The Mongoliad: Book Three

to his belly and began worming his way along the ground. When he had gone several body lengths, he got to his knees and slowly rose to a half crouch, peering over the dead tree. He had chosen a spot where a leafy fern had spouted from the trunk, and he was confident he wouldn’t be seen.

His ruse had worked. He could see Munokhoi clearly, kneeling behind a large bush. His bow lay on the ground beside him, and he was busy stuffing something into an iron tube held cradled in one arm.

Gansukh nocked one of his two remaining arrows and, holding the bow sideways so that he wouldn’t reveal himself prematurely, he drew back the string. Rising slowly to a standing position-his thighs quivering at the glacial pace of his motion-he aimed carefully. Munokhoi sensed his presence right before he let go of the bowstring, and Gansukh had a brief glimpse of the ex-Torguud captain’s wild eyes before he ducked back down behind the log.

Gansukh scrambled farther to his left, not worrying too much about being quiet, and finding another fern to obscure him, he risked another glance over the log.

Munokhoi was gone, but he had left a leather satchel on the ground. Gansukh wasted a few seconds peering at where Munokhoi had been crouching, trying to ascertain any other sign that his arrow had struck its target, and movement in the nearby bush warned him in time. Munokhoi’s arrow shredded the leaves of the fern as he ducked. That one would have hit him if he hadn’t moved.

He saw a gap between the tree trunk and the ground and realized he had gone as far as he readily could. The gap grew wider on his left, and Munokhoi would be able to track his movement.

The Chinese weapon thundered again, and Gansukh flinched even though he was protected by the dead tree. Wood splintered and cracked nearby, and he looked upslope to see a spindly tree start to topple. Munokhoi’s cannon blast had destroyed the tree’s trunk, and the tree was falling right toward him. Its looming branches were like a hundred eager hands, reaching for him.

Gansukh scrambled out of the tree’s path, and the trunk missed him-striking the heavy log and rebounding. It slid downhill, its branches clawing and tearing at his clothes. He tripped and struggled to free himself of the tree’s clutches. After being dragged a few paces, he managed to roll free of the branches, still clutching his bow.

But he had lost his last arrow.

His heart racing, he ran, weaving through the trees to spoil Munokhoi’s aim. Arrows whistled through the branches around him as he fled, and some of them smacked into trees, sounding like a flat hand swatting a horse’s rump. Run faster, young pony, run faster.

As the arrows faltered, he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings: Where was the brush thickest? Could he find a hollow log to hide inside? Were the shadows beneath a copse of evergreens dark enough?

None of these places mattered though if he didn’t have an arrow. All he needed was one clear shot, but there had to be some bait for Munokhoi. How to best the hunter at his game? Where could he hide that Munokhoi wouldn’t think to look for him?

The forest had gotten thicker, the trees bristling with densely packed branches. He stopped beside a wide alder with a generous shroud of thick branches. The owl falls upon its prey from above, he thought, mentally charting a path up through the branches of the tree. The hare doesn’t see the owl until it is too late.

He draped his bow around his neck so that it lay close to his chest. Branches poked at his face as he began to climb, and his heart leaped into his throat when one branch snapped as he put his weight on it. He looked down once, and his head started to swim as he saw how far off the ground he was, but he tamped his fear down and kept going. He paused once more, balancing on one foot, to hack at a relatively straight branch with his knife. Finally, he found a pair of thick branches that would work as a perch, and he steadied himself against the rough trunk.

He held his arm out, measuring the length of the branch he had cut. Satisfied that it was both long and straight enough, he trimmed it down and then carefully set about stripping off the bark. There were a few tiny buds, and he cut them back, smoothing out the shaft with delicate strokes of his knife. Once all the knobs and burrs were gone, he whittled one end to as fine a point as possible, and then he cut a deep notch in the other end. The last step was to peel back the soft wood on either side of the notch so that he could create makeshift fletching from leaves stuffed under the flaps.

