Dark Wolves

by J A Deriu

  “I think I know where they took you,” she mused.

  “As do I. I worked it out later. It was not my last meeting. From here on they passed information to me by other methods. Always obscure. I won’t recount them all now. A meal served and the napkin a pamphlet with military drawings and information. A strategy book left on my hotel bed with passages highlighted. They were showing a picture of what we will be facing and how to best combat it. A lot of this we know – it is common knowledge, easily learned. Persian infantry is plentiful but useless. It is their cavalry that they value. Persians will wait for their reinforcements and mass their armies. They will seek battle on the field. However, from my interactions I also learned a great deal that we did not know. I know of the Persian formations, the commanders, the numbers. I know how they will fight, and I know how it can be influenced. Firstly, it must be understood that the Persians will have a significant numerical advantage, probably tenfold. I do not know your numbers. That is a guess. The reinforcements from the Bey of Tripoli will have arrived. The shah is sending his mechanized divisions to be deployed. They have beastly contraptions. The odds will not be good. The Abyssinians will not provide much. Their army is not professional, or well trained, or for that matter, numerous. Twenty thousand is the best estimate. Their methods and leadership are outdated. They will be a hindrance more than anything. That is why any advantage must be sought.”

  She leaned forward with a questioning look on her face.

  “The thing about the Persians is that they are more superstitious than anything.”

  She waited for him to elaborate.

  “Omens, symbols, sometimes nonsensical things are more important to them than actual battlefield conditions,” he said. “This is where the Brotherhood was leading me. This is what they were showing me.” He paused. “This will be a battle fought on a field. You must prepare for that. Better, if you had access to the enemy book of strategies so that you could read their moves as they happen, and even better if you had a mental advantage to demoralize them.”

  “How do we get those?” she asked and smiled. “I know that you would not be saying them if you didn’t have something.”

  “I will need to go back, and we will need to completely trust the Brotherhood. Firstly, the battle strategy. There are many of them that are claimed to be genuine. It is, of course, crucial to use one that is correct, or you can imagine the damage. They are rotated. The Brotherhood claim that they can provide one that would be current.”

  “This is high stakes. A lot of trust. And the second matter?”

  “This is a talisman. It could only be the one when you consider the theater we are going into.”

  “Yes, of course, no need to guess. This is even higher stakes. An area of myth. We risk damage to our cause if we make claims that are not serious.”

  “When you first briefed me for this mission, you never said anything would be easy.”

  “Ha, true.” She smiled and then straightened. “Do your report. Keep it brief. It is for me only. I will support your recommendations, I think. If you choose to go back, it will need to be shortly. The deployment of the expeditionary force is imminent. Coordination with the Volunteer forces is completed. It is only the landing places to be confirmed.”

  “I have some thoughts there.”

  “I am sure. Rest for now. Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

  Tobias had changed his uniform. He no longer wore the blue of the Janissaries. He had changed to the black that was worn for training. The V of the neck showed his sunburn. His sleeves were rolled up to show the Bear-Hound tattoo on his forearm. They had been exercising all day and then loading supplies. “I am comfortable with the translation,” he said.

  Clavdia nodded. “Then I am grateful for your aid. The matter of the assassin is resolved. This knowledge is not to be discussed.” They sat alone in her command tent. It was nearing midnight. The camp was sleeping. Only the noise of insects and call of sentries could be heard.

  “An assassin,” he said. “It is a serious matter, Lord Commander. Your intentions, I hope, will be severe.”

  “They will be, General, but this is not a discussion for now. I wish to advise you that we will embark for the mainland in one week.”

  “The Bear-Hounds will be ready, Lord Commander. In fact, we are ready now.”

  “I know. I am impressed. I intend to promote your force in the order of battle. Thus, you will be among the first to ship. We expect to land in an unopposed manner, but this cannot be guaranteed.”

  “I am delighted,” he said, nodding. “And the expectation for the battle, what is the thinking, Lord Commander?”

