“Tengri,” Yasper mused. “Isn’t that the name of the Mongol god?” The light from the distant mountain peak seemed to be reflecting from his face. “Does he live up there?”
Cnan shook her head. “No, the Mongols aren’t like that. They believe in spirits. Everything has a spirit-the rocks, the trees, all the animals-and these spirits are all part of the world that flowed from Tengri.”
“That is not dissimilar to the Christian view of the soul,” Raphael pointed out.
“Ah, but the Christian soul is unique and distinct,” Yasper countered. “Your soul inhabits your body, and when your body perishes, your soul goes to Heaven. It is still your soul. I suspect-and correct me if I am wrong, Cnan-when something dies, the Mongols believe its spirit flows back to Tengri where it is reabsorbed into the great expanse that is their god.”
Cnan shrugged, indicating that this conversation was already well beyond her.
“You are separate from God, good Raphael,” Yasper continued, “I suspect the Mongols and their world are not. In fact, I am sure we will find a shrine near the top of the gap that is dedicated to the rocks and the trees that manage to thrive at this height, so close to the realm of the Sky God.” Yasper seemed genuinely thrilled by the idea.
“I’m sure the Church will be delighted to send missionaries to endlessly debate this distinction,” Feronantus observed dryly.
“We could let these two debate it now,” R?dwulf said. “We have many days left in our journey.”
Feronantus smiled at the longbowman’s enthusiasm. “I am a fighting man,” he said. “Not a theologian or a philosopher. All of this talk is well beyond my simple understanding, and I fear such discourse will be meaningless to me.”
“I think your understanding is far from simple,” Raphael noted dryly.
“Perhaps,” Feronantus said. “But it is my understanding.” The old veteran tapped his horse with his reins, nudging it back to the sloping path. The others, sensing the time was over for scenic viewing and rhetorical discourse, followed until only Cnan and Raphael remained.
“There,” she said, pointing. “Do you see it?”
Raphael nodded. There were winds blowing at the top of the mountain, and a gauzy curtain of white mist fluttered at the tip as if it were caught upon that high spire. Below the slope of the mountain was changing color-gold to crimson.
“I have heard stories about the Shield-Brethren, though I have little faith they contain but the merest morsel of truth to them. They are like many fanciful tales one hears along the trade routes,” Cnan said as the others moved out of earshot. “You pretend to fight for the Christian God, but you swear your oaths to someone else, don’t you?”
“Does it matter?” Raphael countered. “If the oath I am swearing is to protect people like you and other innocents?”
“Do you all swear the same oath?” she asked.
“We do,” Raphael said.
“But it means something different to some of you, doesn’t it?” she pressed.
“Aye,” he said softly. “I fear that it might.”
Ahead of them, Khan Tengri became drenched with blood.
The wind howled so vociferously and with such zeal that, for the rest of the day after they breached the gap and began their rapid descent down the other side, Raphael’s ears were blocked. His head was filled with the shrieking echo of Boreas, the angry north wind that had attempted to drive them back with the sheer volume of its outrage.
But they had doggedly kept moving, hauling their horses by the reins when the beasts balked at going any farther. He had taken part in the crusade in Egypt, and the disastrous march on Cairo had tested him vigorously; others in the company had been in similar campaigns, and they knew their wills were stronger than any temporary pain. They knew the only way to complete any journey was to focus on the ground in front of them. Place one foot, and then the next. Do not look at the unmoving horizon or the immobile sun. One step at a time. The Shield-Brethren can always take one more step.
The Gap was a narrow slit, as if God-or Tengri-had cut a notch in the shoulder of the mountain, and the wind shrieked with near physical violence as they dragged their terrified horses through the rocky defile. On the eastern side of the gap, the land dropped away rapidly. By nightfall, which came so quickly that Raphael wondered if God had snuffed out the sun as soon as it had passed beyond the notch of the gap, they were already below the snow line.
