The Mongoliad: Book One

by Neal Stephenson

  She let out the breath she had been holding as she realized she had been worried that one of the bodies might have been Gansukh. Chiding herself for her reaction—as well as acting like a simple country girl where the young warrior was concerned—she turned to return to her quarters, but she paused when she heard Master Chucai’s voice.

  He was striding toward her, a black cloud that eclipsed the play of torchlight behind him. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  She clutched her jacket closed and dropped her gaze toward the ground. “There was a great deal of excitement amongst the ladies of the court,” she said. “Like them, I was concerned for my safety.”

  Chucai growled in his chest, a noise not unlike distant thunder. “Go back to your room,” he snapped. “Gather up the—” He flapped a long sleeve at the cluster of women. “Take them with you. It isn’t safe. You should be inside.”

  Lian bowed. “Yes, Master Chucai.” She brushed past him, hurrying to be out of his presence.

  He caught her arm as she passed and brought her up short. His stare was indomitable, and she looked away, trying to hide from his gaze. “I’m sure young Gansukh is in no danger,” he said, and when she blushed at having her heart read so plainly, he released her.

  She fled back to her room, neglecting to bring any of the other ladies with her. All she wanted was to hide from the fact that he might be right: that Gansukh was safe and that she cared at all.

  There was no time to stop and explain. Gansukh slowed as he came to the outer wall of the palace, and he tried to quiet his breathing and listen for some sign of where the assassin had gone. The effort seemed futile, as the shouting and thrashing of the Khevtuul in the garden made it nearly impossible to hear any subtle sound, but he was rewarded with a scraping noise, followed by a grunt.

  He had missed it at first, looking for the wrong thing. Not far ahead, wriggling against the wall like a black snake, was a knotted rope. He ran over and pulled it taut. There was some weight near the other end, and when he looked up, he could see the dark shape of the assassin as the man neared the top of the wall.

  He chided himself for not bringing his sword and bow with him. But he hadn’t realized the meeting with Lian was meant to be a martial one. He had thought…

  Gansukh pushed those thoughts aside as he started up the rope. However the assassin had anchored it to the top of the wall, Gansukh hoped his weight would be enough to make the man not tarry and release the rope. The fall wouldn’t kill him, but following the assassin up the rope was the only way he could hope to keep up. It would take too much time to race around through the north gate—longer if the guards continued to confuse him for another intruder.

  The assassin didn’t stop, and by the time Gansukh reached the top of the wall, the dark-robed figure was gone.

  Arrows bounced off the wall around him, and Gansukh didn’t wait for the archers to correct their aim. He leaped off the wall, landing and tumbling in a clumsy roll. He banged his left shoulder against the ground and ignored the flare of pain as he scrambled to his feet.

  Which way? He was in a back alley behind one of the long buildings the Khagan used to store his possessions, and there were no doors or windows on this side. North or south? To the south lay the front gates of the palace and the large staging grounds at the head of the paved road that stretched through the main part of Karakorum. If the assassin were trying to disappear into the teeming chaos of the city, that would certainly be the route to take.

  Gansukh hesitated. Going to ground didn’t seem like the right choice. In that case, the prey counted on the hunter losing interest. But for an assassin who had just killed the Khagan? The hunt would never stop, and the only hope the man had for survival was to run as far as he could—as fast as he could. Trying to escape through a city of tents would take too long.

  To the west and north of the palace were a number of gates out of the city. Most of them were crowded during the day with shepherds and goat herders trying to sell their animals, but at night the markets should be empty.

  A woman screamed somewhere beyond the storehouse, and Gansukh’s decision was made for him. He sprinted to his left, and when he reached the corner of the building, he spotted a small Chinese courtesan dressed in blue silk sprawled on her back in the middle of the street beyond. She was hurling curses at a swiftly moving figure.

  “Stop! Intruder!” The northern guardhouse was behind him, and Gansukh ducked around the corner of the building as the guards on the elevated platform started shooting arrows.