It wouldn’t fly very far and, judging by the gentle curve he hadn’t been able to work out in the shaft, it would pull to the right. But it was an arrow nonetheless.

Settling in to wait, he laid his rough arrow across his bow and kept his right fingers loosely curled around the leafy end. He kept his breathing shallow and measured, ignoring as best he could the cramps and aches that came from holding one position too long. The branch on which he was standing was narrower than his feet, and he couldn’t shift his footing too much without danger of slipping. He watched the landscape below, constantly scanning for some sign of his prey. I am a patient owl.

The hare came.

Down below, Munokhoi stole through the forest. He didn’t step on a single branch, and he eased through the brush more readily and silently than the wind. His bow was held ready, and Gansukh couldn’t tell if he was still carrying the Chinese fire thrower. Munokhoi’s head swung back and forth, his eyes taking in every brush and branch, but he never looked up.

Gansukh drew his bow back slowly, cringing at the slightest creak of the wood. Munokhoi was going to pass on his right, and the best shot would be when the ex-Torguud captain was abreast of him, presenting his own right side to Gansukh. He could take the shot now, but the range was farther than he trusted his ready-made arrow. He had to wait. He held his breath and aimed, feeling the bow become an extension of his body.

As Munokhoi passed Gansukh’s tree, he paused, his head swiveling back and forth. His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed something out of place in the wood.

Gansukh released his pent-up breath, his fingers opening. His bow sang, and there was a flutter of leaves.

Munokhoi took a step back, and looked down at the shaft of fresh wood protruding from his chest. Shock registered on his face for a moment before he toppled to the ground, disappearing from Gansukh’s view

Gansukh let out a whoop of elation as he half clambered, half fell down the tree. The hunt wasn’t over yet, though. He had to be sure Munokhoi was dead. He doubted his arrow had been fatal. He had to get close and slit his throat. Leave nothing to chance.

Munokhoi lay on his back, blood spattered across his jacket and the branches of a nearby bush. He stared up at the panoply of the forest, and his face was contorted in a grimace. Gansukh’s arrow was imbedded in the right side of his chest, sticking nearly straight up.

Gansukh approached cautiously. While Munokhoi seemed dead, his right hand lay concealed beneath his leg. Such positioning could be a coincidence. It could also be a trap.

Trying to keep as much distance as possible, Gansukh stooped over Munokhoi’s body to reach for the arrow. If Munokhoi was only feigning death, he would react when the arrow was pulled out. Gansukh clutched his knife tightly as he leaned over his fallen foe.

Munokhoi let out a blood-curdling scream as Gansukh yanked the arrow out. The ex- Torguud captain sat upright, his hand-holding a dagger-shooting out from behind his leg. Even though he had expected such a surprise, Gansukh seized up in terror, as though he were facing not a mortal man but an evil spirit. Munokhoi’s dagger tangled in Gansukh’s half-tied sash, and he slapped his left hand down, trying to grab Munokhoi’s wrist. He made contact, stopping the thrust, and as he started a tug-of-war his feet were swept out from under him as Munokhoi twisted on the ground.

He landed on his back with a thud, his knife slipping out of his grip, and Munokhoi rolled atop him, pinning his right arm to the ground with a knee. Blood dripped from the wound in Munokhoi’s chest, dotting Gansukh’s jacket. Munokhoi spat in Gansukh’s face, his breath heavy with the stink of airag. “You are weak,” he growled. Gansukh still had a hold on Munokhoi’s wrist, and he held Munokhoi off, barely. The dagger inched closer to his throat.

Gansukh bucked his hips, trying to throw Munokhoi off balance, and when that failed, he tried to kick his leg up high enough to hit Munokhoi in the back of the head, but the ex-captain was leaning too far forward, bearing down with all of his weight. Gansukh bucked again, but this time he tried to extricate his right hand from beneath Munokhoi’s knee. He managed to pull his arm free, without his own knife, but an empty hand was good enough. He dug his fingers into Munokhoi’s jacket, searching for the bloody arrow wound with his thumb.