The Mongoliad: Book One tfs-1

by Neal Stephenson

  Haakon felt instinctively uneasy whenever he stood with his blade held straight out for more than a few moments. Was this experienced fighter going to rush forward and impale himself on its tip? Unlikely. Besides which, he’d seen enough to understand that this blade was made for long, sweeping attacks, and from this position, he couldn’t deliver one.

  So he lowered his right arm, dropping the glaive’s tip until it was only a hand’s breadth above the ground. By moving it to one side or the other, he could now block a blow, or deflect a thrust from the longsword at any height. From here, he could swing it to either side as needed to shut out the enemy’s onslaught. And yet, by making a push-pull motion with his hands, he could snap the cutting edge upward, to send it carving into whatever part of Zug’s anatomy might present itself. At the moment, the obvious target was the right leg, which was planted out in front of the left and not especially well armored.

  In the moment when they stared at each other, an object had come hurtling into the arena. It had bounced off Zug’s helmet with a clang, and while it hadn’t caused any injury, they were both momentarily surprised.

  Haakon had been trained relentlessly in the importance of seizing the initiative. According to Feronantus, fate bestowed blessings upon him who had the courage to act first. Taran’s voice cut through the mysticism: Make him react to you, damn it!

  Haakon stepped forward, feinting a low cut (an obvious strike, given the starting position of the blade), then drew back and whirled the glaive end-for-end, bringing its edge all the way back and around and up over his head and finally striking downward.

  Zug had been holding the longsword out in front of him, a pose not dissimilar to his own stance. As a guard, however, it was only useful against quick strikes to the hand or forearm. Further evidence that the man was drunk and not thinking clearly. Haakon’s only opportunity lay in taking advantage of Zug’s sluggish reactions.

  Zug didn’t fall for Haakon’s feint, and he quickly raised his sword, catching the glaive on the crossguard. The guard—nothing more than a steel bar—stopped Haakon’s blow, but the force of his strike collapsed Zug’s arms, and the blade of the glaive glanced off the side of Zug’s helmet.

  Haakon had been trained to expect that his first attack would invariably not succeed, and so he took advantage of the rebuff of his weapon by sweeping it back and around again, coming up from his lower left. No feint this time. A hard strike, aiming for Zug’s right leg.

  Zug, making a much smaller movement, was able to snap the tip of his sword downward and get it in the way of the strike. Again he could not hope to withstand the glaive’s momentum, but this time he had the ground to act as a brace. When their blades crashed together, the tip of the greatsword was driven into the sand, where it came to a dead stop. As did the glaive.

  But the tip of the glaive was now pointed directly at Zug’s thigh. Haakon shoved it forward. Zug, sensing such a thrust, flexed his knee, allowing the blade to pass between his legs. The best Haakon could do was to give the weapon’s handle a sharp right push, levering over the longsword’s planted blade, to buckle Zug’s leg and send him toppling to the ground.

  Which, to judge from the crowd’s reaction, was the most sensational thing that had ever happened in this arena.

  A pair of drunk Slavs were jumping up and down in front of him, and in their excitement, they were not handling well the skin of fermented horse milk they were sharing. The third time they slopped arkhi over their shoulders, spattering Dietrich’s gambeson, he intercepted the skin as it passed between them, and when one of the two men tried to follow where his liquor had gone, Dietrich backhanded him in the face.

  The second Slav, his face screwed up in confusion, gave a muffled cry as Burchard slammed a meaty fist into one of his kidneys and shoved him forward, where he slammed into the bodies below them. The crowd parted, swallowing the lurching and moaning drunk like a lake swallows a stone.

  The first man—clutching his broken and bleeding nose—stared dumbly at the wall of bodies below him, trying to understand what had just happened. Dietrich raised his hand again, but his motion was stayed by his other bodyguard, Sigeberht.

  “My lord,” the tall Frank said. “We are only three.”

  Dietrich grunted, acknowledging his bodyguard’s words, and hurled the arkhi skin into the crowd after the man Burchard had forcibly moved. The bloody-faced man fled too, more to retrieve his liquor than to aid his companion.