The route descended into an endless forest filled with tall and narrow trees, unlike any evergreen that Raphael had seen before. The needles were like the trees in the West, long and pointed, but the trees held their branches close to their trunks. In the West, the evergreens spread their branches wide, as if they were offering shelter to any weary traveler; the trees on the eastern slopes of the Tien Shan struck him as being wary of strangers.
He felt as if he was constantly being watched as the company made their way down into the long valley. This land knew they were invaders and regarded them with a great deal of suspicion.
He slept poorly that night.
Shortly before midday, the evergreens began to thin out, invaded by squat, broad-crowned leafy trees. R?dwulf recognized them as walnut trees, and he and Yasper dismounted from their horses to fill several bags with the hard-shelled nuts. Istvan enjoyed cracking the nuts with his bare hands.
Raphael suspected the walnuts signified the presence of water, and an hour later, the company discovered a crystalline tarn nestled in the basin of the valley. A rocky moraine at the southern end formed a natural dam, and the water was bluer than the pale, cloud-dappled sky.
And much colder.
Feronantus called a halt and announced they would overnight on the bank of the lake. They had been traveling hard for several weeks, and the strain of the journey was clearly etched on everyone’s face. The sun was warm on the rocks, there was little wind (especially in comparison to the howling gale of the gap), and there was food and water in ready supply. It was a good camp.
Yasper broached the lake first. With some effort, he pried his stiff clothing off. Venting a shrill battle cry, he dashed for the water. His voice became more agitated as his pale legs entered the lake, and his words turned blasphemous. But he kept going, and eventually his head disappeared beneath the surface. He reemerged almost immediately-shuddering, his lips blue and teeth chattering-but his mood was irrepressibly jubilant. “It’s warmer than it looks,” he shouted to the rest of the company, all of whom wore doubtful expressions. He splashed water at Istvan, who danced back from the spray as if it were hot coals.
“You first,” Vera said to Raphael in response to his raised eyebrow. Her expression brooked no argument.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In the Shadow of Burqan-qaldun
As the terrain became rockier, the caravan folded itself into a narrow formation and wound its way along a more circuitous route. To Gansukh, perched on the flat, sun-warmed crown of a rocky promontory, the elongated caravan looked like a serpent, fat and swollen with a recent meal. Sluggishly, it slithered around uprisings of crumbling rock. Beyond, a day’s ride back, lay the grasslands. They had found the edge of that endless sea and left it behind.
Now was the time for an ambush. There were numerous tactical advantages in this terrain: how the narrow track forced the caravan to spread itself out, making it more difficult for the patrols to guard it well; the rocks offered so many more hiding places from which to launch an assault; these same rocks provided cover for a retreat. Why had the Chinese attacked them in the lowlands? They had had inferior numbers, and the caravan had been stationary with a defensive perimeter established.
Gansukh shaded his eyes and peered at the tiny shapes darting around the bulky midsection of the serpentine caravan. The Torguud and their endless patrols, eternally vigilant and restless since the attack. Like an anthill after it had been probed with a stick.
His horse nickered softly. His mount had spotted another horse, one that it knew, and Gansukh caugh
t himself hoping the approaching rider was Lian. He knew it couldn’t be, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he squashed the momentary thrill of the idea.
The horse was black, and the rider wore black. His long beard trailed behind him.
“Master Chucai.” Gansukh scrambled to his knees, thought about standing, and then realized, in an awkward reversal, that he would be taller than the other man. Instead, he remained on his knees. A ridge of stone pressed against his left knee, and he wobbled slightly as he offered a perfunctory bow.
Chucai nodded in return as he dismounted from his horse. He effortlessly scaled the spur of rock and stood with his feet spread apart. “They can see us quite easily,” he said, taking in the view.
Gansukh brushed a dusting of fine grit from his leggings as he got to his feet. “You are an imposing figure,” he pointed out, “and you don’t blend in well. I would hope that they see us.”
Chucai regarded him with a sidelong glance. “And you? Prior to my arrival, would they not have mistaken you for a Chinese raider?”
