The Mongoliad: Book Three

He’d rather be the one who survived. No amount of courtly learning was going to smooth out that rough edge. He would do what it took to survive. Kozelsk had taught him that. It seemed like a much better lesson to live by than anything he had learned from Lian.

The crowd surrounding the fighting ring gave a collective gasp, and Gansukh blinked away his idle thoughts, focusing on the pair of fighters. What had he missed?

The Kitayan had a knife.

“Hai!” Namkhai shouted from his position next to the Khagan’s platform, and there was a rippling surge through the crowd as newly anointed captain of the Torguud pressed forward, presenting their spears.

The two fighters paused, though neither lowered their guard nor looked away from each other.

“My Khan,” Namkhai called out, seeking direction. “The Kitayan man has a knife.”

The crowd held their breath, and the only sound was the crackling rumble of the bonfires and the low creaking noise of the platform as the Khagan levered himself up from his low seat. “That’s a tiny blade,” he slurred, peering at the fighters. “Is it good for much more than gutting carp?”

Someone laughed in the audience, and Gansukh knew without looking that it was Munokhoi. Had he given the Kitayan man the knife? The idea was troubling.

“Gansukh,” Ogedei was standing near the edge of the platform, searching the faces arrayed below him. “Didn’t you win a bet on the pale-haired one last time?”

Gansukh raised his arm so the Khagan could find him in the crowd. “I did, my Khan.”

“What did you say about him? Something about tactics making up for a lack of strength?”

“I may have, my Khan.”

Ogedei grunted, and swung his head around to peer at the fighters again. “Namkhai,” he called out.

“Yes, my Khan,” the new Torguud captain exclaimed.

“I seem to recall you giving me a very poor answer when I asked you about this fighter,” Ogedei said.

“I said…” Namkhai hesitated. Gansukh caught the big wrestler glancing in his direction. “I said I would be wary of the scrawny ones.”

The Khagan waggled his finger at Namkhai. “That is what you said when I gave you a second chance,” he corrected. He glared down at Namkhai for a moment, swaying slightly, and then his gaze traveled slowly across the multitude of faces. “A second chance,” he roared suddenly. His face was scarlet, the veins in his neck standing out against his skin. He swiveled his head ponderously on his quivering neck, staring ferociously at the audience as if he dared anyone to challenge his statement.

“Namkhai, does this man pose a threat to me?” His voice was ragged and strained, his throat still constricted.

“My Khan?”

“Does this dog of a Kitayan have the slightest chance of getting within an arm’s length of me with that knife?” The Khagan found his voice again, unleashing his question in a thunderous shout.

“No, my Khan!” Namkhai replied, trying to match the Khagan in volume.

“Are you certain? Do I have to ask you a second time?”

“No, my Khan!”

Ogedei staggered back to his seat and collapsed on it, gesturing for a servant to bring his wine cup. “Then let him keep his fish gutter,” he said. “Let us see a little blood tonight.”

First the spears had been lowered at them, and then the Great Khan had started shouting. Haakon and the Kitayan had remained still throughout the tirade, unsure of what was going to happen. Haakon tried to follow what was being said, but most of his mind was filled with trying to settle on the best defense and offense against the Kitayan’s knife.

When they weren’t immediately threatened with the spears, Haakon suspected the Kitayan was going to be allowed to keep his knife. He had to be ready. He had already been cut once, and was certainly going to be cut again. He had to figure out how to beat the Kitayan before he lost too much blood.

Haakon’s wooden sword was longer, but that advantage didn’t match up to the deadly edge of the knife. He could hit the man a dozen times with the sword, and he wouldn’t stop fighting. But one slice of the Kitayan’s knife to his neck or thigh and he’d bleed out.

The Great Khan’s platform was over his left shoulder, and Haakon couldn’t watch what was going on there and keep a ready defense against the Kitayan at the same time. Holding his sword tightly, he stopped trying to watch for some sign from the Great Khan. The Kitayan was the real threat. He should be giving his opponent his full attention.

The Kitayan was distracted; the hand with the knife in it was down at his side, held close to his stomach. It wasn’t the best position, but it was ready enough, and Haakon watched the Kitayan’s legs and hands. Waiting for some sign. Should he wait that long?

He heard a man shout a response, and he distantly realized that was probably the captain of the Khagan’s guard, responding like a good warrior. Haakon exhaled slowly as the Khagan asked his question again. Here it comes, he thought; don’t wait for him to make the first move. The captain replied again, still shouting his acknowledgment of the Khagan’s command, and as soon as the Khagan spoke once more he could feel the audience’s attention shift. Don’t wait, the spirit of his old oplo whispered in his head.

Haakon struck. He lunged forward, taking an enormous step as he stretched his arms out. The Kitayan was caught off guard by how quickly and dramatically Haakon closed the measure, and he yelped in pain as the wooden sword smacked him on the head with a mighty crack.

The Kitayan slashed upward with the knife, and Haakon twisted his sword to his left, trying to smack the Kitayan’s wrists with the wooden blade. Get him to drop the knife. The Kitayan staggered, dropping his center of gravity, and the sword skipped off his upper arm. Haakon felt his arms going too far to the left, and the Kitayan’s hands were on the outside, the knife blade coming up and around Haakon’s hands. Haakon skipped back, swinging the sword around in a clumsy backhand at the Kitayan’s closest knee. He made contact, but the Kitayan didn’t flinch or stumble. A weak blow. Not enough to distract him.

The Kitayan snapped his arm out, flicking the knife at Haakon’s face. He jerked his head back, and he felt the tip of the knife slice his cheek.

He was in the wrong position. His hands were low, and his opponent’s weapon was inside his guard. This wasn’t a sword fight anymore; it was close quarters combat. If he had a steel sword, he wouldn’t be able to use it effectively.

But the weapon in his hands was nothing more than a piece of wood, and wood didn’t have an edge to worry about.

Haakon snapped his wrists up, and his sword smacked the Kitayan on the underside of his knife arm, near the elbow. He maintained the contact between flesh and wood and stepped into the other man, putting his weight behind the shove. The Kitayan lurched back, and Haakon caught the knife hand just behind the wrist with his left hand. Pulling down with that hand, he used the wooden sword as a lever and forced the Kitayan off balance.

The Kitayan tried to cut him with the knife, but Haakon’s grip restricted the range of available motion. Haakon smashed the sword against the Kitayan’s elbow-once, twice-and the man grunted in pain. Haakon twisted and pushed, and the Kitayan bent over in an effort to keep his arm from being dislocated. Haakon continued to drive his opponent before him, and when he dropped to his knees, the Kitayan went first, his face smashing painfully into the rocky soil.

Haakon twisted the arm until the Kitayan screamed, and then he pushed off the fallen man, stripping the knife free of the Kitayan’s now slack fingers as he stood.

The audience howled with delight and the ground rumbled from many feet, stomping in unison. Haakon shivered, knowing what they wanted to see, and slowly, the knife held loosely in his left hand, he turned toward the raised platform. In his mind, he saw Onghwe Khan’s pavilion in the Circus arena. He had just won his match and