The Mongoliad: Book Three

He ran to the wall and scrambled up the ladder of spikes.

Tegusgal, having reached the top, braced himself on the wall. He looked down, hearing Hans on the spikes below him, and he stared, incredulous at the sight of the boy coming after him.

Hans didn’t slow down. As soon as he got close enough, he launched himself off the spikes, Maks’s dagger in his hand. The tip pierced the back of Tegusgal’s calf, the force of Hans’s blow driving the metal point in far enough that the tip grated on the bone in Tegusgal’s leg.

Tegusgal howled, his foot slipping off the stake. Hans hung in the air, both hands around the hilt of the dagger. Blood ran down the back of Tegusgal’s leg as the Mongol tried to shake him off.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

A Change of Plans

Skjaldbr??ur.

The word burned in Haakon’s head for the rest of the day after the gray-haired one had caught him off guard. He hadn’t imagined that a Mongol would know of the Shield-Brethren, much less of his affiliation with the order. Had the gray-haired warrior been at Onghwe’s arena? He couldn’t recall. The first weeks were a dull blur in his head. Other than his chance encounter with the Great General, Subutai, he could not remember the faces of any of the Mongols.

Where had he learned about the Shield-Brethren?

After awhile an answer came to him, and it made his blood run cold. The gray-haired one had laughed when he had spoken the word, the savage glee of a man who thought he was stronger. A man who had survived battle and who was now fearless.

They’re dead, Haakon realized. Feronantus and his band. The Mongols found them. They’re all dead.

This news distressed him, and for several hours he struggled to understand why. As he lay in his cage, his head resting against the bars so he could see the sky, he gradually laid to rest a vain hope he had nursed ever since he had woken up in the cage. The Shield-Brethren were dead. No one was going to rescue him.

He was going to die in this foreign land. No one would sing of his deeds after he was gone. He was a nameless gladiator, and he lived at the pleasure of the Khagan, who was little more than a petulant child, constantly drunk on power and wine.

“Hssssst!”

Haakon shook off his maudlin fear and rolled onto his side. He peered out of his cage, looking for the whisperer.

Krasniy, in the next cage, waggled his fingers to get Haakon’s attention. Haakon nodded, indicating that he had seen the red-haired giant’s gesture. Krasniy held up a small object, nearly invisible in the dark, and Haakon nodded again. Krasniy pointed at the sky and then drew an arc with his finger, from east to west-sunrise to sunset. Haakon understood.

Tomorrow night, Krasniy was going to use the arrowhead he had been hiding since the Chinese raid. The Khagan was leaving on his hunt in the morning; by nightfall, no one in the camp would be paying much attention to the prisoners in their cages. It would be the best chance they had to escape.

Haakon lay back down on the floor of his cage, and after a few moments of trying to find a comfortable position on the unyielding floor, he fell asleep.

A plan always quieted the mind.

After the Khagan’s hunting party had left, Lian had gone to Gansukh’s ger, even though he had warned her to avoid it. She only had to unlace the flaps partway to understand Gansukh’s command. The destruction and the smell within mortified her, more so because even though it was Gansukh’s ger, it was the only place within the caravan-with the entirety of the Khagan’s empire-that she might have been able to feel a feeble sense of security and freedom.

Munokhoi had taken that from her.

Lian had stumbled through the camp-her heart numb, her mind a confused cascade of thoughts. Munokhoi said he was going to kill her when he returned from killing Gansukh. If the ex-Torguud captain did return, that would mean Gansukh was dead. Would Master Chucai protect her? That was unlikely. She was a pawn in his endless court games-a piece whose use was, unfortunately, coming to an end.

Even if she found someone else to protect her, wouldn’t she still be nothing more than a slave? Her life would never be her own.

Lian paused between two ger and fumbled in the pocket of her jacket, where she had slipped the tiny box that Gansukh had given her. It was an unadorned lacquer box, the sort that appeared seamless. She had had one like it when she was a child, and she knew the trick to getting them open. The lid was stiff and moved slowly, but she managed to open the tiny container.

Inside was a small twig crowned by three green leaves. It looked healthy and vibrant and not at all like a dried sprig cut from a tree. She touched the leaves gently, and found them soft and pliant. She raised the box to her face and sniffed. The scent was crisp and fresh, not quite mint and not quite lavender. Looking at the twig lessened her panic and confusion, and easing the lid back onto the box was more difficult than she expected.

This is what Chucai wanted, she thought. This is what the Chinese came for.

“Lian!”

Her hand closed reflexively around the box, and as she turned, she tucked it away in her jacket again. “Jachin,” Lian said as she spotted the approaching woman, trailed by a trio of her handmaidens.

“We have nothing to do until the Khagan returns,” Jachin said as she swept up to Lian. “I, for one, am going to take a bath.” She rolled her eyes at her handmaidens. “If these simpletons can ever manage to shore up my ger well enough that the water doesn’t keep running out of the tub.”

“Perhaps it might be best to not fill the bath completely,” Lian suggested, attempting to quickly fix Second Wife’s problem.

“I might as well not even bother in that case.” Jachin shook her head. “Next you’ll be suggesting that I have the servants rub my skin with wet clothes in lieu of actually submerging my body.”

“Oh, my Lady, no.” Lian moved her hand-the one that had just shoved the box and sprig into her coat-up to her mouth as if horrified by the idea. “That would be akin to suggesting that you strip naked and jump in the river.”

Jachin snorted. “Just like the men?”

“Well, not just like them.”

One of the handmaidens giggled and Jachin laughed outright before frowning playfully at Lian. “I do not think the Khagan would approve,” she said. “No, I want to please him when he returns from his hunt. Even though he will be elated, he will be tired from the long day of riding. I want to be ready for him. I want him to take me to his bed on the night of his victory. I want to be-” She broke off, and surprisingly, blushed. She toyed with her hair, staring off over Lian’s shoulder.

“Of course.” Lian fought the urge to fidget, to try to flee from Jachin before Second Wife got it into her head to insist that Lian keep her company while she bathed.

“Toregene would tell me to leave the Khagan alone on his victory night. He would come to me if he wanted my company,” Jachin said, nodding to herself. “But that is what she wants. Of course, left alone, the Khagan would choose her. Not because he likes her, but because she is First Wife.” She wrinkled her nose. “It is all so easy for her. She doesn’t have to worry about