The Mongoliad: Book Two (The Foreworld Saga) (45 page)

An enemy that was coming to meet them too.

The fires behind them scattered light across the armor of the approaching warriors. Chinese soldiers, Munokhoi noted, their armor ragged and mismatched. Only a few had plumes atop their pointed helmets.
Far from home and so desperate in their attempt on the
Khagan
’s life
, he thought as he pointed his sword.
None of their families will ever know where they died.
When he shouted the command to attack, his voice almost broke with laughter.

The Chinese were charging too, a lumbering line of spears and swords that seemed no more threatening than an annoyingly thorny hedge. Baring his teeth, Munokhoi ran ahead of his
arban
, exulting in the lust for battle. As he closed with the line of soldiers, he saw isolated faces more clearly: faces twisted with desperation, eyes wide with barely contained panic, mouths already flopping and panting, like tired hounds.

He swung his sword and felt it slide off a shoulder guard and bite deep into the flesh beneath. As the Chinese man stumbled, Munokhoi kicked him in the leg. He screamed with delight as the man fell to the dirt, and after he wrenched his sword free, he stomped on the flailing soldier until he felt bones break under his heel.

Another soldier came at him, and he raised his buckler to block the man’s wild swing. The impact jarred his arm, and he swept his buckler wide to brush his assailant’s sword away. But there was no need. His assailant was staring dumbly at the spurting stump of his own arm. One of Munokhoi’s men had severed the arm with a
massive stroke, leaving the Chinese man shocked and defenseless. His last moment was spent vainly trying to find his missing arm before Munokhoi’s sword sliced through his throat and ended the search.

Munokhoi caught his man’s eye and nodded in recognition. The Mongol grinned back, pleased to have both served and been acknowledged by his master; in the next second, his expression changed as a great thunder shattered the night air.

The Mongol was wrenched off his feet, his upper body snapping backward as if he had been struck by the fist of a vengeful spirit. He sprawled on the ground, dead, his chest a shattered mess of leather, bone, and steaming fragments of some black material. The air was heavy with an acrid smoke, something fouler than the smoke stench from the burning tents. It was a stink Munokhoi knew, but it took him a few seconds to place it.

Chinese black powder.

They would fill clay pots with the powder, as well as rocks and shards of metal. Coupled with a fuse, these pots were smoking bombs that exploded, hurling their contents into a mass of attackers with devastating effects. Many a Chinese citadel required more effort—and more men—than expected due to these Chinese firebombs.

It hadn’t been a pot that had killed his man but something else. Something that threw metal and black powder, almost like a catapult but not unlike a crossbow.

Munokhoi adjusted his grip on his sword, swallowing the tiny glob of fear in the back of his throat. He sucked air in through his nose, taking the metallic stink of the Chinese weapon deep into his chest.
Death can come quickly
, he thought. Better to die with his sword red with Chinese blood than to stand dumbly like a stupid cow.

He charged toward the fighting, swinging his sword heavily as if he were butchering an ox for a feast. A Chinese soldier parried him weakly, stepping back under the force of the blow, and Munokhoi
smashed his sword down again, breaking the man’s guard and feeling the heavy shock of impact. The soldier groaned and collapsed; Munokhoi tried to pull his sword free of the dying man, but the blade was caught in the bones of the man’s chest.

Nearby, a Mongol fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach. His Chinese attacker raised his sword to deliver a killing blow, his face alight with triumph, and Munokhoi quickly drew his dagger as he charged. He got his shoulder under the man’s sword arm, forcing the weapon away from the downed soldier, and he stabbed upward with his dagger, finding the soft spot beneath the chin. The man choked, spitting blood, and more blood gushed from the hole in his neck as Munokhoi pulled the dagger free.

The blood was hot on his arm and chin. Some of the blood splashed on his lips, and he touched it with his tongue, savoring the sweet taste.

The fear fell away. This was all that he needed. “For the
Khagan
!” he screamed, wrenching the sword from the dying Chinese soldier’s hands.

As if in answer, the thunder sounded again, and the strength of its breath threw both one of his Mongol warriors and his Chinese opponent to the ground.
Wildly inaccurate
, he thought, sniffing the air for its tangy scent,
but still quite dangerous
.