  “We will not have long. The Persians will maneuver to strike. But we cannot wait for them. After landing we will need to deploy immediately. We must choose the battlefield.” She hesitated, studying his lean face for a moment. “Of course, your input will be appreciated. You were a general in the most successful army in the world.”

  “I would be glad,” he said. “As tainted as my generalship is, I may have some insights that would be useful.”

  “Do not be bleak. You merely changed sides. You are still a general.”

  He smiled. “Lord Commander, I will help deliver your victory. I have no doubt. Then, when this is done, there will be something I will ask. I will not speak of it now, no matter how intrigued you are, as it is only right to ask when the chance to ask has been earned. But I do wish to state that there will be something that I will ask when the moment dictates.”

  “I am intrigued. But you will not say, so I will not ask. Instead I will wait for this moment, as I am sure it will come.” She leaned back to a more casual position. “I wanted to ask you about another matter. We are intensifying the training. What has not escaped my attention is the proficiency of the Janissaries, including yourself – well, especially yourself – in the wrestling and jousting exercises. I am curious as to where this comes from. The Templars are getting frustrated. They can’t seem to win many bouts.”

  “It is from dancing.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, we dance, from a young age. It is one of the arts we are drilled in when first taken from our villages. Fortunately, as a boy I was not skilled at it. For those that are disappear into the world of the ruling class for a purpose we speculate and laugh about. It would be why a Janissary is more skilled on his feet than a Templar or any of the others you throw at us.”

  “What dancing?”

  “There are many. We danced like highlanders, Cossacks, Sufi mystics, gypsies. Do you dance? Have you ever danced?”

  “No. Dancing was not part of the Templar training, nor was it allowed for merriment.”

  “Ha, what a pity. It could be of such benefit. Do you want me to show you?”

  He stood and gestured for her to stand. She stood slowly. “I think it would be too late to change Templar ways.”

  “Maybe for the wrestling, but not for the merriment.”

  “I have never danced.”

  “Then you have missed something.”

  “How? I think it a strange thing.”

  “Ah, there is music here.” He moved across to a record player that had been used for the assassin ruse. He picked up the pile of records that Pedro had organized. “I don’t know these ones – I know this one.” He turned on the machine and played a record. The noise assaulted the quiet of the night. She grimaced. He lowered the volume. The music was fast, a jumble of trumpets, clashing cymbals, and rapid piano keys. “This is a favorite of the nightcrawlers.” He started moving, firstly his arms. She watched with a smile. Then he moved his legs in league with the music. His movements were like a fast-paced kata. He spun completely. She softened her stance. He clapped his hands. “Ha.” He spun again, faster and with agility. He clicked his fingers and slapped his sides, moving across the floor. She laughed. The concentration on his face was broke
n by a confident smile.

  He reached out a hand. She was uncertain what to do. She reached for him, and he clasped her hand and swung her to move. He motioned with his free hand for her to move her legs. Their fingers intertwined. She copied what he did as if they were exercising. She pitched toward him, and their bodies touched along their thighs. She felt a momentary exhilaration through all of her body. She eagerly swayed with him again, and their faces were a breath away.

  She stopped abruptly. Standing in the opening of the tent was Captain Miles. Tobias Deen had seen him, too, and stopped the music with a wild shriek as the player needle was pulled across the record. The three of them stood awkwardly. “The general was showing me how his men practice for wrestling,” she said, flustered. Miles stood without response. “You have a report, Captain?”

  “Yes, Lord Commander, apologies for the late hour,” Miles said.

  “I will depart, Lord Commander,” Deen said.

  Her heartbeat was strong, as if she had been exercising. She waited for the tent flap to fall closed after Deen had left. She sat on the carpet.

  “It is late, Lord Commander, but I must bring you this news.”

  Her embarrassment must have been obvious because he kept his chin pointed upward and looked past her. She stood and drank some water from her canteen before sitting again. “What is it, Captain?”

