The Mongoliad: Book Three

balance tip in his favor. From his kneeling position he then bent forward, and the big man tumbled over his shoulder.

The other man landed heavily, the air forced from his lungs with a sickly gasp. He still had Haakon’s sword, though his grip on it was loose.

His vision clearing as he greedily sucked in air, Haakon threw himself toward the supine man, reaching for the sword. Sensing Haakon’s approach, the big man struggled to sit up, but Haakon punched his broken and bloody nose. Wrenching the sword out of the man’s slack fingers, Haakon jabbed the short hilt into his opponent’s throat, and then clumsily scuttled away before the big man could grab him.

There was no need. The combination of being hit again on the nose and the blow to the windpipe had taken all of his opponent’s will to fight. The big man was curled into a ball, his body shaking as he tried to draw breath.

Still somewhat unsteady himself, Haakon used the wooden sword as a crutch and got to his feet. Suddenly aware of the crowd around him, he started to raise his hands-and the sword-into the air, but when he spied the warriors with spears approaching, he dropped the sword.

But he still raised his arms in victory, a signal the crowd responded to with an enthusiastic roar of approval. The men with spears indicated he should return to his cage, and with a final glance at his downed opponent, he staggered across the sandy field to his tiny cell. His vision still suffered, but he could see well enough, and he threw a salute to the tall Mongolian standing on the raised platform.

The tall man wasn’t quite as imposing as General Subutai, but his clothing was much finer and more ostentatious than anyone else’s. And he had a way of looking down on everyone around him that reminded Haakon of the liege lord who controlled the land on which Haakon’s village had been located.

Khagan, he thought, recalling the name he had heard from the guards during the long trip to Karakorum. The Khan of Khans.

Waiting at his cage was a man holding a wooden bowl filled with an eggshell-white fluid. Before he ducked back into his prison, Haakon took the offered bowl and quaffed it in three gulps. It was sour and vile, but he knew it would numb the pain that was going to visit him soon.

He glanced at the man he suspected was the supreme ruler of the Mongols, and raised the empty bowl.

A humorless smile playing across his lips, the Khagan lifted his own cup in return.

Gansukh did not join the crowd in their noisy exclamations. Half were cheering the bravery of the pale youth, while others shouted insults at the burly, black-haired man. He started to smile, and as soon as he realized he was doing so, he twisted his lips into a frown and turned away from the spectacle.

It did not matter that they were prisoners taken from foreign lands conquered by the Mongols. They were still men, and no man should be forced to fight for the entertainment of others. If they had refused to fight, they would have been killed. And what galled him further was a recollection of the wrestling match with Namkhai. He had challenged Namkhai, in fact, and not because he wanted to demonstrate his martial prowess, but because he wanted to get the Khagan’s attention. He was a free man, a warrior of the steppes, and yet, he too had fought for the pleasure of the Khagan. How different was he from those men in their cages?

He had sought to anger Munokhoi-and, judging by the Torguud captain’s clenched fists and stormy expression, he had accomplished as much-but this method was not to his liking.

“Young pony,” the Khagan’s voice drew his attention away from Munokhoi and the gamblers. Gansukh tilted his chin up and looked toward the Khagan’s ger. “The pale-haired one is very fierce. You were right.”

Gansukh inclined his head in acknowledgment.

“Would you fight him?”

Gansukh froze. His guts churned, and with a great deal of caution, he raised his head. “My Khan?” he asked, attempting to keep his face calm.

Ogedei stared at him, his eyes unblinking. “Namkhai said he would, and I wonder if you have the same desire.”

“My desire is whatever my Khagan desires,” Gansukh said, his tongue thick in his mouth. He hated saying the words, but he knew they were what Lian would have wanted him to say. It was the safe response, and here-in the midst of a crowd of warriors and courtiers, it was best to stick to the safe answers. Judging by the expression on a few of the faces in the crowd, he had disappointed them. They had been hoping for another replay of the night where he had challenged the Khagan and given him the cup.

Not tonight.

Ogedei grimaced, and raised his cup, draining the last few gulps of wine within. Ogedei too had hoped for a different answer.

As the Khagan’s attention drifted, Gansukh took several steps to his left. He glanced over his shoulder as he slipped into the crowd’s embrace.

Munokhoi was watching him, a feral smile on his lips.

Gansukh hesitated. I am not a coward, he thought. This spectacle wasn’t to his liking. He was tired. He was simply opting to retire early. He wasn’t running away.

“Bring out more fighters,” the Khagan shouted, and the crowd lustily roared its approval.

Gansukh fled, unable-and unwilling-to enjoy the gladiatorial bloodlust of the crowd. As he hurried through the sea of tents, he imagined he could hear Munokhoi’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears.

He fled back to his ger. And Lian.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Roots of Our Stories

I am going the wrong way.

Percival’s words echoed in Raphael’s mind as they completed their widdershins circuit of the company’s camp. The night circle watch had been an excuse on Percival’s part to unburden himself of a portion of the mental weight that he carried, and Raphael struggled with the import of what the Frank had told him. Percival had said I, implying that the vision he had received was his alone. What did that mean for the company? Would Percival depart in the morning, heading back toward the West?

That was the direction he had looked when he had said those words to Raphael. The endless sky of the steppes was disorienting, and it was hard to gauge one’s facing, but Raphael knew-with a shivering realization that made him hug himself-that Percival could feel the Grail. He could point to it the way a lodestone pointed north. As the company continued to ride east, Percival got farther and farther away.

Would his visions become more chaotic-more distracting-the farther he got from the source? Would the wheels-the images that Percival feared were signs of impending death-become more forceful in their apparition? Was his continued presence dooming every member of the company on its quest?

Raphael’s mind fled back to Damietta, to Eptor’s anguish. The boy had suffered greatly, and to what end? Raphael had wondered, in the years since, what would have happened if Eptor had simply died during the assault on the stone tower in the Nile. Would the legate have realized sooner the futility of their crusade? Would Francis of Assisi been able to reach a better accord between Christian and Muslim? How many less would have died during the Fifth Crusade?

And Francis himself, sequestered in the ragged shack at the peak of La Verna, receiving the stigmata. It had happened soon after Raphael’s visit to the Franciscan hermitage, and the venerable priest had died a few years