The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  The Khagan’s caravan failed to move the next morning, and did not appear to be inclined to move the following morning either. As the day wore on and Gansukh watched preparations for yet another feast, he wondered if the Khagan and his retinue would ever reach the Place of the Cliff.

  He had spent too many summers and winters in the saddle, and his spirit was restless. This inactivity chaffed at him. The Chinese raiders had been routed, and what few survivors remained had scattered. The scouts had found little evidence that any raider remained within a half day’s ride, but to stay in this valley was the foolhardy decision of a provincial administrator, not a warrior.

  In addition, such inactivity meant too many opportunities for the Khagan to slide into a drunken stupor. Any decisive action would be slow in coming.

  They had left Karakorum, but too much of the palace had come with them, which is why the routing of the Chinese had to be celebrated. Such idleness was typical of the way courtiers thought: the Mongol Empire is brave and strong; we must have a feast! After as many months as he had spent at court, Gansukh wasn’t sure why he was still surprised at such a ridiculous decision.

  Wandering around-waiting-darkened his mood, and on the few occasions when he caught sight of Master Chucai, he could tell the Khan’s advisor was similarly concerned about the delays. Gansukh suspected Chucai would join him if he started whipping each and every ox and draft horse, until every wagon, ger, and lazy courtier was dragged toward Burqan-qaldun.

  To keep his gnawing frustration at bay, Gansukh tried to stay alert to Munokhoi’s movements. He knew how brittle his safety was, and even more so, Lian’s. Gansukh continued to haunt the circle of tents near the Khagan’s ger, performing whatever odd job he could find so as to keep an eye and ear turned toward Munokhoi’s comings and goings.

  If the Torguud captain was aware of his silent shadow, he did not acknowledge it.

  Now, as the sun began to slip toward the horizon, tickling the bellies of the white clouds with orange feathers, a crowd started to gather about the stones that had been laid in a large ring near the feasting area. Gansukh had participated in the gathering of the rocks from the surrounding hills, a boring and laborious task that had taken up a goodly portion of the morning, and as the rock haulers had been directed as to where to deposit their stones, Gansukh had gleaned a pretty good idea as to the eventual use of the circle.

  An arena.

  Much of the growing audience’s attention was on the two cages facing each other on opposite sides of the circle. In one cage, on the northern side of the arena, a burly man with a body patched in thick black hair, a great bushy beard, a hooked nose-broken more than once and never set right-and dark eyes nearly lost in a perpetual squinting scowl. In the opposite cage, a tall blond ghost of a man, sitting more often that standing. While his attitude was quite passive, his cold blue eyes carefully and exactingly watched everything. Two guards stood beside each cage, and more guards circled the ring, keeping back the growing throng of spectators. People in the mob jostled each other for a better view as they jeered at the captives and loudly proclaimed their bets on the fight’s outcome. The Khagan’s mighty ger had been moved a few hours ago so that it loomed over the circle of stones, and Munokhoi, Master Chucai, and a few other people-including one of Ogedei’s wives-milled about on the raised platform near the ger’s entrance.

  On the western side of the arena-not far from where Gansukh stood, watching the spectacle unfold-enterprising gamblers kept tallies in the dirt and with bundles of sticks as bettors huddled around them, shouting to make themselves heard.

  “Three oxen on the wild ape-man from the West!”

  “Ten goats on the fair one!”

  “Put me down for six copper pieces on the big fellow!”

  Up on the platform, Munokhoi strutted back and forth, pleased with the attention being given to the proceedings. Gansukh was fairly certain the fights had been Munokhoi’s idea. It was the sort of demeaning spectacle that the Torguud captain would relish, and while he had little desire to watch, Gansukh stayed.

  The crowd was getting noisier. Sporadic chants for the Khagan sprang up, but they had little strength and quickly petered out. Munokhoi’s pace became more agitated, and with a last glance at the closed flaps of the Khagan’s ger, he sprang off the platform. Stalking over to the hairy man’s cage, the Torguud captain sized up the fighter. Stroking his chin, he took his time examining the big man, circling the cage to study him while the prisoner watched him cautiously. Munokhoi abruptly grabbed the cage and rattled it hard, shouting like a demon right in the prisoner’s face. The prisoner did not startle; he stared at Munokhoi, and the lines of his face creased deeper as his scowl intensified.

