The Mongoliad: Book Three tfs-3

by Neal Stephenson

  He must have fallen into an exhausted stupor-not quite sleep, but not quite consciousness either. When he came to his senses, wiping the crust of dirt and dried tears from his stiff eyelashes, he heard nothing. No pounding feet. No screams. No shouting, nor clashes of steel. Stiffly, he pried himself out of his corner sanctuary and gingerly crawled back toward the dim light of his entry hole. Distantly, he heard the raucous screams of angry crows, the sort of cries the black birds made when they were trying to intimidate each other. When they were trying to drive other birds away from a prize of putrescent carrion.

  Hans cringed at the thought of what lay outside, scooting back on his hands and rear until he was pressed into his safe corner again. It wasn’t Hunern outside any more, it was Legnica-the day after the Mongolian engineers had breached the city gates and the mounted warriors had streamed into the city.

  He wasn’t old enough to fight with the rest of the men in the defense of the city, but he was old enough to understand what the women were planning should the walls fall. He was old enough to know that he should hide, someplace where no one could find him. Not even his own family. Their children would not become slaves, the mothers of Legnica vowed, and when the Mongols came, the women took their children to the wall.

  He was not the only boy to survive the hammer and hilt, blade and knife, that took every boy and girl child of Legnica, the frantic solution laid upon each child by their parents to keep them safe from the ravenous pillaging of the Mongol Horde. They were all marked for having been cowards-a darkness each could easily read in the eyes of the others; bound by this shadow, they swore oaths to one another beneath the cracked branches of the old tree in Hunern. Never get caught. Never betray one another. Never give succor to the enemy. Think of the living.

  He had survived the fall of Legnica. Days after the Mongols had finished plundering the city, he had crept out of his hole, shivering and weak from hunger. The city stank of death, and the stone walls of those few buildings still standing were smeared and stained with blood. There were corpses everywhere, bloated and stinking with maggots and flies. The sky had been dark with crows and vultures.

  He forced himself away from the stone wall and crawled toward the hole in the arena’s foundation. It can’t be as bad. Hunern was silent, daring him to find out.

  The arena was empty, but some sense-that same animal cunning that had kept him sane and safe while hiding in Legnica-warned him to stay hidden. He crept slowly along the edge of the stands, eyes and ears alert.

  Wood creaked overhead, and he froze, pressing himself against the wood. Barely daring to breathe, he listened intently for the sound to be repeated, and after a few moments, he heard the weak groan of the timber as it was forced to support a heavy weight once more. Voices followed, guttural snatches of conversation, and Hans listened intently, trying to discern what the pair of Mongols was discussing.

  They hadn’t seen him: that much was clear. The men were both bored and on edge-guard duty, Hans guessed, watching the arena. But why was the unanswered question. Satisfied that he wasn’t in danger of being spotted, Hans crept toward the back of the arena, a dangerous curiosity tugging at him.

  Each of the arena’s numerous exits was typically sealed by a heavy wooden gate, but they were all an after-thought, and their timbers were the leftover scraps from the initial construction. There were gaps in the gate, and most of them didn’t quite marry with the well-worn path. There was a gap large enough to squeeze through beneath the gate nearest Hans’s hiding place, and he-gingerly, carefully-eased through the hole.

  Once through the gate, he lay flat on the ground, trusting that dirty dinginess of his clothing and hair would make him blend in with the rough and knotted wood of the gate. Raising his head not much more than the width of two fingers from the ground, he let his gaze roam around the open field outside the arena for any movement.

  There were a few huddled shapes. Corpses, he assumed, judging by the interest being shown by numerous crows. A few sported the familiar fletching of Mongol arrows, and after examining the position of these bodies in comparison with the others, Hans was able to discern a history of what had played out in the field.

  Most of the dead had probably died in the riot, cut down by Mongol swords or trampled in the madness that had followed Andreas’s valiant attempt on the Khan’s life. The remainder-the ones sporting arrows-were closer to the wall, grouped in a cluster, almost as if they died trying to reach a specific spot on the arena wall.