  It probably would have been wiser for him to wait for the Khevtuul to catch up, identify himself, and join with them in their pursuit of the assassin instead of being mistaken for the assassin’s accomplice. Gansukh stared at the receding figure of the assassin as he raced down the empty street toward the market gate. It would be wiser…

  Muttering a half plea/half curse to the Blue Wolf, Gansukh sprinted after his quarry.

  CHAPTER 13:

  WEST MEETS EAST

  “I don’t mean to distract you from what is most important…” said Brother Rutger as he poised the helm above Haakon’s head.

  “You mean, not dying under the blade of whatever comes out of yonder tunnel?”

  “Indeed. But we need information about the Khan. His special pavilion sits above the south end of the arena, positioned so that the sun will never shine in his eyes. There must be wooden walls behind all that canvas, behind all those hanging drapes that obscure its interior. We know so little about the layout inside. How many sit with the Khan? Does the pavilion have gates or doors that we would need to break down should the javelin throw fail? A railing over which we would need to vault? Guards who would need to be put out of the way? What is the Khan’s escape route should our first and second attempts miscarry?”

  Haakon wanted to roar with anger, but it came out as a strangled laugh. “I am about to do battle with a demon,” he complained, “and you want me to—”

  “It’s no demon,” Brother Rutger said and spat on the loose ocher ground that had been tracked down the tunnel on the boots of surviving combatants. “It’s a man dressed as one.” He rammed the helm down onto Haakon’s head and slapped him on the ass. Even through surcoat, chain mail, gambeson, and drawers, the impact came through solidly. “And the Red Veil,” he added. “We still wish to know what lies on the other side.”

  Haakon grunted as he adjusted the helmet to suit him. The mysterious veil. It hung from the outer edge of the Khan’s box, obscuring the southern gate from the arena. Victorious fighters were allowed to pass beyond the veil, but they had to be able to walk out of the arena without assistance. So far, no fighter had won his bout so decisively as to be without injury. Three other Brothers had fought in the arena before him. Two had won their fights, but their wounds had been severe enough that they had not survived the night.

  Rutger put his hand on Haakon’s shoulder. They regarded each other silently. Saying good-bye would be worse than useless, since Rutger and the others would see it as a premature admission of defeat. Like his brothers who had fought before him, Haakon knew he was supposed to be full of martial bluster. If anything, he should scoff at Rutger’s unspoken concern and say something to the effect that he would return from this fight in less time than it took to run out to the gutter and take a shit.

  But that wouldn’t be true, and to speak so falsely—especially when Rutger would know he was lying—seemed to be behavior ill-suited to the role he was supposed to be playing.

  I am a Knight of the Virgin Defender.

  Haakon slapped his hand over Rutger’s briefly and then tromped up the tunnel, adjusting his mail. With each step, the loose red earth became deeper and softer under his feet.

  As he walked through the narrow tunnel, he reflected on Taran’s final words to the young members of the Shield-Brethren who would be fighting in the arena. As their oplo, Taran had never been one for grandiose speeches. His instruction had always been brusque, and his directive to his stud
ent had been equally to the point: This is not a sparring tournament like the ones offered at Týrshammar. Here, given the chance, your opponent will kill you. Your field of battle will be constricted, and the ranks of spectators will confuse and disorient you. Ignore all of that. Remember the one rule: do not die. Keep your focus. Know thy way, warrior; know thy balance and strength. Sophrosyne. That is how you will prevail.

  Haakon had never understood the meaning of that Greek word, one of Feronantus’s favorites. Raphael had once chided Feronantus that, in Alexandria, it meant virginity. Their leader had not demurred. Still, Haakon was a virgin…

  At the end of the tunnel, two men—Mongols both, armored in the layered scale and lamellar of the steppes—stepped out to bar his way. Haakon paused as one spoke a single guttural word and held out his hand: hold.

