by John F. Carr
“What’s wrong?” Tuya asked quietly.
“I fear for Bataar and Batkhuyag.”
“Our sons?” She stared at him, baffled. “They have nothing to do with the Women’s Guard.”
“We want Bataar to be khan when I am gone.”
“This makes no sense! You think because I take five women out to drill on horseback, he will not become khan?”
Chuluun leaned forward slightly. “You know Altan Zhang has always resented our children, Bataar most of all.”
Altan Zhang was a massively muscular blacksmith and herder of Mongolian descent whose family had taken a Chinese surname in past generations.
“He is nothing—a shallow, jealous man of thirty-some years who resents our eighteen-year-old son. What about him?”
“Why am I the khan of the Free Tribe?”
“Chuluun—”
“Just answer.”
“Because your mentor arranged for you to lead the breakout from the mining camp. Because you led us to freedom.”
“And because we survived—even prospered a little?”
“Yes, we made a life in this empty place. And you gave laws to the tribe.”
Chuluun paused. He had made up the First Law of the tribe—always to keep their word—after the Purity raid. As the need arose, he had given more, all of them simple and unsurprising. The Second Law was that the tribe was more important than anyone in it. He had no ideology about such matters, but he knew that in lean times, the small tribe of rowdy, independent-minded herders, farmers, and hunters would have to share food or some would starve. If their numbers plummeted, the tribe would die. The Third Law created a tribal council that heard complaints that tribal members had among themselves. Other laws had followed. Even after all these years, he was improvising.
“Our people choose to follow me,” said Chuluun. “They can’t be forced. Your separate unit of women riders goes against tradition.”
Tuya waited for him to say more. When he did not, she shook her head tightly. “Coming to Haven was against tradition! What do you expect?”
“Altan has gathered followers, mostly among the herders who do not spend much time with the rest of us. Many of those who listen to him are close to Bataar’s age. He drinks with them and says Bataar looks down on them.”
“I have heard the women talk about this. Altan says the old ways are best, that the men should fight and the women should bear children. What of it? We have many families with children. And until now, we have had many years of peace.”
“He will tell his friends you are training the Women’s Guard because I’m weak—because I’m getting old. He will tell them I cannot control my wife, let alone lead the tribe.”
“Altan is nothing.”
“He’s trying to split the tribe. Don’t help him.”
Tuya folded her arms and glared at him, unconvinced.
Chuluun had saved his greatest concern until now. “Altan Zhang is courting Ganzaya.”
Tuya drew in a sharp breath. “Ganzorig’s daughter and Altan Zhang?”
“Yes.”
Ganzorig had been a close friend to Chuluun and a troop commander on the Purity raid. When he violated Chuluun’s agreement to honor the town’s surrender, Chuluun had killed him in front of their troops and the townspeople. Ganzorig’s widow, Dulmaa, gave birth to Ganzorig’s daughter about six months after the raid. Even so, Dulmaa had many men court her after the raid because the tribe had so many more men than women. She was careful to pick one of Naran’s highly disciplined patrol leaders, a man named Chinbayar, whose loyalty to Chuluun had never been questioned. With Chinbayar, she had often been with child, but none had survived.
“Dulmaa has never caused trouble,” said Chuluun. “I wonder— what did she say in private, when Chinbayar was not there to hear? Has she poured poison about me into her daughter’s ear all these years?”
“I have not heard about this,” said Tuya. “If Dulmaa and Ganzaya join Altan against you, I’ll kill them myself.”
“You would make my position worse if you do. The role of khan is like riding a Siberian tiger—I have power and speed, but if I fall, it will kill me.”
Tuya frowned, the lines of her face darkened by shadow. “The women of our tribe will back you.”
“Forget about this Women’s Guard. Breaking tradition this way only helps Altan.”
Tuya, his ray of light, said nothing as she stood and walked away into shadow.