  Munokhoi laughed boisterously and turned away. With long, quick strides, he walked over to the gathering of gamblers. “Put me in for twenty oxen on that man!” he ordered.

  It was the other man however, the pale man, who intrigued Gansukh. Though captive and caged, he was fascinatingly tranquil. He did not hang his head in despair, nor did he glower and rage at his captors. He sat still in the center of his cage with his legs crossed. If he was waiting for some future opening, some chance at escape, he betrayed no sign of it, but Gansukh was certain there were depths beneath that placid surface. A great warrior must always search for the enemy’s intentions and guard his own.

  The dark-haired man was savagely strong. He growled at his captors like a dog trying to establish dominance. Gansukh could see why Munokhoi favored him. Strength, however, was not always a guarantee of victory. If the pale man was swift and clever, he could win the fight handily.

  Waiting, Gansukh thought, and without realizing it, he had shoved away from the tent wall that he had been leaning against. “Twenty-five cows on the fair one,” he said, loudly and clearly enough to be heard.

  Munokhoi whirled to see who had called out, and catching sight of Gansukh, his entire body went rigid. His grin was malformed, uneven and showing too many teeth.

  Gansukh did not react in any way. “Twenty-five,” he repeated, his eyes flicking toward the gamblers.

  Munokhoi was more than an annoyance; he was a very real danger. Gansukh couldn’t kill him outright, nor could he continue to ignore him. Lian would argue otherwise-at least she would have previously. After killing the Chinese commander, she had gotten very hard to read. Perhaps, she might condone the death of Munokhoi now.

  If he asked her. But he wasn’t going to. He didn’t need to. Munokhoi was his problem, a problem that wasn’t going to go away. And since he couldn’t just stick a knife in him and be done with it, he had to come up with some excuse.

  Judging by the Torguud captain’s tension, it would not take much to provoke him, and if Munokhoi became openly hostile, then wasn’t lethal self-defense justified? What better way to provoke him than by injuring his pride? And here was a convenient way to do just that: by publicly backing the pale man against Munokhoi’s favorite.

  “The scrawny one?”

  The crowd fell silent at the voice, and everyone’s attention turned to the Khagan’s ger. Ogedei stood-swaying slightly, cup in hand-on the platform. “You favor the scrawny one?” he said, waving an arm at the pale warrior’s cage.

  “I wager what he lacks in muscle he makes up for in skill, my Khan,” said Gansukh. “Even the superior force can be defeated through speed and tactics.” The last was unnecessary, but he saw the effect his words had on Munokhoi.

  “I remember your fight with Namkhai,” the Khagan laughed. “I do not recall you being that swift, nor your tactics very effective, young pony.” He let his gaze wander about the assembled throng. “Namkhai,” he shouted, looking for his favorite wrestler. “Which do you prefer?”

  Namkhai emerged from a clump of warriors not far from the platform. “I prefer to regard both men as equally dangerous,” he offered diplomatically.

  Ogedei waved his cup back and forth, and wine slopped out, staining both his and Master Chucai’s robes. “That is the sort of
answer I expect from my spineless administrators. Not from my champion wrestler.”

  Namkhai bowed his head briefly, acknowledging the Khagan’s insight into his reply. “If I were to fight one of them,” he said, “I would be more wary of the pale-haired one.”

  The Khagan stroked his beard expansively. “Perhaps I will offer you that chance,” he mused as he raised his cup toward his lips. Namkhai tipped his head deferentially once more.

  Munokhoi spat in the dirt, and several of the gamblers looked nervously between the Torguud captain and Gansukh.

  Still drinking, Ogedei waved his hand at the guards surrounding the cages, indicating that he was done waiting for the fighting to begin. Cautiously, the cage doors were opened and the two contestants were offered crude wooden sticks approximating swords. The crowd yipped and yelled in frenzied bloodlust as the two men were directed at spear point toward one another.