  Even though he was ready for the fight to begin, Haakon slowed. There was no reason to hurry. The sun was shining out there. As soon as it struck his helmet, he would begin to overheat. The rag-stuffed cap that protected his freshly close-cropped head would become saturated, and then the sweat would begin trickling into his eyes, ruining the view through the helmet slits. Not long after that, he would begin to lose focus and strength.

  Sophrosyne. He could wait.

  A third Mongol appeared and said something to the two barring Haakon’s path, a flow of words both harsh and lyrically smooth, but babble to Haakon’s ears. The two guards stood aside, and the third gave him a nod whose meaning could not be mistaken: Haakon was now to enter.

  As he stepped out of the shadows, sunlight greeted him in a flash, blinding him. Blinking—waiting for his eyes to adjust—he tried to orient himself. The Khan’s box, supposing it even existed, should be up there somewhere to his right, above the thick swath of red fabric that hung down to the sandy floor of the arena.

  Haakon’s view, from the western entrance, was obscured by ranks of spectators. Not Onghwe’s Mongols—a snooty lot who didn’t like to mix with inferiors—but a rabble of Saracens, Slavs, Germans, and Franks. All of them had betrayed their races to curry favor with the rulers of the world—or, depending on how you looked at it, made necessary deals to prevent their people from being destroyed.

  In spite of these obstructions, he could see the bulbous shape of a pavilion draped with heavy fabric, shielding not only the Khan from view, but also protecting the pale necks of the Khan’s concubines from the browning radiance of the sun. Satisfied that he knew where the Khan would be, he looked to his left, scanning the recently raked sand. The circle was large, maybe as much as twenty faðmr from where he stood to the opposite gate, more than enough space for two men to fight.

  Haakon’s brain quailed at the idea that this arena would host more than a pair of combatants. Surely they wouldn’t send more than one against him at a time, not even for the perverse pleasure of the dissolute Khan…

  Focus. Taran, again. Fight as you were trained. The rest does not matter.

  Haakon scanned the circle again. He was the only fighter in the arena. He glanced over his shoulder at the Mongols behind him. Why had they blocked him? Why was he alone? Were they going to loose animals on him? Why…

  Center, he chided himself. Your mind will betray your hands. Stop thinking.

  Haakon adjusted his grip on his Great Sword of War and decided he would walk cautiously to the center of the arena. He kept his eyes on the dark opening of the eastern portal—the place where his opponent would emerge—and let the rest of his body relax.

  The spectators became a blur of color and motion. Their raucous noise became nothing more than a rhythmic pulse, like the sound of the waves against the rocky foundation of Týrshammar’s citadel. His heart slowed too, seeking to be in concert with those waves, and his breathing followed.

  Zzzu! Zzzu! Zzzu!

  He listened more closely. The crowd was shouting a single word in unison. Blurred together, their cries washed across the arena in a buzzing sweep:

  “Zug! Zug! Zug!”

  The spectators roared now, a thrashing storm of sound. Haakon slowly realized they were calling out a name, working themselves into a howling, ravenous mob. They craved blood, demanded death, and worst of all, they wanted Zug!

  Haakon felt like puking.

  In the darkness of the eastern gate something moved—a shadow of black and red with broad, square shoulders and a large white mouth. Slowly, emerging into the bright sunlight with all the panache of a royal concubine making an entrance into a court somehow filled with rude bumpkins, the outlandish figure emerged into the open.

  They were making that familiar noise—that buzzing sound as if a hundred bees were trapped inside his skull. His mouth was filled with the taste of metal and his jaw ached. He had vomited once already—a bilious stream of acidic arkhi that had spattered his suneate—and his stomach was so knotted he couldn’t puke again.

  His suneate, strips of armor bound in parallel and tied to his legs, had been spattered many times over the last few years—mostly with blood. More recently, throwing up before the fight had become a common occurrence. It had become part of the ritual of preparation. Just before he put on the mask, his stomach would rebel. The one part of him that had any feeling left, only his stomach could still muster any outrage at what he had become. The rest was numb, too pickled by the arkhi to care.

