The Mongoliad: Book Three

Gansukh did not react in any way. “Twenty-five,” he repeated, his eyes flicking toward the gamblers.

Munokhoi was more than an annoyance; he was a very real danger. Gansukh couldn’t kill him outright, nor could he continue to ignore him. Lian would argue otherwise-at least she would have previously. After killing the Chinese commander, she had gotten very hard to read. Perhaps, she might condone the death of Munokhoi now.

If he asked her. But he wasn’t going to. He didn’t need to. Munokhoi was his problem, a problem that wasn’t going to go away. And since he couldn’t just stick a knife in him and be done with it, he had to come up with some excuse.

Judging by the Torguud captain’s tension, it would not take much to provoke him, and if Munokhoi became openly hostile, then wasn’t lethal self-defense justified? What better way to provoke him than by injuring his pride? And here was a convenient way to do just that: by publicly backing the pale man against Munokhoi’s favorite.

“The scrawny one?”

The crowd fell silent at the voice, and everyone’s attention turned to the Khagan’s ger. Ogedei stood-swaying slightly, cup in hand-on the platform. “You favor the scrawny one?” he said, waving an arm at the pale warrior’s cage.

“I wager what he lacks in muscle he makes up for in skill, my Khan,” said Gansukh. “Even the superior force can be defeated through speed and tactics.” The last was unnecessary, but he saw the effect his words had on Munokhoi.

“I remember your fight with Namkhai,” the Khagan laughed. “I do not recall you being that swift, nor your tactics very effective, young pony.” He let his gaze wander about the assembled throng. “Namkhai,” he shouted, looking for his favorite wrestler. “Which do you prefer?”

Namkhai emerged from a clump of warriors not far from the platform. “I prefer to regard both men as equally dangerous,” he offered diplomatically.

Ogedei waved his cup back and forth, and wine slopped out, staining both his and Master Chucai’s robes. “That is the sort of answer I expect from my spineless administrators. Not from my champion wrestler.”

Namkhai bowed his head briefly, acknowledging the Khagan’s insight into his reply. “If I were to fight one of them,” he said, “I would be more wary of the pale-haired one.”

The Khagan stroked his beard expansively. “Perhaps I will offer you that chance,” he mused as he raised his cup toward his lips. Namkhai tipped his head deferentially once more.

Munokhoi spat in the dirt, and several of the gamblers looked nervously between the Torguud captain and Gansukh.

Still drinking, Ogedei waved his hand at the guards surrounding the cages, indicating that he was done waiting for the fighting to begin. Cautiously, the cage doors were opened and the two contestants were offered crude wooden sticks approximating swords. The crowd yipped and yelled in frenzied bloodlust as the two men were directed at spear point toward one another.

“The winner,” the Khagan decided with a glance at the cup in his hand, “receives one cup of arkhi.” He languidly raised a hand, and when he let it fall, the spearmen withdrew their weapons, leaving the two men, sword-sticks in hand, to face off against one another in the ring of stones.

Haakon had never learned the other man’s name, or even where he hailed from. Now, he might not need to. While the crudely carved shape in his hand implied this fight was not intended to be deadly, his opponent’s expression suggested otherwise. The man stood still, solid as a boulder, both feet firmly planted, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his hairy chest. He held his stick directly in front of him instead of keeping it to his shoulder or some place where it could not be knocked aside.

Haakon figured him to be untrained in the finer arts of wielding a sword, but the man held his sword-stick firmly and resolutely, as if he had some knowledge of what a hilt felt like in his hand.

He will come quickly, when he does, Haakon thought as he slowly circled his opponent, prowling just out of easy reach. He will seek to capitalize on his strength. Haakon tried to calm his brain, but now that he was out of the cage, his brain was a whirling confusion of thoughts. Part of him focused on the fight, but other parts of his mind were reflecting on his situation. Was this not unlike the arena in Legnica? From violence to captivity to violence again, here he was, forced to be a fighting dog for the amusement of these barbarians. And when he ceased to be amusing? What then?

It’s what they want you to think. It is the fear that will make you fight. It is the fear that will make you do something stupid.

Impatient, the big man lunged at Haakon’s chest. The thrust was quick and dangerous, but it lacked any real strength. Haakon-anticipating this very attack-sidestepped easily, and whipped his own stick out to knock the big man’s weapon aside. The first defense every student learned, drilled into them until it was an instinctive reaction. When Haakon tried to snap his stick back for a quick blow to his opponent’s face, the man simply raised his arm and ducked his head. Haakon felt a momentary flare of anger at having made such a foolish mistake: these pieces of wood did not have sharp edges like real swords, and a blow on the upper arm and shoulder would sting, but it wouldn’t do any real damage.

Growling, his opponent rushed him, using his own bent arm and sword as a makeshift battering ram. Haakon couldn’t get his own sword back into play quickly enough, and all he had time to do was brace himself before the burly man smashed into him.

He tumbled back, letting the momentum of the push take him into a roll, and he heard the other man’s sword slam down into the ground. Dirt pelted his legs. He came out of the roll into a crouch, looking up to see the big man standing with his legs spread, the sword rising up for another two-handed swing. Without rising, Haakon snapped his sword up, striking the big man’s knee with a violent crack.

His opponent howled. He wobbled as he tried to complete his downward swing, but the stroke was slow and clumsy. Haakon scurried aside, and as he regained his feet, he slammed his sword down on the other man’s extended hands, feeling the satisfying thwack of wood against bone, and then he followed through with a backhanded swipe. The tip slammed into the man’s face, crunching cartilage, and a crimson torrent of blood gushed out of the man’s nose.

Unlike the strike to the knee, the blow to his wrist and the broken nose appeared to only enrage the man, and with a roar, he retaliated with a jab of his thick fist. Haakon had closed after the strike to the wrist, and he pulled his head back to avoid the punch. The man’s hard knuckles scraped across the side of his face, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the big man’s other hand. He had dropped his sword! The second punch caught him squarely on the cheek. His vision blurred and doubled as pain lanced through his jaw.

The big man pawed at him, trying to get a grappling hold; blinking through a film of tears, Haakon fought to extricate himself. His wooden sword was heavy, stuck on something, and the more he pulled on it, the more resistance he felt. The big man clouted him on the side of the head once more, and Haakon’s vision split even further. His sword was moving of its own volition now, and he dimly realized that his opponent had seized his weapon.

His arms were yanked upward, and he felt a blast of heavy breath on his neck. The wooden sword slammed against his chest, and he struggled against the big man’s sudden leverage. He had gotten behind Haakon, and with a firm grip on the stick, was trying to choke him.

His field of vision was filled with yellow starbursts and streaks of shining light. He had managed to get his hand between the stick and his throat, but even still, he could barely pull any breath. The big man grunted and heaved, his sweaty frame braced against Haakon’s back.

He was not going to last much longer. He needed air. His opponent was too strong.

Desperately, Haakon kicked backward. His first attempt missed, but he felt the big man shift his weight. The knee! His vision starting to darken, Haakon tried again, and this time he connected, the heel of his foot smashing against the knee he had hit previously. There wasn’t much strength in his blow-the angle was all wrong-but it was enough to make the other man stumble.

Haakon dropped down to his knees, leaning forward a tiny bit as he did so. The pressure against his throat increased as-for a second or two-he was straining against all of the other man’s weight, but then he felt the