The Mongoliad: Book One

He slowed, glancing around at the open space they had wandered into. “Plus,” he noted, “they’ll leave us alone, thinking that we’re…”

Lian nodded, trying her best not to smile. “Engaged in an archery lesson,” she finished for him, arching an eyebrow. Yes, she thought, Master Chucai was right. He does have promise.

Gansukh blushed. He took the quiver from her and gave her the bow instead. “Try it,” he said gruffly, embarrassed now.

She lifted the weapon and put her left hand on the grip. She drew the string back and let it go with a faint twang.

“Not like that.” Gansukh moved behind her and touched her shoulders lightly—pulling them back, adjusting her stance. “Arm all the way out. Point your knuckle at the target. Now draw back across your body.” He brought her elbow back slowly, guiding her arm. “Same thing with this hand, knuckle at the target.” Her body turned slightly under his guidance until she was pointed toward a stand of aspen trees, their pale trunks glowing in the late- afternoon light.

He stepped back and she let go of the string, feeling a difference in the motion. “I feel it,” she said.

“Okay,” Gansukh said. “Try it a few more times, but without letting go. Just work on making the motion of pulling back smooth.”

Lian shifted her footing and shook her shoulders loose. She took a deep breath and raised the bow as Gansukh had shown her. Wrapping her first two fingers around the bowstring, she used her back and shoulders to pull the string back—farther this time. She wished she could see Gansukh’s expression, but couldn’t spare a glance in his direction; she’d lose her grip if she let her concentration lapse that much. Satisfied that she could draw the bow, she relaxed and then repeated the exercise two more times before letting her arms collapse. Her biceps were burning.

“Well done,” Gansukh said. “You took to that very naturally.”

Lian said nothing as she reached for one of the arrows in the quiver Gansukh held.

Gansukh caught her hand before she could pull it out. “Careful, that’s sharp.”

“I’m not a child.” Her tone was petulant enough that she might as well have stomped her foot and threatened to throw a fit.

“Just try not to cut those soft hands,” Gansukh said, not averse to needling her more. “Place the arrow here.” He put the quiver down and approached, intending to show her more directly. “Grip the end tightly like this. See?” He drew the bowstring back in one smooth motion. It was testament to their difference in size that Gansukh could reach around her and pull the bow back nearly without touching her. Nearly.

After a moment, when they both silently acknowledged their proximity to one another, he let out the tension in the bowstring and moved away. “Your turn,” he said.

Lian firmly grasped the bow and tried to draw the arrow back, but the taut bowstring barely moved. The combination of gripping the arrow and pulling back the string was thwarting her efforts. Gansukh was right. She had drawn a bow before, but this one was much stiffer than others she’d used. Gansukh had made it look so effortless. Determined, she pulled her shoulders back and, firmly wrapping two fingers around bowstring and arrow, managed to stretch the bow half as far as Gansukh had.

“Good,” he noted. “Now shoot that tree.” He pointed at the one they had been aiming at earlier.

She grunted as she released the arrow. It flew wide, to the right, and vanished, with a whisper of sound, into a thick bush. Her fingertips burned from the rough string. She looked at them, expecting to see blood, and was surprised when there was none.

“I should’ve told you to hold your breath when you aim,” said Gansukh.

“You’re not a very good teacher,” she said, embarrassed to have missed the tree completely.

“Weren’t you prattling on about patience a few days ago,” he said, “in one of those scrolls you’ve been reading to me?”

She smiled as she bent over and pulled another arrow from the quiver on the ground. “I didn’t say I was giving up.” She nocked it and drew the string back, trying to remember everything she was supposed to do. Gansukh tried to guide her with his hands on her arms, and she shrugged him off. “I’d prefer to try without your help.”

She tried not to think about him watching her. Hold your breath! she thought at the last second. Her right hand opened and the arrow sprang from the bow, sailing across the garden to land square in an aspen’s trunk.

“There,” she said. “Perfect shot.”

Gansukh shrugged. “Not bad. Can you do that again?”

She glared at him and then bent to retrieve another arrow. “How went the hunt?” She tried to keep her tone nonchalant.

“Fine.”

She looked at him. “Fine?”

He remained oblivious to her tone. “Yes, it was fine.” When she stood in front of him—eyebrow cocked, hand placed on hip—a bewildered expression crossed his face. “Oh,” he realized. “Thank you for your encouragement. You were very helpful.” He nodded toward the bow and arrow in her hands. “Now nock that arrow and see if that last shot was just luck.”

“Luck?” she said, not moving. Is that all you’re going to tell me? she suggested with the tilt of her head, and when he didn’t respond, she turned her back to him with a sweep of her skirts. “I’ll show you luck.”

Lian braced her shoulders and pulled the bowstring back as she had before. It was still very hard to pull it back far, but the motion felt a little easier, a little more natural. She even remembered to hold her breath this time. The bowstring gave a soft twang and the arrow stuck into the tree three hands below the first.

“Not luck,” Gansukh acknowledged. “Let’s try something a little more advanced then, shall we?”

“Wouldn’t you say that was a good shot?” she asked.

Gansukh gave the matter some thought. “I’d say it was a good shot,” he said, “for someone shooting a non-moving target at close range in near-perfect conditions.” He glanced around the quiet garden. “But I’ve never been given a shot like this in hunting…much less in battle.”

He was going to be impossible.

She sighed. “What would you have me do then?” she asked.

“You mean, in terms of archery?” He smiled.

Lian gave him a cold stare.

His grin faded and he cleared his throat. “I’d have you take the same shot while walking.” He picked up the quiver and held it out to her. There were only three arrows left.

“While walking?” Lian asked.

Gansukh nodded.

Lian took the arrow and nocked it without looking. She started to her right, but quickly realized she’d lose sight of the target in a few steps as she passed behind a row of manicured hedges. She switched directly and raised the bow, front knuckle pointed at the tree. Even at a slow walk, her front knuckle refused to stay on target— bouncing not only up and down, but also side to side. She tried to predict when she would be on target and let the arrow loose. It hit the ground barely a horse-length in front of her and skipped across the grass.

Gansukh offered her another arrow. “Don’t look at your knuckle this time; look at the target.”

Lian grabbed the arrow from him and nocked it quickly in the bow. He knew what he was talking about and she should listen to him, but his calm was getting under her skin. She pulled the bowstring back, and as she walked to her right, she released the arrow almost immediately. She had been shooting blindly, just trying to use up the arrows so that this lesson could be over. The arrow flipped end over end and rattled into the tree’s lower branches.

“Not bad!” Gansukh said, much to her surprise.

“You are laughing at me,” she said.

He shook his head. “You stopped thinking about what you were doing. That is a large part of shooting well. It’s also the hardest thing to teach.” Gansukh grinned again. Lian couldn’t decide if this near-constant grin of his was getting annoying or endearing. Perhaps both.