  “News has come from the mainland. It was picked up by radio operations. A Holy War has been declared by the Persian clergy. This will multiply the enemy force. They will come from all corners of the Persian empire and elsewhere seeking absolution.” He hesitated and settled his eyes on her. “The Persian force will be enormous.”

  She took long breaths to focus. “We should not be surprised. A Holy War is not something we are afraid of.”

  “It is not that, Lord Commander. We are ready to meet a customary Persian force. Instead we will face a supercharged one. Yes, our force grows rapidly, but this is only bringing intrigue, politics, problems, lack of discipline, arguments.”

  “That is human nature, Captain. We will have to turn everything to our advantage. We are used to adversity – in fact, lost without it.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was dark. She was invisible. She watched the Mongol. His eyes were facing her, but he saw nothing of her. He was drunk. They had been drinking all day. This was not necessarily a good thing, as some of the Mongols were more alert, the drunker they were. The Mongol sentry strained his eyes harder for a moment as if he thought that he should be seeing something that he was not. The heavily armed guard then clanked to his next station. She moved without sound past the giant stone turtle that also guarded the entrance. She was in the fabled Mongol city of the khan, Karakorum, or its latest iteration. The rows of permanent yurts were in front of her. Her eyes were able to see in the darkness and scanned for the next point she needed, the palace of the khan.

  The Mongols were not sleeping. Fires burned in braziers. The flaps to yurts were open with the sounds of fiddle playing coming out. She moved in the shadows. Zoe’s body was able to do what others could not. The training of an assassin allowed her to press through a space that did not seem possible. She moved within patting distance of a resting dog, and it did not stir. The clothes she wore clung to her body and gave no smell or reflection. Her head was not covered. She would not be exposed, and she liked to be able to move freely. The only thing of weight that she carried was her dagger. It was strapped tightly to her thigh. Her fingers moved over it, as was her habit.

  She ducked under hanging clothes and saw through a gap the oversized yurt of the khan. His men sat outside playing their bone game. She observed for a clue that the Russian prince was in there. It was the size of a hotel, but there would be a clue. A stretch of grassland led to the palace, with goats in between, and before that wooden racks with dried meat hanging.

  The prayers to her Skygod had been answered and guided her to the location of the prince. She would not need to travel into the Qing Kingdom. It was in a borderland tavern that her barbarian, Batz, had encountered the gossip that the Mongols had done her job for her. She had questioned the gossips herself, but soon there was no need. The Mongols were broadcasting the story, and the news was confirmed by an official statement from Khan Krum himself, although he did not state why he was entertaining the Russian prince. There were only rumors for this. It was a complicated journey to the Mongol capital. There was no working train line. Instead, it was a frantic cross-country horse ride, only halting to rest the stallion. She had left her barbarians behind. Traveling alone was always her preference – alone, except for her Skygod that kept her company day and night. It was a three-day ride. She camped, rested, and scouted thereafter. She had eaten a dinner at a highway tavern and purchased a map of the city. It was not necessary. The abode of the khan was obvious, but there was no information on the layout. She would need to find her way by instinct.

  She waited for clouds to obscure the moon and crossed the grass to the palace. She took long, silent strides, low to the ground, and touched her hands to the earth. There was a good place to hide in the hollow of an old firepit. She could watch the entrance of the palace and the disinterested guards playing their game of rolling bones.

  There were many going in and leaving. The guards checked none of them. There was something in progress. Serving women were carrying in covered trays. The guards were so lax that she could have walked in with a confident smile, but she wanted a more professional way. Across a clearing she could see where the servers had set up a tent. She, for a moment, considered the idea of disguising as a server. It was not her style. She looked back at the palace and studied it harder. It was a tiered structure made to look like a series of joined yurts, with each yurt increasing in size toward the khan’s giant residence at the center. She spotted on the second tier a half-open skylight. This was more her style. She rolled out of her hiding spot, landed on her feet like an acrobat, and ran across the remaining space to the palace without any noise.