“Even if they had, they are too far away.” Gansukh thought of the archery contest with Tarbagatai a few days ago. “There are good archers in the Torguud, but they would have to ride much closer before they could hope to hit me. They are shooting up; I would be shooting down. My range is better. By then, I would hope they could tell the difference between one of their own and a Chinese archer.”
Chucai nodded. “There is a great deal of optimism in your thinking.”
“More strategic than optimistic,” Gansukh corrected.
“Of course,” Chucai acknowledged. “This location also offers us some privacy.”
“Yes, it does,” said Gansukh, wondering why that was important and fearing the reason at the same time.
“I too engage in what might be considered strategic thinking, albeit it with less optimism. In my position, I am called upon to make important decisions regarding the Khagan’s safety and well-being. Normally, I make those decisions without any need for discourse with those who will carry out my decisions. I order; you, and others like you, obey. That is how the empire continues to function.”
“Of course, Master Chucai.” Gansukh inclined his head.
“But these are not normal times, are they?”
Despite his confusion at Chucai’s appearance and a bit of annoyance at the interruption of his reconnaissance, Gansukh allowed a wry smile to cross his lips. The Khan of Khans was going to the sacred homelands of the Mongol people, where he would hunt a mystical animal at the behest of his shamans, all so that he might reassert his control of the empire. Meanwhile, his general, Subutai, was preparing to expand the empire past the distant lands conquered by his father, the greatest leader the Mongol people had ever known. No, these were not normal times.
“In these times, is it possible that members of the empire might be thinking more of themselves?” Chucai asked. “It is possible that they might place their own desires and wants above the desires and wants of the Khagan-and, by extension, the empire?”
Gansukh cleared his throat, weighing whether Chucai actually sought a response to this question or if this was one of those instances in which it might be best to simply wait for a clear directive to which he could respond. His eyes darted toward Chucai, noting that the Khagan’s advisor was staring at him intently, one eyebrow partially raised.
“It… it is possible,” Gansukh said. And then, with more bravery, “But, for some individuals, they always think thusly.”
“Does the empire then overlook their lack of duty-shall we say-because they are useful to the empire? What happens when they are no longer useful?”
Gansukh shrugged, more casual than he felt. “They are discarded,” he said, opting to not shirk from the point he felt Chucai was trying to make.
“Discarded,” Chucai mused, stroking his beard. He seemed, to Gansukh, to be play acting, giving the moment more gravity than necessary, as if to frighten Gansukh. But why? Gansukh thought. Does he want me to confess to something? Have I not done all that he has asked in regards to the Khagan? His heart skipped a beat. Lian!
“Do you know why the Chinese attacked the Khagan’s caravan?” Chucai asked suddenly.
“The Chi-Chinese?” Gansukh stuttered.
“Yes, the Chinese raiders. Do you think they were trying to assassinate the Khagan or was there another goal? Thievery, perhaps?”
Gansukh swallowed heavily. He tried not to let his relief show. Chucai wasn’t asking about his relationship with Lian. “I don’t know, Master Chucai,” Gansukh said, his chest relaxing. “I spent most of the attack as a prisoner.”
“Yes, so I have heard. And during this imprisonment-most embarrassing, if I may say so-you didn’t hear them talk of their plans?”
Gansukh felt his face flush. “They spoke Chinese, Master Chucai.”
“Oh yes, of course. And Lian hasn’t…?”
“Taught me Chinese?” Gansukh shook his head. “You may certainly ask her, Master Chucai, but I believe she will tell you she was having enough trouble teaching me the proper way of speaking Mongolian.”
Chucai laughed. “Well spoken,” he said. “What of their tactics, then? What of the Torguud response?”
Gansukh sensed that Chucai had changed his mind about his line of questioning. He wasn’t sure what he had said-or not said-but Chucai appeared to be mollified on some topic. Or perhaps he is simply setting it aside for now, he thought, admonishing himself to listen carefully to Chucai’s questions. “I am not a member of the Torguud,” Gansukh said carefully. “It would be presumptuous of me to speculate on their martial response.”