  “The winner,” the Khagan decided with a glance at the cup in his hand, “receives one cup of arkhi.” He languidly raised a hand, and when he let it fall, the spearmen withdrew their weapons, leaving the two men, sword-sticks in hand, to face off against one another in the ring of stones.

  Haakon had never learned the other man’s name, or even where he hailed from. Now, he might not need to. While the crudely carved shape in his hand implied this fight was not intended to be deadly, his opponent’s expression suggested otherwise. The man stood still, solid as a boulder, both feet firmly planted, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his hairy chest. He held his stick directly in front of him instead of keeping it to his shoulder or some place where it could not be knocked aside.

  Haakon figured him to be untrained in the finer arts of wielding a sword, but the man held his sword-stick firmly and resolutely, as if he had some knowledge of what a hilt felt like in his hand.

  He will come quickly, when he does, Haakon thought as he slowly circled his opponent, prowling just out of easy reach. He will seek to capitalize on his strength. Haakon tried to calm his brain, but now that he was out of the cage, his brain was a whirling confusion of thoughts. Part of him focused on the fight, but other parts of his mind were reflecting on his situation. Was this not unlike the arena in Legnica? From violence to captivity to violence again, here he was, forced to be a fighting dog for the amusement of these barbarians. And when he ceased to be amusing? What then?

  It’s what they want you to think. It is the fear that will make you fight. It is the fear that will make you do something stupid.

  Impatient, the big man lunged at Haakon’s chest. The thrust was quick and dangerous, but it lacked any real strength. Haakon-anticipating this very attack-sidestepped easily, and whipped his own stick out to knock the big man’s weapon aside. The first defense every student learned, drilled into them until it was an instinctive reaction. When Haakon tried to snap his stick back for a quick blow to his opponent’s face, the man simply raised his arm and ducked his head. Haakon felt a momentary flare of anger at having made such a foolish mistake: these pieces of wood did not have sharp edges like real swords, and a blow on the upper arm and shoulder would sting, but it wouldn’t do any real damage.

  Growling, his opponent rushed him, using his own bent arm and sword as a makeshift battering ram. Haakon couldn’t get his own sword back into play quickly enough, and all he had time to do was brace himself before the burly man smashed into him.

  He tumbled back, letting the momentum of the push take him into a roll, and he heard the other man’s sword slam down into the ground. Dirt pelted his legs. He came out of the roll into a crouch, looking up to see the big man standing with his legs spread, the sword rising up for another two-handed swing. Without rising, Haakon snapped his sword up, striking the big man’s knee with a violent crack.

  His opponent howled. He wobbled as he tried to complete his downward swing, but the stroke was slow and clumsy. Haakon scurried aside, and as he regained his feet, he slammed his sword down on the other man’s extended hands, feeling the satisfying thwack of wood against bone, and then he followed through with a backhanded swipe. The tip slammed into the man’s face, crunching cartilage, and a crimson torrent of blood gushed out of the man’s nose.

  Unlike the strike to the knee, the blow to his wrist and the broken nose appeared to only enrage the man, and with a roar, he retaliated with a jab of his thick fist. Haakon had closed after the strike to the wrist, and he pulled his head back to avoid the punch. The man’s hard knuckles scraped across the side of his face, and out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the big man’s other hand. He had dropped his sword! The second punch caught him squarely on the cheek. His vision blurred and doubled as pain lanced through his jaw.

  The big man pawed at him, trying to get a grappling hold; blinking through a film of tears, Haakon fought to extricate himself. His wooden sword was heavy, stuck on something, and the more he pulled on it, the more resistance he felt. The big man clouted him on the side of the head once more, and Haakon’s vision split even further. His sword was moving of its own volition now, and he dimly realized that his opponent had seized his weapon.

  His arms were yanked upward, and he felt a blast of heavy breath on his neck. The wooden sword slammed against his chest, and he struggled against the big man’s sudden leverage. He had gotten behind Haakon, and with a firm grip on the stick, was trying to choke him.

