The Mongoliad: Book Three

“We have both endured sufferings at the hands of the Shield-Brethren, sufferings that have as yet been unavenged,” he said. “I will hear more of your mission in the Rus, and what you know of these scurrilous Shield- Brethren, but first, I must ask: can you fight?”

Kristaps stared at him, his eyes even colder than before, and for a second Dietrich wondered if he had mistakenly spoken too plainly. It was, ultimately, a foolish question to ask Kristaps; if the man could breathe, he could fight. To question that dedication was rather impolitic of the Heermeister of the order to whom Kristaps had sworn his life and his sword.

Kristaps’s face lost some of its ruddy color, and the hint of a smile curled his cruel mouth. “Of course, Heermeister,” he said. “I slew one of their number with my dagger, and God did not strike me down. In fact, He spared me so that I could return and perform more work for Him.”

There was the fervor and the passion that his current company of men lacked. If Dietrich could have had even fifty men like Kristaps, Schaulen would never have happened, and the pagans of the north would still know their place. He flicked a hand at the foppish knight who had tried to prevent Kristaps’s entrance. “Food and wine,” he commanded.

As the younger warrior scurried away, Dietrich offered his wineskin to Kristaps. “Oh, yes,” he said. “God has a plan, and I think you will find it very satisfying.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The Stone Ring

The Khagan’s caravan failed to move the next morning, and did not appear to be inclined to move the following morning either. As the day wore on and Gansukh watched preparations for yet another feast, he wondered if the Khagan and his retinue would ever reach the Place of the Cliff.

He had spent too many summers and winters in the saddle, and his spirit was restless. This inactivity chaffed at him. The Chinese raiders had been routed, and what few survivors remained had scattered. The scouts had found little evidence that any raider remained within a half day’s ride, but to stay in this valley was the foolhardy decision of a provincial administrator, not a warrior.

In addition, such inactivity meant too many opportunities for the Khagan to slide into a drunken stupor. Any decisive action would be slow in coming.

They had left Karakorum, but too much of the palace had come with them, which is why the routing of the Chinese had to be celebrated. Such idleness was typical of the way courtiers thought: the Mongol Empire is brave and strong; we must have a feast! After as many months as he had spent at court, Gansukh wasn’t sure why he was still surprised at such a ridiculous decision.

Wandering around-waiting-darkened his mood, and on the few occasions when he caught sight of Master Chucai, he could tell the Khan’s advisor was similarly concerned about the delays. Gansukh suspected Chucai would join him if he started whipping each and every ox and draft horse, until every wagon, ger, and lazy courtier was dragged toward Burqan-qaldun.

To keep his gnawing frustration at bay, Gansukh tried to stay alert to Munokhoi’s movements. He knew how brittle his safety was, and even more so, Lian’s. Gansukh continued to haunt the circle of tents near the Khagan’s ger, performing whatever odd job he could find so as to keep an eye and ear turned toward Munokhoi’s comings and goings.

If the Torguud captain was aware of his silent shadow, he did not acknowledge it.

Now, as the sun began to slip toward the horizon, tickling the bellies of the white clouds with orange feathers, a crowd started to gather about the stones that had been laid in a large ring near the feasting area. Gansukh had participated in the gathering of the rocks from the surrounding hills, a boring and laborious task that had taken up a goodly portion of the morning, and as the rock haulers had been directed as to where to deposit their stones, Gansukh had gleaned a pretty good idea as to the eventual use of the circle.

An arena.

Much of the growing audience’s attention was on the two cages facing each other on opposite sides of the circle. In one cage, on the northern side of the arena, a burly man with a body patched in thick black hair, a great bushy beard, a hooked nose-broken more than once and never set right-and dark eyes nearly lost in a perpetual squinting scowl. In the opposite cage, a tall blond ghost of a man, sitting more often that standing. While his attitude was quite passive, his cold blue eyes carefully and exactingly watched everything. Two guards stood beside each cage, and more guards circled the ring, keeping back the growing throng of spectators. People in the mob jostled each other for a better view as they jeered at the captives and loudly proclaimed their bets on the fight’s outcome. The Khagan’s mighty ger had been moved a few hours ago so that it loomed over the circle of stones, and Munokhoi, Master Chucai, and a few other people- including one of Ogedei’s wives-milled about on the raised platform near the ger’s entrance.

On the western side of the arena-not far from where Gansukh stood, watching the spectacle unfold- enterprising gamblers kept tallies in the dirt and with bundles of sticks as bettors huddled around them, shouting to make themselves heard.

“Three oxen on the wild ape-man from the West!”

“Ten goats on the fair one!”

“Put me down for six copper pieces on the big fellow!”

Up on the platform, Munokhoi strutted back and forth, pleased with the attention being given to the proceedings. Gansukh was fairly certain the fights had been Munokhoi’s idea. It was the sort of demeaning spectacle that the Torguud captain would relish, and while he had little desire to watch, Gansukh stayed.

The crowd was getting noisier. Sporadic chants for the Khagan sprang up, but they had little strength and quickly petered out. Munokhoi’s pace became more agitated, and with a last glance at the closed flaps of the Khagan’s ger, he sprang off the platform. Stalking over to the hairy man’s cage, the Torguud captain sized up the fighter. Stroking his chin, he took his time examining the big man, circling the cage to study him while the prisoner watched him cautiously. Munokhoi abruptly grabbed the cage and rattled it hard, shouting like a demon right in the prisoner’s face. The prisoner did not startle; he stared at Munokhoi, and the lines of his face creased deeper as his scowl intensified.

Munokhoi laughed boisterously and turned away. With long, quick strides, he walked over to the gathering of gamblers. “Put me in for twenty oxen on that man!” he ordered.

It was the other man however, the pale man, who intrigued Gansukh. Though captive and caged, he was fascinatingly tranquil. He did not hang his head in despair, nor did he glower and rage at his captors. He sat still in the center of his cage with his legs crossed. If he was waiting for some future opening, some chance at escape, he betrayed no sign of it, but Gansukh was certain there were depths beneath that placid surface. A great warrior must always search for the enemy’s intentions and guard his own.

The dark-haired man was savagely strong. He growled at his captors like a dog trying to establish dominance. Gansukh could see why Munokhoi favored him. Strength, however, was not always a guarantee of victory. If the pale man was swift and clever, he could win the fight handily.

Waiting, Gansukh thought, and without realizing it, he had shoved away from the tent wall that he had been leaning against. “Twenty-five cows on the fair one,” he said, loudly and clearly enough to be heard.

Munokhoi whirled to see who had called out, and catching sight of Gansukh, his entire body went rigid. His grin was malformed, uneven and showing too many teeth.