  We are only three. He had twenty-one more in their camp. Fully equipped Livonian Brothers of the Sword. There were more than a thousand Mongols scattered across the countryside around the ruins of Legnica, and God only knew the population of the sprawling tent city that had sprung up around the arena. Most of them would flee at the first sign of battle, but of those who remained, how many would side with him in any useful way?

  This was nothing compared to the main Mongolian army that, having won at the battle of Mohi, was gradually spreading farther into Hungary.

  How am I supposed to stop them?

  It was easy for the Cardinals to tell him to put his trust in God. They were safe in Rome. Here, surrounded by a shrieking horde of bloodthirsty savages, he found a wide gulf between belief and action. Even though he often prayed to God for counsel and succor, Dietrich preferred to rely on the steel and skill of his men.

  But they were too few for this present task. He needed an army.

  It was all well and good that the current competitors were thrilling the audience with their shenanigans, but he knew this wouldn’t last. Even the most experienced court jester eventually ran out of means to entertain his increasingly jaded audience.

  Dietrich fumed silently, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, as he watched the Shield-Brethren knight try to spear the Mongolian champion to the red sand with the pole-arm.

  CHAPTER 17:

  THE MYSTERY OF THE ASSASSIN

  As Munokhoi and the other riders approached, Gansukh got to his feet, the tip of the sword reminding his captive to remain still.

  Munokhoi reached the pair first. He looked like a hungry wolf, relishing the moment before he sank his teeth in the throat of a mortally wounded deer. “Caught in the act,” he said, though he didn’t clarify what act he was referring to.

  “She’s my prisoner,” Gansukh said.

  The other riders formed a semicircle around Munokhoi, dust from their horses’ hooves rolling across Gansukh and the woman. By the white fur trim on their deel, they weren’t Night Guard, but Torguud, Day Guard. Members of Munokhoi’s jaghun.

  Munokhoi leaned against his saddle. The torchlight made shadows scurry across his face. “She?” he said. His tongue touched his lips as if he were savoring the word, and Gansukh regretted having spoken. Munokhoi slipped out of his saddle and approached the pair. “She is a prisoner of the Imperial Guard, pup.”

  Gansukh bristled at the derogatory word, more so because he knew Munokhoi said it to engender precisely the reaction he was having. He wasn’t much younger than the other man, but “pup” implied a vast difference between them. Gansukh swallowed the angry words in his throat, realizing they would do nothing but give Munokhoi the excuse he clearly wanted.

  Munokhoi pulled a long blade from his belt and looked down at the captive. He toyed with the tip of the knife with an unconscious familiarity. “Step back, pup,” he said to Gansukh, his attention fully on the woman.

  The woman was staring up at Gansukh, blinking heavily—whether from fear or from the dust that had settled on her, Gansukh couldn’t tell. Her mouth was open, and she was breathing rapidly. He knew what she was going to do as soon as he moved the point of the sword away from her back.

  “Very well,” he said, and he lifted the sword.

  She sprang up, like a deer bolting from brush, and sprinted away, trying to disappear in the darkness beyond the torchlight. One of the men on horseback dropped his torch as he scrambled for his bow, and sparks scattered on the ground, startling the horses. They moved, jos
tling each other, and the men started shouting at the one who had dropped his torch.

  Munokhoi threw his knife, almost lazily, and from the darkness, Gansukh heard a squeal of pain and then the sound of a body falling. “Hai!” Munokhoi shouted at his men. “Control your horses.”

  The riders brought their mounts under control, moving them away from the guttering torch on the ground, where a tiny grass fire was starting to spread. As the animals calmed down, Gansukh heard a guttural moaning from beyond the circle of torchlight.

  Munokhoi glanced at him, his face suffused with the feral grin again.

  “Now she has your knife,” Gansukh said, enjoying the change in Munokhoi’s expression that his words caused.

