The Mongoliad: Book One

astonished circle. She put down her bread. “By the time the party’s over, most of the prisoners have been trampled to death. The ones who survive are too broken to move. Mostly dead, mostly broken,” she added, fingering the bread again. Her stomach twitched and she shook her head. “Enough.”

“This happened to Illarion?”

“Yes. And his wife and daughter. The next morning, while Onghwe Khan and his men were sleeping it off, a few black bones came around—”

“Black bones?” Feronantus asked.

“Mongols of lower caste. Tartars, Turks, some Ruthenians. They came to pull up the planks and take ears.”

“Ears?” Taran asked sharply.

Raphael explained, “It is how they count the enemy dead.”

“Most of us have two ears!” Taran protested.

“It is always the right ear,” Raphael said gently.

“When they cut off Illarion’s right ear, he woke up,” Cnan said. “Reached up like a demon out of the muck, snatched the knife from the ear-cutter, twisted it around, and gutted him. A few other black bones bandied their bowlegs his way. He picked up a plank and used it like a quarterstaff. Brained them one by one. Killed them all.”

This cheered her a little, and she took another bite. “Collected their horses and rode away. Do you have beer?”

The knights looked at each other and smiled as if at a secret. Raphael poured her a glass of the foaming sour stuff they had been drinking. It tasted like beer but was as strong as mead and made her head swim.

“Since Illarion still lives, I cannot simply dismiss the story,” said Feronantus, after thinking about it for as long as he wanted to, “but I suspect it to be half true and half nonsense.”

“Plank as quarterstaff,” Taran said, tugging mightily at his beard and screwing up his face. “Difficult to get a proper grip.”

“Illarion was always good with a staff,” Feronantus reminded him.

“I doubt that the ear-taker woke him,” Raphael said. “He was probably lying in wait, feigning death.”

“His ear is definitely gone,” Cnan announced. “His right ear.”

“We needn’t resolve such questions now,” said Feronantus, as Taran seemed about to voice a new objection. “You say he is alive, and nearby.”

“Barely, and in a manner of speaking,” said Cnan. “Two days’ ride under normal circumstances.”

“I love Illarion,” Feronantus admitted freely, “and would do almost anything for him. But there are only a few of us, and we are here for another purpose.”

“He said you would say that,” said Cnan, “and you should come and get him anyway, and that you would understand when he got here.”

Feronantus looked mildly put out. He gave Cnan a searching look. “You would lead us to him?”

“Of course, if you let me finish this bread. And give me more beer.”

“Please, eat your fill. Raphael, will you go and tend to Illarion’s wound?”

“Of course.”

“Take Finn and, in case there’s trouble, Haakon.”

“We might need Haakon here,” Taran warned. Cnan wondered why they needed the boy. He was feckless and clumsy looking. She almost felt sorry for him.

“Raphael will bring him back safe and sound,” Feronantus returned, shifting his gaze to the Syrian.

CHAPTER 2: THE KHAN OF KHANS

Ogedei, Khan of Khans, third son of Genghis the Great Conqueror, sat upon his throne. His mighty frame was draped in fine robes—delicate embroidery depicted clouds and dragons in pure-gold thread on a sky-blue background. Around him were the lavishly painted walls of the Great Palace of Karakorum. The lilting music of zithers filled the room, and lithe girls danced about the tall throne, their sheer silk sleeves twirling red spirals in the air. Ogedei divided his attention between listening to the petitions of the bureaucrat prostrated before him and playing with his empty cup. He spun the cup deftly in his broad right hand, tracing the delicate silverwork with his fingertips. The cup was empty. He did not wish it to remain empty.

“O Khagan, Master of the World,” said the Shanxi provincial sub-administrator, his fat forehead firmly planted against the floor, “I bring myself before you today to humbly request that the grain taxes for Xieliang County be lowered from one in twelve bushels to one in fifteen…” The beaded tassels on the top of his cap dangled back and forth as he talked, and Ogedei found the motion mesmerizing. He was well into the embrace of the wine, and his mind was easily snared.

Weak, he thought, staring at the tassel-topped sub-administrator. A life hunched over books and papers. Any simple peasant among his subjects could subdue him and choke the breath from his throat, yet he governs them completely. He studied the man, his ludicrous hat, his soft, fat hands. One blow, he reckoned, I could split his head in two with one stroke, and then he could bother me no more. Ogedei sighed and looked away. One hand idly stroked his mustache, while he traced the grooves and ridges on the cup with the other. But another would just take his place, and after him, another. Like swatting at a swarm of flies.

The Shanxi provincial sub-administrator twisted his neck to look up at the Khagan, expecting an answer to a question Ogedei had only half heard. He grew pale, seeing the twisted line of Ogedei’s mouth, and he started to stammer, the tassels bobbing up and down.

Ogedei cut him off with a grunt and a wave of his hand. “Let it be thus,” he said.

The tassels clattered against the floor as the sub-administrator groveled in gratitude. Praising the magnificent wisdom of the Khagan, he shuffled backward until he was far enough away to flee the throne room without causing offense.

The sub-administrator scuttled between a pair of men entering the throne room. One was Yelu Chucai, Ogedei’s advisor; the other was a young warrior, wearing dust-covered leather armor. Chucai strode across the room, a floating apparition in his black silk robes. His beard, as dark as his robes, trailed down to his waist, a not- inconsiderable distance of his seven-foot frame. The young warrior looked small next to Chucai, even though the crown of his head was in line with the other man’s shoulder. The warrior’s eyes were wide, his boyishly smooth face unable to hide his wonderment at the array of treasures arranged in the throne room. Chucai knelt before the Khagan, and the young man belatedly scrambled to follow his lead.

“Khagan,” said Chucai, “this envoy comes from Chagatai Khan.”

Ogedei studied the young man kneeling beside Chucai. Why has my brother sent an emissary? He tried to recall the last report from the noyon, his generals in the field. Batu, Jochi’s intemperate son, was still in the West, expanding the edge of the empire with the aid of Subutai, Genghis’s brilliant strategist. Kadan and Onghwe were with the great horde as well; conquering lands for their father was a worthy cure for the boredom that had consumed them at Karakorum. Chagatai’s holdings—given to him by Genghis—extended from the Altai Mountains to the Amu Darya River. As long as Batu—and, by extension, the rest of Jochi’s offspring—kept conquering lands to the west, there should be no conflict between the two branches of the family. What more could Chagatai want?

The nagging question gave birth to a wine-spawned idea: the possibility of sending the warrior away, dismissing him outright without giving him a hearing.

“Why has my brother sent you?” Ogedei sighed, putting aside the idle idea.

The emissary started. “I…” he stuttered. “Chagatai Khan has sent me to…” He looked up at Ogedei, and the Khagan saw both confusion and something else in the young man’s face. “I have been