  Curiosity dared him to look, and he crawled belly down along the gate until he reached the wall. The gate was inset slightly, and with a final, nervous glance around, he pushed himself up to his hands and knees. Leaning forward, he peered around the corner, directing his attention up.

  At first he couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. A leg. An arm. The ragged edge of a maille shirt. And then a horrible realization hit him: a body had been nailed to the wall. It was in pieces, the limbs hacked from the torso, and little effort had been applied in putting the pieces back in their proper position. Hans leaned out farther, trying to spot some identifying mark, and he finally spied the head.

  “No,” he sobbed, sinking back against the wall, and as soon as the word had slipped free of his lips, he wanted to take it back. He wanted to grab the sound with his hands and shove it back into his mouth, as if by swallowing the word, he could reverse time and erase the image burned into his brain.

  Andreas.

  Overhead, the timbers creaked as the guards reacted to his tiny cry. They began jabbering at one another, and before they could investigate, Hans was on his feet. He sprinted away from the arena, his feet flying across the dusty ground. Behind him, the guards shouted, and he heard the whistling hiss of an arrow as it flew past him. Dodging the dead, he kept his head down and his eyes forward. His whole body-lungs aching, heart pounding-was solely focused on reaching the welcoming embrace of the nearest alley and the shadows that would hide him from the arcing arrows of the Mongols guards atop the arena walls.

  He didn’t look back. He had seen enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Gift of the Spirits

  In other circumstances, Chucai might have marveled at the scenery of the valley at the foot of Burqan-qaldun. He might have stood quietly in a reflective qi pose, and let his breathing become one with the gentle sighing sound of the northern wind. If he didn’t have the responsibility of managing the entirety of the Khagan’s vast empire, he might have lain down on the ample grasses and watched the white clouds chase one another across the vault of Blue Heaven. It was a hard man who was not moved by the beautiful simplicity of the site where Genghis Khan lay entombed, and the austerity of the Great Khan’s grave only furthered the myth that Genghis truly understood his place within the endless expanse of the known world.

  However, Genghis was dead, his empire was nearly double the size it had been during his life, and his third son-while perhaps the most capable of his children-was a drunk. Chucai did not have the luxury of admiring the unspoiled beauty of this sacred place. The empire, if it was to survive, needed leadership. It needed a strong Khagan.

  Chucai ran his hand through his long beard and let his gaze bore into Ogedei’s back. The Khagan had been kneeling at his father’s gravesite for an interminable time now. At first, the Khagan had been speaking in a low voice, offering a solemn prayer to his father’s spirit and the spirits of this valley; now, the Khagan was still-so still, in fact, that Chucai wondered if Ogedei had fallen asleep.

  Gansukh’s impetuous actions had touched a long-slumbering part of Ogedei’s spirit, and for all the administrative headache the trip to Burqan-qaldun had caused, Chucai had been pleased at the initial elevation of the Khagan’s attention to all matters concerning the empire. But the delays and the constant presence of the court-even as diminished as it was on this journey-had mired the Khagan again. The siren lure of the drink was too strong, and Ogedei loved it too much.

  Was the hunt for the bear going
to be enough to drive that thirst from Ogedei, once and for all?

  Voices from the direction of the Torguud escort roused Chucai from his ruminations. Piqued by the movement among the bodyguards’ horses, he turned his attention from the kneeling Khagan.

  Namkhai and the other Torguud had surrounded an interloper. The horseman was not Darkhat, though he was clearly Mongolian, and his attire was both well cared for and weather-beaten. His sun-darkened face was familiar to Chucai, though he could not quite place the man, and his unrestrained hair had been bleached of all its color by years of sunlight.

  “Who is this man?” he demanded as he rode over to the cluster of Torguud riders.

  “He claims to be an old friend of the Khagan’s,” Namkhai rumbled.

  “Here? Now?” Chucai scoffed. “The nearest outpost is how many days away?”

  “Two, Master Chucai,” the interloper called out. He raised his arm-slowly, so as to not startle the already tense Torguud-and pointed. “In that direction. It used to be an old Merkit village before Temujin and the clans took it over. Do you remember it, Master? Or was that before you came to the Great Khan’s household?”

