The Mongoliad: Book Three

ur.” He opened his hand and slapped the bars of the cage, grinning at Haakon’s reaction.

Alchiq gestured for Gansukh to follow him, and when Gansukh opened his mouth to ask a question, Alchiq shook his head. The gray-haired man waited until they had passed the last cage before he spoke. “The boy listens too intently,” he said by way of explanation. “He spies on us from his cage.”

“That word you said. Skold-”

“Skjaldbr??ur,” Alchiq corrected.

“What does it mean?”

“How long did Kozelsk hold Batu Khan at bay?” Alchiq asked, seeming to not hear Gansukh’s question. “Seven weeks?”

“Something like that,” Gansukh replied, somewhat flustered by the change in topic. “I don’t recall exactly.”

“And how many experienced fighters did that city have? Once the gates were open, how many hardened warriors did we find?” He poked Gansukh in the chest. “How many did you kill?”

Gansukh rolled his tongue around his mouth. “A handful,” he lied.

Alchiq pursed his lips. “A handful? Batu let his army raze the city so that the West would know his anger at being denied, but the damage was done. There was a tiny garrison in that city, and the rest were old men, women, and children. They held off the entire might of the Khagan’s army for nearly two moons. Batu sent word back to Karakorum that he needed more men, that the West was so bountiful that his army could not carry all the wealth they were plundering. But that wasn’t the truth, was it? The armies of the empire had gotten soft. They had become accustomed to their enemies running in fear when they saw the banners of the Mongol Empire. Subutai recognized the danger, but Batu did not. The other Khans did not.” Alchiq jerked his head in the direction of Haakon’s cage. “There are others like him. Other Skjaldbr?? ur. They will not yield to us. They will never stop fighting us.”

“You’ve fought them,” Gansukh said, realizing Alchiq had answered his previous question in a roundabout way.

Alchiq nodded. “Ten of them took on an entire jaghun. They lost one man. I killed him. I snuck up on him and broke him when he was collecting water.” He let out a short laugh that was void of any humor. “And then I ran.”

“There is no shame in that,” Gansukh said.

“I was not seeking your approval, boy.” Alchiq poked Gansukh in the chest again.

Gansukh caught Alchiq’s finger and pushed his hand away. “I wasn’t offering any,” he snapped.

Alchiq brayed with laughter, and he slapped Gansukh with good humor on the arm. “Try not to confuse your enemies with your friends, young pony,” he said. “I spent many years being angry at the wrong people, and now those years are gone. What do I have to show for it?”

Gansukh recalled the disarray in his ger, and his irritation subsided. “My apologies, venerable goat,” he said, his tone only slightly mocking.

“The Khagan begins his hunt in the morning,” Alchiq said. “You and I will be joining him. We must be wary of being hunted ourselves.”

“Of course,” Gansukh nodded. “It would be an honor to join you.” Internally, his guts tightened. Hunted. If he hadn’t dealt with Munokhoi by then, he would be leaving Lian unprotected. He had to warn her.

It was only some time later that he realized Alchiq had been talking about something else entirely.

I will kill them both-pony and goat.

Munokhoi sat cross-legged in his ger, calmly chewing on a slice of salted meat. His mind was restless, buzzing with plans and ideas. In a metal brazier, a tiny flame danced, the only illumination in his ger. Shadows danced all around, a capering festival of spooky figures that moved in accordance with the shivering delight Munokhoi felt inside.

He had shadowed Gansukh all day, and other than the single arrow fired during the archery contest had not revealed his presence. He had shoved his fist in his mouth to stop from giggling aloud when Gansukh had finally gone back to his wrecked ger. Oh, how satisfying it had been to drink dry all of Gansukh’s skins and then slice them with his knife. And then, a half hour later, the supreme pleasure at passing that same liquid there. I have stolen nothing, he had thought as he pissed all over the sleeping furs and the ruined clothing.

Listening to the gray-haired fool and Gansukh talk by the prisoners’ cages, it had been difficult to contain his rage when he learned that the old man Alchiq had given the Kitayan the knife! After the first fight, Munokhoi thought Gansukh might stoop to some dangerous subterfuge in an effort to embarrass him and he had watched for some sign that such a plan was in the making, but he hadn’t suspected that Gansukh might have an accomplice. The old man had a foxlike cunning, and giving a blade to a prisoner was a very dangerous ploy. Their plan could have gone awry quite easily, but they had gotten lucky instead.

Their luck would end tomorrow. They were both going on the hunt with the Khagan. There would be time enough to take care of everything while in the woods, and then his honor would be restored. The Khagan would see how bad a decision it had been to promote that loud-mouthed wrestler. The Khagan would take him back.

Tomorrow, Munokhoi thought, gleefully. I will kill them both tomorrow.

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

In the Enemy’s Camp

At the Rose Knight chapter house, Tegusgal could not help but laugh when the sniveling Livonian worm bolted. Where did he think he was going? Did he actually think his horse was fast enough to outrun his Mongol hunters? Tegusgal shook his head as the Livonian Heermeister fled the chapter house grounds, and he gave some thought to letting the man go so as to sweeten the eventual hunt. He eyed his men, as some of them started launching arrows after the fleeing knight, and he sighed. They were restless, tense, and the sport would improve their morale. He whistled, giving them the freedom to chase after the foolish Heermeister.

Yipping like excited hounds, his men drove their horses into the woods.

Tegusgal fingered the hilt of his dagger, eying the quaking priest who remained. “Please, please,” the man begged as Tegusgal kneed his horse. “Spare my life, and God will reward you.”

“I do not believe in your god,” Tegusgal reminded him as he drew abreast.

The priest whimpered, and his horse snorted and shook itself as the man’s bladder let go. Tegusgal wrinkled his nose at the man’s shameful terror, and with a casual swipe of his knife, he silenced the priest.

Eyes bulging, the priest tried to stop the blood from coursing out of the wound in his neck, covering his frock and staining the wooden cross he wore. Tegusgal shoved him, and arms flailing, he fell off his horse.

Tegusgal wiped his knife off on the blanket beneath the priest’s saddle, and then slapped the riderless horse on the rump. It galloped off, assuredly delighted to be rid of its stinking, whimpering rider. He sheathed his knife and spurred his horse after his men, leaving the dying priest and the empty chapter house behind.

His mare thundered through the forest in pursuit of his men and their quarry. The stupid fool of a knight didn’t understand that by running, he was summoning the greatest hunters in the world to give chase. Every Mongol warrior knew how to chase prey on horseback, how to outlast it, and how to bring it down once it had worn itself out. The Heermeister was about to discover how pointless it was to try to outrun the Mongol hunt.

He burst out of the forest, on the heels of his hunters, who had fanned out in a broad arc across the fields.