  Munokhoi stalked over to the fallen torch. He stamped out the grass fire and scooped up the torch. “Careful, pup,” he snarled. “When I get it back, I might use it on you.” Munokhoi walked quickly in the direction he had thrown his knife, and after a moment, his torch swept down as if he were sweeping a stone floor clear of debris. The woman screamed, a long wail that collapsed into a sob.

  Who is she? Gansukh hadn’t had a chance to consider the woman’s claim that she wasn’t an assassin. If what she said was true, then what had she been doing in the palace? Was she a thief? What had she stolen?

  They needed answers, and the discovery of the woman and subsequent chase had been fraught with confusion, including, Gansukh realized, some of the guards mistaking him for the woman’s companion.

  He glanced at Munokhoi’s men, his throat suddenly tight. Even though the men were Torguud, sworn to protect the Khagan, they were Munokhoi’s handpicked warriors. We’re far from court, he thought, away from the eyes of the Khagan. It would be easy for there to be an accident. No one would claim otherwise.

  “She’s not an assassin,” Gansukh shouted. “How can we protect the Khagan if we don’t learn what she was doing at the palace?”

  Two of the riders stiffened in their saddles, their body language changing with Gansukh’s reminder of the Torguud’s primary purpose. He had just bought himself a little breathing room. As long as he kept their focus on the woman, the rivalry between him and Munokhoi would be an awkward distraction to the issue at hand. His men wouldn’t tolerate Munokhoi indulging in petty revenge.

  Exhaling, Gansukh turned away from the riders and strode toward Munokhoi’s now dancing torch.

  Munokhoi was struggling to control her. Hampered by both torch and knife, he couldn’t hold her still. There was blood on her shoulder, a wet darkness made slick by the torchlight, and the aroma of burnt hair filled Gansukh’s nostrils as he got close. She spotted Gansukh approaching, and her movements became even wilder, clawing and scratching at Munokhoi. She hit his left arm—the one holding the torch—and the fire danced dangerously close to his face; when he jerked his head back, she pulled herself free of his grip.

  She ran—not into the darkness, but straight at Gansukh. Surprised, he lowered his sword so she couldn’t impale herself on the blade (if that was, indeed, what she was trying to do), and she didn’t slow down. She collided heavily with him, and he staggered, trying to keep her from attacking his face or grabbing at his sword. She did neither, and for an instant her hands were pressed hard against his chest, and then Munokhoi was on them.

  He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and slipped his knife under her neck. Gansukh flinched at the approach of the blade, but he couldn’t get free of the woman. Her hands pulled at the cloth of his deel as if she could rip it open and hide inside the voluminous garment, and it was only after Munokhoi applied a little pressure to his blade—drawing a thin bead of blood on her exposed neck—that she relented.

  Munokhoi glared at Gansukh from behind the woman as he wound his hand more firmly in her hair. “She’ll talk,” he laughed. “I’m very good at not killing people.”

  She shivered uncontrollably, and the wild look in her eyes reminded Gansukh of an animal that saw its death approaching.

  “She’s my captive,” Gansukh said, not giving any ground.

  Munokhoi snorted. “I command a jaghun of the Khagan’s Torguud,” he said. “You are nothing but a lapdog of the Great Khan’s brother. Your word means little in Karakorum.”

  But it means something, Gansukh thought, which is why you have only threatened me out here, far away from the ears of men whom you don’t command. Gansukh stared at Munokhoi for another second or two, and then he looked away. He stepped back and to the side, relinquishing his claim on the woman. For now.

  Munokhoi grunted, assured of his superiority in this situation, and he marched the captive—his captive now—past Gansukh. “Tie her up,” he called to his men. “Let’s take her back to the city.” He shot Gansukh one more contemptuous glance.

  Gansukh watched the men tie the woman’s hands together and then lash her across the saddle of Munokhoi’s horse. In a few minutes they rode off, quickly dwindling to fireflies before disappearing entirely.

  Gansukh retrieved the torch Munokhoi had dropped, and as he was stomping out the fire it had started, he realized the woman had slipped something into his deel.