  “The Merkit are no more,” Chucai said. “We are all Mongols now.”

  The gray-haired man smiled. “Some of us remember, though, because we were there.”

  “Who are you, old man?” Namkhai demanded.

  “His name is Alchiq.” Ogedei rode up beside Chucai, and though his face and beard were wet with tears, there was a smile on his face. “He was my father’s man. On one of my first hunts, he helped me carry the meat from my kill back to camp.” His smile became a broad grin. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Not dead, my Khan,” Alchiq replied, sparing a withering glance at Chucai as he placed a closed fist over his heart and bowed his head. “Just far away, in the West.”

  Ogedei appeared to not notice the glance as he waved his hands at the Torguud surrounding the gray-haired man. “He is an old companion,” he commanded. “Do not treat him as an enemy.”

  But he was, Chucai recalled, when you first became enamored of the spoils of the empire. He was one of those who stood at your side-exhorting you to drink, to enjoy the privileges of being the Khan of Khans.

  The dissolution had begun with the desire to build Karakorum. Shortly after vanquishing the Jin Dynasty-one of the last conquests left unfinished by his father-Ogedei had decided to build himself an imperial palace, much like those his armies had demolished throughout the Chinese provinces. Chucai could recall the arguments about the foundation of such a fixed camp, and one of the few regrets he had concerning his governance of Genghis’s legacy had been telling Ogedei that Genghis never would have built such a place.

  I am not my father, Ogedei had shouted at him, and there had been such finality in those few words, such outrage and such pain, that Chucai knew he had indelibly damaged his relationship with the son of the Great Khan.

  And now this man, this gaunt and weather-hardened Mongol, has returned, and in his gaze, Chucai saw an obdurate devotion that had refused to wither. When Alchiq had been exiled from the nascent palace of Karakorum, his only duty-his final duty to his Khagan-had been to go someplace far away, to wander past the edge of the empire and die. Like the decency a dog has when it realizes it is too old to hunt.

  While Chucai ruminated on Alchiq’s arrival, Ogedei pushed his way past his sluggish and reluctant Torguud, and warmly clasped Alchiq’s hands in his own. “You have returned at the right time,” the Khagan said, pulling the older man half out of his saddle in an effort to hug him. “You are an omen of good luck, sent by Blue Heaven to bless my hunt.”

  “No, my Khan-” Alchiq began. His mouth closed to a narrow line and his nostrils flared as he smelled the wine on the Khagan’s breath.

  “Yes!” Ogedei blustered on, ignoring Alchiq’s change of expression. “The hunt!” He turned in his saddle, seeking to make eye contact with Namkhai. “I am done here. I have paid my respects to my father, and the spirits of this place have responded. They have sent me an old friend. They approve of my quest. They approve of me.”

  “Of course, my Khan,” Namkhai replied smoothly. He turned in his saddle and, with a quick series of hand gestures, informed the bodyguard of the Khagan’s desire to ride back to the caravan. The riders fanned out into a teardrop formation.

  Namkhai is the right choice, Chucai thought, watching the other riders respond to the wrestling champion’s commands. I will inform Ogedei tonight that Namkhai is his new Torguud captain.

  “You will dine with me,” Ogedei said to Alchiq. “I will hear of everything that has happened to you in the last few years.”

  “There is one thing-” Alchiq started.

  “It can wait,” Ogedei said, and with a wild cry, he snapped his reins. His horse leaped to a gallop, and the Torguud followed, smoothly parting around Alchiq, Chucai, and the few Darkhat who had accompanied the Khagan to Genghis’s grave.

  Ghaltai, the Darkhat leader, hesitated for a moment, and then he and his men followed the Khagan and his bodyguard, leaving Chucai and Alchiq behind.

  Chucai stroked his beard and stared at Ogedei’s old companion, daring Alchiq to lock eyes with him again. The surprise had worn off, and his own mental guard was back up. Exiling Alchiq and the few others who had been a bad influence on the Khagan had been the right decision. They had all been drunks, and he had hoped the shame of the exile would have been enough to give them the requisite excuse to drink themselves to death, but such a supposition had clearly failed in Alchiq’s case.