* * *
Bataar eyed the dactyls swooping in the sky with envy as he and Luke rode hour after hour. Once, when they were changing mounts, they spotted a cliff lion pacing them at a higher altitude. Bataar did not want to shoot it unless it became an immediate danger, for fear the sound of the gunshot might alert United Front scouts, wherever they were.
About halfway through one dimday, Bataar saw the first sign of the United Front. It was just a tiny spot of light in the distance. He judged it to be several kilometers away by his best reckoning. “See it?”
“Damn,” said Luke. “It’s about time.”
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“I like knowing where they are. Let’s kill some of those bastards tonight.”
Bataar peered ahead. They were still deep in the Girdle of God Mountains. He had kept to the slopes on their left, to find streams and forage. From time to time, they had crossed creeks that flowed from higher elevations, from left to right, before dispersing and dying on the rocky valley floor. “Might be scouts. I wonder where the main body is.”
“So what? Scouts or sentries, we’re getting close to the whole shebang.”
“Water,” said Bataar.
“Water’s no problem. We’ve found the water we needed the whole way.”
“Not us! Wherever they are, they need a lot of water. The United Front itself, not the scouts.”
“And their livestock needs to graze.” Luke shrugged. “What’s your point?”
“If we go in a straight line, we’ll run right into them. They’re living off water from the same slopes on our left up ahead. Their livestock must be finding their forage there.”
“Mm.” Luke finally got the idea. “What do you want to do?”
“This way.” Bataar angled his mount to the right. “We’ll move down to the valley floor and keep riding. Just keep watching. They’ll have rings of sentries, some close to the main camp and some farther out.”
“Hey, I’m wide awake and ready for a fight. And any guys we take out now will be guys we don’t have to face later.”
“Our job is to sneak around them, not to tell them we’re here.”
Luke gave him a sour look but said nothing.
As they moved forward down the foothills to the steppe, leaving the dactyls and the cliff lion behind, more campfires came alight in the distance. At this hour, the fires were needed less for cooking than for keeping warm. Soon the lights spread out on the slopes ahead of them, scattered among the tents of roughly two thousand people. Toward the valley floor, the lights became scarce. The pattern of lights told Bataar he had been right about the position of the United Front.
“We can go around them on the right,” said Bataar. “We’ll just keep going until it’s too dark for us to go on. Maybe we can outflank them.” As he rode, he eyed the placement of campfires, wondering how far from the camp the scouts might range.
“No more singing, huh?” Luke muttered.
* * *
Bataar led Luke in a large arc to avoid the United Front’s camp. They rode at a walk to allow their mounts to find their footing at twilight. Downwind from the enemy, Bataar listened for voices or hoofbeats in the breeze that would tell him the enemy was near.
The first hint was faint, just a distant clopping of two horses on the stony ground. Bataar reined in and turned to Luke.
“Hear it?” Bataar whispered.
“Just two of them,” Luke said quietly. He nodded forward. “To our left. From the sound, and this light wind, I’d say
fifty meters away.”
Before Bataar could speak, Luke drew his bow and quiver from a saddle pack and eased to the ground to keep his boots from making noise.
“No!” Bataar whispered. “Come on, we’ll circle away from them.”
Luke strung his bow, crouched low, and walked soundlessly into the near-darkness.
Bataar did not dare shout after him. He pulled out his own bow and dismounted quietly, inwardly cursing his friend.
The quiet, rhythmic hoofbeats and casual chatter in a foreign language told Bataar that the scouts were not aware of any danger. He stopped to string his bow.
The light whistle of an arrow reached Bataar. As he drew close to Luke, he saw the shadow of one man fall. In the moment that the stranger’s companion turned to look, Luke shot another arrow and struck the second man.
“Come on! Fast!” Luke yelled in a hoarse whisper as he ran forward.
“Damn it, Luke!” Bataar hurried after him on the uneven ground.
“I got their mounts! Help me!”
