.

Ogedei pressed his belly and chest to the ground and breathed out slowly. He was nearly within shooting distance. If he nocked his arrow, stood and shot in one motion, he’d have a reasonable chance of bringing down a deer.

But if the shapes were his brothers, there would be no end of ridicule around the fire that night, and more than ridicule if he actually hit one of them.

Ogedei cursed under his breath and slowly got up on his knees. He had to be sure. Suddenly the quiet of the valley was broken by loud laughter, and Ogedei felt all the air rush out of his lungs. He remained still for another few seconds, listening for the ridicule that was sure to be coming, and when it didn’t, the fact his brothers weren’t laughing at him did little to lessen the sting of what might have happened. He waited for another burst of laughter, and then he stood and strode forward as if he had just entered the clearing, unconcerned now with the loud rustle his body made against the brush. Jochi, his eldest brother, had turned toward the sound, and he waved in recognition.

“Third Brother! Come over here. Chagatai is telling of his great exploits last night,” he laughed.

Ogedei smiled as he jogged toward his older brothers. He felt no shame at the nickname, for it was the simple truth: of Genghis Khan’s four sons, only Tolui was younger.

Of the siblings, it was generally agreed that Chagatai was the fairest, and his ability to spin a tale as well as any court entertainer certainly contributed to his ability to charm the women in the camp. Jochi relied more on his position as the eldest son, and Tolui managed to parlay his ever-present maladies into a constant flock of attentive and doting women who followed him everywhere. While Ogedei thought the image he saw in the water pail was somewhat comely, most said he was much like his father—both in physical appearance and mannerisms.

“She had such natural bounty,” Chagatai exclaimed to Ogedei as the younger brother approached. He held his hands out in front of his chest, as though this gesture was enough for Ogedei to understand all he needed to know about the story he had been telling Jochi.

“Have you ever been with a woman with small breasts?” Ogedei asked.

Chagatai screwed up his face with an expression of mock outrage, and Ogedei laughed, forgetting his disappointment.

“Indeed, Chagatai, it seems every girl you bed has fully ripened,” Jochi teased. It wasn’t just his height that made it clear he was the oldest of the three. There were already lines around his eyes, and his gaze was much more direct and piercing. He stood with his shoulders thrown back as if he were ready to accept the weight of leadership. He raised his hands and began to massage the air in front of him. “Ooo! Firm!”

Chagatai backhanded him across the shoulder. “Those are my melons!”

Their laughter was cut short by a new voice booming across the clearing: “I’m impressed!”

From the line of trees behind where Ogedei had been lying, an imposing figure and four other men strode into the morning sunlight. Light glinted off the gold around Genghis Khan’s neck, and that same light seemed to vanish into their black cloaks.

“Truly, what great hunters are my three sons,” Genghis said. “You’ve killed your deer and skinned them already, because here you are, telling stories. Come, show me what you have taken.”

Ogedei looked at Chagatai first, and seeing nothing but panic in Second Brother’s face, he turned his gaze toward the river. His cheeks burned with shame, and all the bitterness of the failed hunt churned his stomach. Genghis and his four men surrounded them easily, as they stood rooted to the ground. Like frightened deer, the thought flashed through Ogedei’s mind. If Genghis had been alone, if there were no witnesses to the Great Khan’s discovery of his sons’ failed hunt, they might have escaped with only the sting of their father’s tongue. As it was, they were liable to receive a real lashing.

“Father—” Jochi started.

“We have more than seventeen hundred mouths to feed.” Genghis spoke without rancor or anger, but they knew better. “The farmers of this territory cannot supply us with enough food—even if we were to eat them as well.”

Ogedei shivered uncontrollably, not just at the thought of cannibalism, but the calm and effortless way his father suggested the possibility.