  “He’s still drinking,” Alchiq frowned.

  “Yes, he is,” Chucai said. We both failed. He brushed that thought aside as readily-and with the same indifference-as if he was brushing dust from his sleeve. The past is dead; there is only the future of the empire to consider. “Do you recall the penalty for breaking your exile?”

  “I do.”

  “Then why have you returned?”

  “The Khagan is in danger. I–I had to warn him.”

  “You could have sent a messenger.”

  “Would you have believed a messenger?”

  Chucai offered Alchiq a withering smile as his answer.

  “That is why I came,” Alchiq said, a fervent finality in his voice. “My duty was clear.”

  And so are your eyes, Chucai noted, and the irony of Alchiq finding salvation in exile was not lost on him.

  The Darkhat had met the Khagan with a great deal of noisy ceremony when the caravan reached the Kherlen River, two arban of identically clad warriors on splendid horses thundering across the water. Only one of the Darkhat spoke, offering greetings to the Khagan; the rest had sat like imposing statues on their horses, staring into the distance as if they could see the enormity of the empire’s history laid out in the caravan’s wake.

  They were meant to be imposing, and Gansukh had noticed the effect their stoic intensity had on a number of the younger Torguud. When the Darkhat had arrived, they had galloped toward the Khagan’s ger without pause, as if they expected the Torguud to get out of their way. The Khagan’s Imperial Guard had moved aside for the oncoming riders, and-just like that-the Khagan’s men had already ceded the mental advantage to the newcomers. Without even realizing it, they had accepted a presumed subordination.

  After the Khagan departed for the grave of Genghis Khan with a retinue of his own men and half of the Darkhat riders, Gansukh had had an opportunity to watch the remaining Darkhat as they preceded the caravan to its final destination.

  The caravan was being taken to a valley on the southern slope of Burqan-qaldun. It was not-as he had inaccurately assumed-the location of the Sacred Grove that the shaman had spoke of back in Karakorum, but a long meadow that would provide sufficient open ground for the many ger as well as pasture for the horses and running water. The grove itself was closer to the mountain, through a vale of rock and-according to the vague nonanswer offered by one of the Darkhat when Gansukh had inquired-beyond a waterfall and a
field of singing rushes.

  All very mysterious, intentionally off-putting so as to maintain an air of secrecy and mysticism. Gansukh was a humble steppe warrior-sure to be mentally constricted by long-extant clan superstitions that would keep him docile and respectful. So that he wouldn’t question what his eyes were telling him; so that he wouldn’t allow his curiosity to ask too many questions.

  The Darkhat armor was worn-not from use, but from age. Their horses, while sure-footed and well-groomed, were no longer young stallions. Gansukh was fairly certain his pony could outlast any of the larger Darkhat horses in a long-distance race. While all of the Darkhat carried bows, nearly a quarter of them had quivers that were only half full. And the men themselves? None of them were his age, and, in a less formal setting, he probably would have referred to more than half of them as grandfather.

  He ruminated on these details during the remainder of the day, and as the caravan slowly trundled down a gentle slope toward the sunlit meadows of their camp, Gansukh was struck by an odd discrepancy. No one was waiting for them.

  It was not a significant social failure. The Khagan had not yet rejoined them, and such pomp was typically reserved for his eyes, but Gansukh found himself wondering why there had not been more riders waiting for them in the valley. Typically, when receiving visitors, an ordu chief would send out his best warriors as escort, and he would greet them himself when they arrived at their destination.

  There are no more Darkhat, he realized. The two arban that had met the Khagan at the river were all the Darkhat fighting men. The clan was dying out.

  He tried to dismiss this conclusion as the caravan came to a halt and began the lengthy process of settling into camp. Once he had removed his saddle and gear from his horse and performed the remedial tasks of brushing and feeding it, he joined the other men who were clearing the field for the ger. The busy work would keep his hands and mind occupied, so that he would not dwell overlong on the conclusion he had reached.