Bataar ran forward and found Luke, two saddled horses and two dying men, all just shapes in the darkness. He grabbed the reins of one horse. “Let’s get out of—”
Luke let out a triumphant laugh as he settled into the saddle of the second horse. “And I got their AKs, too. And a couple of magazines. Two down! Let’s go!”
Hoofbeats of two more horses came from their left. Bataar turned and saw the dark shapes of mounted men coming forward at a canter.
Bataar nocked an arrow, aimed, and released. He saw one man straighten, startled, and then sway in the saddle before toppling.
“Get down!” Bataar yelled. As he and Luke dropped flat, the second horseman opened up with a Kalashnikov over their heads.
Bataar brought up another arrow, now holding the bow horizontally just above the ground. He released and saw the man’s silhouette stiffen. On Bataar’s right, Luke shot another arrow that also struck the man’s torso. The stranger fell to the ground.
“Got to go!” Bataar yelled. “No telling how many of them heard that gunfire.”
“With ya,” said Luke, mounting up.
Bataar swung up into the saddle of his new mount and reined back in the direction of their strings of horses, whistling. When he found his mounts coming toward him, he grabbed the reins of the lead horse and drew it alongside. He leaped from the new mount to his own horse and tied the reins from the captured horse to a hook on the rear of his saddle.
“They’ll be sending a lot of guys,” said Bataar.
“Yeah! Ride!” Luke began whistling “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” fast but low.
Grim, Bataar leaned low and rode at a trot, gambling that all the horses could keep their footing for now in the near darkness. They had to create some distance from pursuit before they could light their torches to find their way.
* * *
As night drew near, Chuluun rode at a canter on the steppe just north of Karakorum. He watched Naran drilling the two troops of a hundred riders each. Some had taken part on the raid on Purity. A slight majority were too young but they had been riding and shooting all their lives. They had trained as archers with less success. Many wore swords, some taken at Purity and others bought or gained by barter by the riders who escorted the women’s caravans to the Shangri-La Valley.
Nominally the commander of the First Troop as well as overall commander, Chuluun had delegated leadership of the First Troop to a thirty-six-year-old man of the Hui people, named Ma Lu. His family was Muslim and Chuluun had observed his intensity and drive to show loyalty to the Free Tribe. Captain Ma had been an excellent student of Naran’s discipline and Chuluun had rewarded him with this assignment.
At Naran’s order, the riders sheathed their rifles and strung their bows. Using Naran’s system of banners carried by the captains and the four patrol leaders of twenty-five riders in each troop, he gave orders to maneuver and shoot their arrows into the distance. They repeated the moves until the quivers were empty, and then dismounted to retrieve their arrows.
Chuluun trotted past them. He rode with his head high and his gaze on the distance to the west, knowing that a certain aloofness helped maintain his image among the tribe. None of them could be allowed to know his ongoing fear of Timur’s one thousand riders. If the CoDominium Marines moved at Timur’s rear, that could cut in half the number of United Front riders who might threaten Independence and Karakorum.
“Chuluun Khan!” Shouts reached him from a stone building that was half below ground and half above, with the walls built from the rock that had been dug out. It was the shelter for blacksmiths, farriers, and grooms to work out of the wind and store their equipment.
When Chuluun saw Altan Zhang among the men working there, he set his jaw and trotted to the shelter.
Altan’s long, leather coat barely covered his muscular, massive upper body. His height was average in the tribe, but he stood with his feet apart and a blacksmith’s hammer in one huge hand. He stared at Chuluun, neither smiling nor frowning.
“Khan, welcome!” Yuri Bai, a man of Manchu and Russian descent, grinned and waved for Chuluun to join them. A slender, white-haired man who had broken out of the Dover Mining camp with Chuluun, he was also the prospector who had explored the minerals in the rocky foothills to the south and in the sand and gravel at their feet. With perseverance and hard work, he had found ways to create black powder for firearms. He had found rock-bearing sulphur and used manure and urine to make saltpeter. Charcoal was gathered regularly from every fireplace. The result was powder to pack into the cartridges for their various firearms.