  His field of vision was filled with yellow starbursts and streaks of shining light. He had managed to get his hand between the stick and his throat, but even still, he could barely pull any breath. The big man grunted and heaved, his sweaty frame braced against Haakon’s back.

  He was not going to last much longer. He needed air. His opponent was too strong.

  Desperately, Haakon kicked backward. His first attempt missed, but he felt the big man shift his weight. The knee! His vision starting to darken, Haakon tried again, and this time he connected, the heel of his foot smashing against the knee he had hit previously. There wasn’t much strength in his blow-the angle was all wrong-but it was enough to make the other man stumble.

  Haakon dropped down to his knees, leaning forward a tiny bit as he did so. The pressure against his throat increased as-for a second or two-he was straining against all of the other man’s weight, but then he felt the balance tip in his favor. From his kneeling position he then bent forward, and the big man tumbled over his shoulder.

  The other man landed heavily, the air forced from his lungs with a sickly gasp. He still had Haakon’s sword, though his grip on it was loose.

  His vision clearing as he greedily sucked in air, Haakon threw himself toward the supine man, reaching for the sword. Sensing Haakon’s approach, the big man struggled to sit up, but Haakon punched his broken and bloody nose. Wrenching the sword out of the man’s slack fingers, Haakon jabbed the short hilt into his opponent’s throat, and then clumsily scuttled away before the big man could grab him.

  There was no need. The combination of being hit again on the nose and the blow to the windpipe had taken all of his opponent’s will to fight. The big man was curled into a ball, his body shaking as he tried to draw breath.

  Still somewhat unsteady himself, Haakon used the wooden sword as a crutch and got to his feet. Suddenly aware of the crowd around him, he started to raise his hands-and the sword-into the air, but when he spied the warriors with spears approaching, he dropped the sword.

  But he still raised his arms in victory, a signal the crowd responded to with an enthusiastic roar of approval. The men with spears indicated he should return to his cage, and with a final glance at his downed opponent, he staggered across the sandy field to his tiny cell. His vision still suffered, but he could see well enough, and he threw a salute to the tall Mongolian standing on the raised platform.

  The tall man wasn’t quite as imposing as General Subutai, but his clothing was much finer and more ostentatious than anyone else’s. And he had a way of looking down on everyone around him that reminded Haakon of the liege lord who c
ontrolled the land on which Haakon’s village had been located.

  Khagan, he thought, recalling the name he had heard from the guards during the long trip to Karakorum. The Khan of Khans.

  Waiting at his cage was a man holding a wooden bowl filled with an eggshell-white fluid. Before he ducked back into his prison, Haakon took the offered bowl and quaffed it in three gulps. It was sour and vile, but he knew it would numb the pain that was going to visit him soon.

  He glanced at the man he suspected was the supreme ruler of the Mongols, and raised the empty bowl.

  A humorless smile playing across his lips, the Khagan lifted his own cup in return.

  Gansukh did not join the crowd in their noisy exclamations. Half were cheering the bravery of the pale youth, while others shouted insults at the burly, black-haired man. He started to smile, and as soon as he realized he was doing so, he twisted his lips into a frown and turned away from the spectacle.

  It did not matter that they were prisoners taken from foreign lands conquered by the Mongols. They were still men, and no man should be forced to fight for the entertainment of others. If they had refused to fight, they would have been killed. And what galled him further was a recollection of the wrestling match with Namkhai. He had challenged Namkhai, in fact, and not because he wanted to demonstrate his martial prowess, but because he wanted to get the Khagan’s attention. He was a free man, a warrior of the steppes, and yet, he too had fought for the pleasure of the Khagan. How different was he from those men in their cages?

  He had sought to anger Munokhoi-and, judging by the Torguud captain’s clenched fists and stormy expression, he had accomplished as much-but this method was not to his liking.

  “Young pony,” the Khagan’s voice drew his attention away from Munokhoi and the gamblers. Gansukh tilted his chin up and looked toward the Khagan’s ger. “The pale-haired one is very fierce. You were right.”

  Gansukh inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  “Would you fight him?”