  Gansukh returned to Karakorum as quickly as he could, but it took some time to find his horse, even with the assistance of the weak torchlight. As a result, he reached the palace after dawn—dusty, aching, worn out, and irritable. Even the respite of a morning breeze licking his face as he dismounted in front of the palace did nothing for his mood.

  The large doors of the palace were shut, the imposing motifs of carved dragons thrust out at the world. A quartet of guards stood in front of them, dressed in the ornate bronze armor and pristine white lamb furs of the Day Guard. They were stoically formal as Gansukh approached, unmoved by his approach or his mood.

  “I have important information for the Khagan,” said Gansukh, “about the intruder last night.”

  “The intruder has already been interrogated,” one of them said.

  Gansukh thought about the tiny box the woman had given him. Nestled against his undershirt, it was rectangular, lacquered black, just big enough to fit into his palm, and without a visible seam. When he had shaken it, he had heard something rattle.

  “I was the one who captured her,” he said. “The Khagan will want to hear my report.”

  “Torguud commander Munokhoi captured her,” countered the guard.

  Gansukh stepped closer to the man, and behind him, two of the other guards dropped their pikes to form a barrier. “Are you calling me a liar?” he said, putting his face very close to the other man. “I am the envoy of Chagatai Khan, and I have been sent to personally report to the Khagan. If you do not step aside and let me in the palace, I will…”

  The guard tried to call his bluff. “You will what?”

  “I will bury my knife in your guts.” Gansukh pulled his lips back from his teeth. “Your companions will probably kill me, but then they will have to tell the Khagan who they have killed, and why. Do you think they are willing to do that for you? Perhaps the Khagan will even let them live long enough to tell Chagatai Khan himself what they have done.”

  Behind the guard, the pikes rattled as they were withdrawn. The guard heard the noise and blinked heavily.

  Gansukh shoved past the nervous guard and hauled open one of the heavy doors. He stalked through the narrow opening, hiding the sudden sweat on his palms and forehead beneath a battlefield swagger. But he was bolstered by the affirmation of what he had realized on the plain: his word did have weight. Munokhoi certainly did outrank him within the palace hierarchy, but he was under direct orders that came from the Khagan’s brother, orders that even the Khagan himself couldn’t completely ignore.

  He swept into the throne room, his pace and bearing made strong by this realization, and pulled up short.

  The long chamber was nearly empty. There were no ceremonial guards, no throng of obsequious courtiers and provincial administrators. A number of servants labored on the floor, scrubbing the tile clean with wet cloth and pumice stones. The only
other individual in the room was Master Chucai, who stood near the Khagan’s enormous throne, lost in thought.

  “What…?” Gansukh started, and then he realized what the servants were attempting to scour away. His throat closed spastically, and his bluster deflated. There was no mistaking that smell—still so fresh in his head after having smelled it on the plain—even under the masking aroma of the scented water and the incense that had been burned earlier. “What happened?” he asked, even though the answer was obvious.

  “An interrogation,” Master Chucai said. He approached Gansukh, his face drawn tight by exhaustion—both physical and mental. He hadn’t slept either. “The jaghun commander, Munokhoi, has a certain facility to old techniques, ones the empire wished it could forget.” He shrugged. “But sometimes, it is best—”

  “She was my prisoner, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, interrupting the Khagan’s advisor. “I could have made her talk with less”—he stabbed a stiff finger at the scrubbing servants—“with less cruelty.”

  “Cruelty is sometimes necessary to running an empire,” Chucai explained. He showed no reaction to the younger man’s interruption. He spoke in calm, measured tones. “Regrettable as it may be, an application of intense force can be used to reveal threats to the Khagan and to the stability of his rule.”

  “Was she a threat?” Gansukh demanded.

  Chucai’s gaze focused on Gansukh, his eyes narrowing. “An enemy is an enemy,” he said, his voice even more flat than before.

  “That isn’t what I asked you,” Gansukh replied. “On the steppe, my clan always treated our enemies with respect, even those who came at us with swords and bows. She was unarmed. This…this was butchery.”