  He was dead. A ghost, held in this world by the iron of his cage, by the blood debt he had incurred. They summoned him, screaming and shouting the name he had given them—the name he had earned. Their cries—that insistent buzzing of honeybees—woke him from his stupor; he would animate the bag of flesh, would wrap it in the carapace of his shame, and would send it stumbling toward the light.

  Only then would he be given the skull-maker.

  The noise would stop when he collected a head. The skull-maker, so bright in the light, would go round and round until it wasn’t bright anymore. They would scream and shout for a while after he was done, but the pain in his head would start to lessen. They would let him go back into the darkness; they would let him crawl away, sloughing off his mask and his shell as he went. Until there was nothing left of the monster. Until there was only the dead man who would plunge into the bottomless pit offered by the arkhi. The ghost who would return to the void of senselessness.

  He tottered, bumping into the wall of the tunnel. The skull-maker scraped along the ceiling, whining that it was cutting wood instead of bone. It was thirsty too.

  He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. His tongue was a slab of rock, and he ground his teeth against it, trying to feel something. Anything.

  Place the foot before lifting the other, he instructed the bag of flesh. Control the skull-maker. It has to wait.

  His instructions, always delivered along with the skull-maker as if he were a child and couldn’t remember, were simple: don’t kill him too quickly. The audience wanted a show, as did the shadow in the pavilion. His duty was to entertain. It wasn’t to kill a man; it was to make them howl and laugh. It was to make them believe they controlled the monster. They could make it perform for them. Make it dance. Make it sing. Make it kill. He was their toy.

  Soon, he whispered to the skull-maker as he stepped out of the tunnel.

  Haakon’s opponent stalked slowly out of the gate’s shadow. Its armor was the gaudiest and most complex that Haakon had ever seen. Layers of plates overlapped, much like the lamellar of the Mongols, but constructed by the hand of a true artisan. Mongol armor was a patchwork assembly of jagged scrap in comparison to the perfectly shaped pieces of the demon’s equipage. A polished black helmet lay low over its brow, topped by a spreading crest that reminded Haakon of the wings that some of his ancestors sported on their helms. A mane of white hair thrust from beneath the helmet’s slanting cowl, and a cunningly wrought mask—mouth drawn back in a sneering roar, long tendrils of white horsehair spilling off the upper lip, eyes rimmed with spires of painted fire—obscured his opponent’s face.

  It was the face of a demon.
>
  Haakon had heard stories of Onghwe Khan’s grand champion, of course; gossip and local legends returned with every group of Shield-Brethren that ventured into the shantytown surrounding the arena for supplies. As soon as the Mongolian engineers had begun to construct the arena, the surrounding plain had begun to sprout makeshift markets of trinket-sellers, soothsayers, gilded-tongued minstrels, footpads, mercurial physicians, and sharp-eyed traders, all drawn by the promise of bloodsport and commerce, all filled with an endless supply of lies, legends, and horror stories about the sorts of monsters the dissolute Khan had at his disposal.

  Haakon was familiar with similar stories from his own childhood—tales of the jötnar and their role at Ragnarök, for example—but he hadn’t given them much thought. Not until today.

  It is the nature of fear, Feronantus’s voice reminded him, offering an alternate viewpoint to Taran’s precise lessons. Your own mind betrays you with bogles from your childhood. Images that would not disturb you at any other time become huge, magnified by energies you do not control. You are not open to the flow; every muscle in your body is tight, and there is no path. Every tiny spark is getting caught, and a fire is building around you.

  Haakon gasped.

  Breathe, you idiot. It’s just a man in a suit of armor. Taran’s instruction was like his sword work—simple and direct.

  Breathe. Focus. Use your eyes.

  The noise from the stands remained an unceasing, overwhelming flood. The buzzing voices seemed to snarl up inside his helmet. Echoes battered his ears. The sun beat down on him now as well, mercilessly heating his mail and armor. Already his corded browband was soaked, and salt sting slithered toward the corners of his eyes. His armpits itched, and the weight on his shoulders seemed impossible to bear.