  She leaped for the wall, gripped a wooden frame post and hoicked herself to the first level and then glided along the roof without any weight and lifted herself to the second level. She hovered over the skylight, smelled the wood smoke, and listened to the laughter and shouts. She did not need to look to know that no one was below. She dropped to the floor. It was a room for sleeping. The floor was covered with thick animal furs. She listened at the door for the direction of the noise, went into the hallway, and slid into a dark corner.

  The great rotunda hall was at the center of the palace. Zoe snuck onto a high balcony that overlooked the festivities below. Only children played on the other side of the circle. The noise from below carried to her brilliantly, as if she were part of the khan’s entourage. She considered the tumult without concern, knowing that it would enhance her ability to complete her mission. The khan sat in the middle of the room on a low throne, his legs relaxed in front of him, and he wore his unstrapped riding boots. He clapped his hands as a horsehead fiddle player strutted in front.

  Khan Krum was stout with the body of a wrestler. He picked up his mug of beer, and it splashed as he waved his arms to the fast tune. The drops landed on those sitting next to him on mats. There was the Russian prince, who guzzled from his own mug of beer. It was certainly him. Zoe had memorized his picture. He was a pale-skinned and dark-haired boy. He was intoxicated, swaying, not by choice, and holding his mug as though it were a life buoy. Two adult Russians sat next to him. They looked uncomfortable, with impatient looks on their faces, that faced away from each other. The woman had her arms crossed. The rest of the room was filled with Mongols of all types. There were the hard, weather-beaten faces of the khan’s men, mirroring the moves of their leader. The khan’s elaborately gowned wives dutifully moved to the fiddle. There were elders, well-dressed chiefs, and those wearing the local costumes from every corner of the land. Zoe relaxed and settled into her position. It was
going to be a long night. There was something consequential underway.

  Food was eaten with fingers. As much beer was spilled as drunk, and songs were sung with gusto. Yet the prince was glum, and the Russians showed bitter enjoyment. The khan startled them all by abruptly standing and raising his arms. In moments, the last note of the instruments twanged. He cleared his throat, spat a fat grot that splashed across the stage, and lowered his arms. He stuck out his chest and waited for complete silence. He spoke in a voice that resonated across the room. He spoke in Mongolian, a language that she understood. “Tonight, my friends, this celebration is not a typical one, such as we are familiar with to pass the hours of the night.” He paused for emphasis. “On this night you are witnessing the rebirth of the Mongol Empire.” There was mumbling from the audience and a lick of laughter. “I do not jest. Yes, although that is my habit. And it is not drunkenness talking.” The Mongols stiffened, suddenly serious. It was their khan talking, and every word had to be listened to. “The path has been set. There are many events to happen. But what makes this night, these hours, so grand is that we have set an unchangeable course of action that will lead to the greatness of our empire resurrected from the depths of history to once again bring awe and fear to every corner of the world under the everlasting blue sky.” There were some muted cheers. “Yes, you have heard me right. The Mongol Empire lives,” he said with force.

  The Mongols realized the gravity of the announcement and started a yell of approval, a war cry from deep in their throats, a long note that echoed throughout the hall. The khan waited for it to finish. He moved his hands to show the Russian prince, who sat confused, not understanding a word, and continued to drink from his mug of beer. “The Latin, the Russian prince, will topple the Ottoman Empire in the west, and we will take the rest. Tonight, we have made our pact.” The Russian couple clapped. The prince drank. The couple spoke to the prince. He was indifferent and only interested in his beer, which he clearly enjoyed the taste of. “The omens are more than favorable,” the khan continued. “The Ottomans have seen their peak. The prince humiliated the Janissaries in the kingdom of the Qing. He is a conqueror worthy of the secret history of the Mongols.”