The Mongoliad: Book Three

Jachin dropped her hands to her lap, fussed with them for a moment as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them. “Does he love you in return?”

“I… I think so,” Lian replied.

Jachin nodded. She gestured for Lian to give her the comb. “Turn around,” she said. “I want to brush your hair.” Jachin’s face was composed, her lips firm. Lian complied, and she sat quietly as Second Wife took out the ornamental sticks in her hair and began to brush it. “Tell me about him,” Jachin said.

Lian did-haltingly at first, but the words came more easily after a while. Jachin even laughed lightly when she told the story about the dancer in the market and the bells.

“Ogedei loved me,” Jachin said quietly when Lian finished. “Once.” She gave a tiny laugh, choking back some other emotion.

“I know, my Lady,” Lian said. She glanced down and noticed two dots of moisture darkening her robe. She carefully wiped her cheek so no more tears would fall.

On the other side of the river, a long meadow sloped down to a sparse wood of alder and cedar. The Torguud had set up a series of targets-small shields lashed to spears that were rammed into the ground-ranging across the field to the edge of the wood, and as Gansukh peered at the tree line, he noted more targets within with shelter of the trees. Each of the targets had a slash of red paint across it, signifying the heart of the imaginary enemy.

A handful of Torguud were already practicing, and Gansukh and Tarbagatai milled about somewhat aimlessly while they waited. Gansukh kept scanning the forest below them as well as the line of scattered ger on the other side of the river, keeping an eye out for Munokhoi.

“That is a very nice bow,” Tarbagatai said, breaking their silence.

Gansukh unslung the weapon in question and offered it to Tarbagatai, who ran his hands along the smooth shape of the bow. “Is this goat horn?” the younger man asked after his examination.

Gansukh nodded. “My grandfather killed it so that my father could have its horns. This is the first bow he ever made, and when I…” he paused, recalling the story he had told Lian about his first kill. “When I came of age, it became mine.”

“I made this one,” Tarbagatai said, offering Gansukh his bow. “It took much longer than it should have.”

Gansukh admired the shape of Tarbagatai’s bow. It was darker than his, made from some wood other than birch, though the siyah were light, like the tips of antelope ears. The string was looser than he preferred, and he wondered if Tarbagatai had switched his string yet. The air, while warm in the sun, was generally colder than it had been in Karakorum. He would need to use a tighter string. Or maybe he just likes a little more play. Gansukh toyed with the tension in the bowstring a little longer, and then handed the weapon back to its owner. “The product of your own hard work. It is an excellent bow. I hope that it serves you well.”

“Is there going to be shooting or talking here today?” The new speaker was a stocky man, wide in the neck and gregarious in his expressions. He and a half dozen other Torguud had wandered up while Gansukh and Tarbagatai had been admiring each other’s bow. The newcomer planted his feet wide and put his hands on his hips as he voiced his jovial query. He looked like nothing more than a smaller version of Namkhai, and Gansukh realized the similarity was not accidental. Namkhai had a cousin in the Torguud. What is his name?

Tarbagatai came to his rescue. “There will be more talking than shooting now that you are here, Subegei.”

“Is that so?” Subegei laughed. “Someone has to bore your enemies so they will stand still long enough for you to hit them.” He gestured toward the archery targets. “Come on, you two. We heard there was going to be a contest.”

“Still have some money from last night, eh?” Gansukh asked.

“I understand you have forty-nine more cows than you know what to do with,” Subegei said. “Maybe we can help you part with some of them.”

“What makes you think I know what to do with the first one?” Gansukh said, and the group laughed uproariously. He grinned at Tarbagatai and motioned the younger man toward the crooked line of dark rocks that marked the edge of archery field. “How shall we do this?” he asked.

Subegei overheard him and offered his own interpretation of the rules. “Seven arrows,” he said. “Tarbagatai gets dark fletching; Gansukh will have the light-colored fletching.” He gestured at the archers who had just finished shooting, and they started to dig through their quivers to assemble the requisite arrows. There were some friendly disagreements about what constituted light and dark among the arrows.

Subegei rolled his eyes and shrugged at Gansukh’s inquiring glance. “You’ll be judged for speed and accuracy,” he continued, ignoring the altogether too-complicated process of arrow selection. “The archer who finishes first will be awarded one additional point, and then we’ll examine the targets. Does that sound fair?”

Gansukh gave Tarbagatai back his bow and received his own in turn. “That sounds fair,” he said as he slipped the string loose and bent his bow to restring it properly. Tarbagatai agreed too, and both men stepped up to the edge of the range and collected their arrows. Gansukh took the other arrows out of his quiver, placing them on the ground, and arranged his seven carefully so they were ready to be pulled. He noticed Tarbagatai lagging behind him, the younger man carefully copying every motion-the mountain archer wasn’t going to make the same mistake he had last time when he had failed to set up his arrows for rapid shooting.

Gansukh nocked the first arrow and looked down the range, checking the location of each of the targets. There were ten targets in all, but no more than two were at any given distance, and they started fairly close-not much more than ten strides away. He would start with the closest pair-that would allow him to gauge the distance more readily-and he suspected Tarbagatai would employ the same tactic. But Gansukh also suspected Tarbagatai would be seduced by possibility of the extra point for firing all his arrows first, and in his mind, Gansukh had already conceded that point. He knew Tarbagatai was faster, so he had to be more accurate.

“Quiet,” Subegei called behind him, and when the assembled soldiers didn’t stop their chatter quickly enough, he raised his voice. “Shut up, you louts!”

Gansukh turned his head to the left and glanced at Tarbagatai; the mountain archer favored him with a tiny grin. “Are you ready?” Tarbagatai asked, and Gansukh nodded. As the crowd finally settled down, Gansukh returned his attention down range. The morning sun made the red paint gleam, and a slight breeze wafted up the rise. The conditions were perfect.

“Archers!” Subegei cried. “Ready!” Gansukh raised his bow, pulling the string back to his ear. His shoulders were tight, and he tried to relax. He tried to focus on the first target, but something seemed amiss. A bead of sweat slid down the left side of his face, almost going into his eye, and he blinked heavily.

“Fire!” Subegei shouted, and Tarbagatai let out a tiny grunt as he released his arrow.

Gansukh took one step back.

He heard a whisper of sound, the fluttering noise of an arrow as it passes. He sensed more than saw a black blur flying past him, moving from his left to his right. Without thinking, he stepped forward and turned, causing Tarbagatai to flinch, fumbling his second arrow. Gansukh ignored him, looking across the river for his target.

Looking for the source of the arrow that would have hit him if he hadn’t taken that backward step.

Behind him the crowd was making noise-not all of it pleasant-and Tarbagatai had stepped back from the edge of the range, his eyes wide. Gansukh studiously ignored all of the distractions, his eyes scanning for some sign of Munokhoi.

He was out there. Gansukh hadn’t imagined the arrow.

“Gansukh, hold,” Subegei tried to get his attention. “Put your bow down.”

Growling in his throat, Gansukh lowered his arms and let out the tension in his bowstring. His eyes kept scanning the row of ger, looking for any sign of movement. Finally, he relented, letting out a pent-up rush of air. “I am sorry, Tarbagatai,” he said, looking toward the mountain archer. “That was very unsporting of me. I was…” he cast about for some suitable explanation, “momentarily dazzled by the sun. Disoriented.” He let out a short bark of laughter. “I was so frightened by your first arrow that I thought I was in the midst of a terrifying battle.”

Tarbagatai raised an eyebrow, but the tension remained in his face and shoulders. “You are a bad liar,