“Oh, very tactful,” Chucai said. “Lian’s instruction, I suspect.”
Bristling, Gansukh held his tongue and bowed his head slightly in return.
“The reason I ask,” Chucai continued, “is that there may be a strategic advantage gained by soliciting your opinion in a certain matter rather than simply giving you an order,” Chucai continued.
“I can only hope to be of service, Master Chucai,” Gansukh offered.
Chucai raised an eyebrow in response to Gansukh’s obsequious response. “I am going to ask Munokhoi to relinquish his position as captain of the Khagan’s private guard,” he said.
Gansukh’s heart thudded loudly in his chest, and his cheeks and forehead were suddenly hot in the sun. His knees trembled, and the landscape wavered slightly as he tried to calm his racing thoughts. He had no idea what sort of expression was on his face, though he was certain Chucai could tell the statement had caught him off guard. Was this what he was referring to when he talked about men failing to follow the Khagan? he wondered. Had Chucai’s question had nothing to do with him after all?
In a moment of rare talkativeness, Chucai explained himself. “Munokhoi is unfit to lead the men out on the steppes”-he indicated the land spread out below them with a sweep of his arm-“or here in the mountains. Did he send you here to watch over the caravan? No. That was your decision. You saw the need to look over the terrain before the Khagan crossed it. Munokhoi thinks like a man who has spent his life behind walls.”
Gansukh scratched behind his right ear. “You need someone who has fought beyond the Khagan’s walls,” he said slowly, belaboring Chucai’s point.
Gansukh waited a moment for Chucai to continue, but he wasn’t terribly surprised when the Khagan’s advisor said nothing. This was a not uncommon gambit on Chucai’s part: to start a conversation, and then let it peter into silence. He had infinite patience: as a hunter, he could probably outwait even the most cautious deer; as a veteran of the Khagan’s courts, there was no one more skilled than he at making silence excruciating. The more he learned from Lian, the more Gansukh had understood the merits of Chucai’s techniques. People were more likely to believe something they felt like they had a hand in creating. Order a man, and he will dutifully comply; let him possess an idea as his own, will he not leap to implement it with great enthusiasm?
Gansukh coul
dn’t help but think of Ogedei’s decision to leave Karakorum for Burqan-qaldun. Had he not, in some small way, manipulated the Khagan into believing the idea was his?
“Master Chucai…” he began.
“Hmmm?” Chucai seemed to have forgotten he was there.
“This is an unusual circumstance that I find myself in,” Gansukh said. “As you say, typically you would simply inform me of your decision, and I would carry it out. Yet, you come to me now and appear to want my input on a certain matter.”
Chucai nodded absently, his attention still on the landscape below.
“Yet, I doubt that you haven’t thought through every consequence of every possible decision already. Do you expect me to have better insight on this matter than you? Or am I supposed to change your mind?”
“Change my mind?” Chucai raised an eyebrow. “What choice do you think I have made?”
Gansukh regarded the Khagan’s advisor warily, a response to Chucai’s question hanging in his throat. Why else would he have come all the way up here to tell me this? Does he want me to ask for the position? Gansukh rejected that idea almost as soon as it came into his head, but it wouldn’t go away. Me, a Torguud captain. There would be certain benefits, of course. And while there were many in the Khagan’s service who wouldn’t trust him, much like he had earned Tarbagatai’s admiration, he could win them over. All he had to do was demonstrate the depth of his allegiance to the Khagan-and wasn’t this entire hunting expedition the result of his efforts to show his devotion to the Khagan? The men would drift toward him. He had led men before; he could do it again.
But what of Munokhoi? Awkwardly, Gansukh felt a pang of empathy for the man. Cruel and self-serving as he was, he had served the Khagan well for many years, otherwise he never would have been promoted to his current position. It was unnerving to see how easily he could be pushed aside, and for someone who was such an outsider. What would stop Chucai from doing the same to me? Gansukh wondered.
The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3 Page 28