Many of the other men greeted Chuluun as well. Some of them continued working without speaking. Altan did not move.
“Yuri, you are still working at this hour?” Chuluun dismounted, smiling at his old comrade.
“Working keeps these old joints from getting stiff.”
“So we prepare for war,” said Altan, breaking in. “I asked many of the herders to join me at first light to make sure we have food ready.”
“That will be good,” said Chuluun.
Altan glared at him. “And you have our riders training here? We should be on the attack.”
“Tend to your own work,” said Chuluun, his voice cold.
“You grow lazy, old man.”
“Speak with respect!” Yuri shouted, stepping in front of Altan.
The younger man shoved Yuri aside without effort. “Chuluun, you are too old and your son is too young. I will lead our troops to victory.”
With a flash of anger, Chuluun stepped forward and punched Altan in the jaw. The other man’s head rocked back slightly, but he did not fall or step back. He raised his blacksmith’s hammer and laughed.
All the tribe members around them stopped their work to watch.
“Is that all the strength you have, old man?”
“You speak that way to me?” Chuluun demanded.
“Maybe your wife should lead this tribe!” Altan grinned and hefted the big hammer. “She leads and trains while you talk—”
The metallic sound of an old bolt action rifle interrupted Altan. Yuri held an old rifle at his shoulder, aimed at Altan’s big chest.
The crowd behind Altan split, moving away from him.
“Order me, Chuluun Khan,” said Yuri. “I will execute him.”
“We have a war to fight,” said Chuluun. “This is no time to fight each other.”
“You let others do your fighting,” Altan said with a sneer.
“Go back to your herders.” Chuluun waited. He was aware that the other men were watching, but he kept his gaze on Altan.
For a long moment, Altan eyed the two older men. Then, holding the heavy hammer at his chest as though it was nothing, he stepped back. Then he turned and walked away.
Many of the others left with him.
“You should let me kill him,” said Yuri, watching Altan vanish into the shadows. “He talks to the young herders the same way. Their fathers don’t l
isten, but many of the young ones do. He tells them your wife trains her personal guard because she fears you are unable to protect her.”
“I have to do my own fighting,” said Chuluun. “He’s right about that.” He sighed. “Stay with your family and close friends in coming days. Altan won’t forget you.”
* * *
When Bataar could no longer see in the darkness, he reined in and studied the distant pattern of campfires. While night hid Bataar and Luke now, the distance was not great enough to hide them when dawn returned. He wondered what Timur and his captains would think when their men found the slain sentries.
Luke drew up beside him. “You mad at me? I got those two Kalashnikovs and magazines—not to mention the horses—from the first guys.”
“We have to keep riding,” said Bataar. He drew a torch from his saddlebag and lit it with a flint. The flame burned bright and warm. Riding by torchlight was possible out on this valley floor, if they proceeded slowly. At least they would be moving while the United Front remained stationary. “We’re far enough that they won’t see this.”
“Here.” Luke handed him one of the captured Kalashnikovs. “One for each of us.”
Bataar accepted the weapon in his free hand, realizing it was an unspoken apology. “Thanks. Let’s ride.”
* * *
In the depth of the Haven night, Chuluun was sitting in his home before the fire when he heard the hoofbeats of a five-rider scouting patrol return to Karakorum. He pulled on his long coat and stepped outside.
“Chuluun Khan.” The patrol leader drew up, holding a flaming torch in one hand.
“Report,” said Chuluun.
“The United Front has found water and grazing only a short ride from the place of the parley.”
“They are not on the move now?”
“When we left, they were not moving. That was four days ago— their forage will be played out by now.”
Tuya came outside, pulling a long leather coat tight and closing the door behind her.