He wanted it. There was a sensation in his groin not unlike what he had felt when he had first put his hands on the tiered crossbow made by the Chinese or when he had first seen Chucai’s new whore. This was something he did not possess, that he was not the master of, and the thrill of conquest coursed through his body.

He would not be denied.

“For the
Khagan
!” he screamed again.
For my glory
, he thought.

* * *

The walls of Ögedei’s
ger
were draped in shiny panels of embroidered blue silk, masking the rough leather of the outer layer. An iron brazier, its top twisted into an intricate array of blooming flowers, sat on a thick Persian carpet. It was filled with glowing coals, and it heated the room evenly against the chill of the night air. Furs and pillows were scattered near the brazier, transforming the floor into a soft terrain that extended almost to the silk-draped walls. The intent was to create a space not unlike his rooms at Karakorum, a refuge from the less hospitable reality of traveling, but this luxury was nothing more than a prison to Ögedei, a blatant reminder that he was isolated from what was happening.

“Do you not hear the sounds of battle?” he growled at the two men who stood near the laced flap of the
ger
. “I should be out there—fighting! I should be leading my men into battle.” He raised his hands at the men, clawing at the air. “My hands should be covered in the blood of my enemies.”

The slimmer of the two men stroked his long black mustache. “It would be fine sport, my Khan,” he offered. “But—”

Ögedei snarled and stepped closer to the man, the muscles in his neck straining. Daring him to continue.

The guard fell silent, and his hand dropped to his side. His mustache drooped.

The other guard, broad in the chest and arm, cleared his throat nervously. “They have come to kill you, my Khan, and for that, they are fools. If you were to step outside of this tent, would you not be giving these fools what they seek?”

Ögedei stormed over to stand too close to the second guard. He loomed over the shorter man, breathing heavily on the crest of his helmet like an old bull challenging a young rival. Daring the man to look up at him, to give him an excuse...

The guard stared at his boots.

“Pah.” Ögedei spat on the carpet, and he rudely shoved the man with his shoulder as he returned his attention to the first guard. “What is your name?” he demanded.

“Chaagan, my Khan,” the first guard said, dropping to his knee and bowing his head. The second man, recovering from the
Khagan
’s shove, did the same. “And I am Alagh,” he said.

“Selected by Munokhoi for your obstinacy and allegiance to his command, no doubt,” Ögedei continued. He started to pace around the tent, the hem of his cloak stirring up a tiny cloud of dust in his wake. The coals in the brazier seemed to wink at the three men.

“Yes, my Khan,” Chaagan replied.

Ögedei caught himself clenching and unclenching his hand. He wanted the security of his giant cup—wanted the strength that the wine would give him—and his hands could not hide his desire for the drink.
I am weak.
He squeezed his fist tightly, as if he could crush that thought into dust.

Was this not the purpose of his journey? To cast off the shackles of the wine and regain his dignity and honor. To have his subjects look upon him with faces filled with devotion and respect. Not the way they refused to look at him now, embarrassed by his drunkenness. By his
weakness
.

He kicked at a pillow, and his foot met little resistance against feather stuffing. The action was so unrewarding that he kicked another one, harder. The results were similar, and instead of kicking a third cushion, he scooped it up and tore at it with his hands. The silken fabric resisted his efforts, taunting him with its soft resilience, and growling deep in his throat, he pulled his dagger free of its sheath and stabbed the pillow instead. Cutting and tearing, he released a cloud of goose feathers, an explosion of white snow that filled the tent with yet more reminders of how soft he had become. Whirling, he stabbed and slashed at the floating feathers, striking
at invisible enemies—laughing phantoms that darted and hid behind the screen of floating feathers.

Eventually—his arms aching, his chest heaving—he relented. Leaning over, one hand propped against his thigh, he glared at the insolent feather clinging to the shining blade of his dagger. All of his effort amounted to nothing: his blade was clean, and his enemies were still there, floating just out of reach.

Ögedei glanced at the two soldiers standing guard, examining their faces for any reaction. Chaagan and Alagh stared at the opposite wall, their expressions blank and stoic; judging by their unblinking fascination with the tent wall, they had seen nothing at all of what had transpired over the last few minutes.

“I am the
Khagan
,” Ögedei sighed, flicking the feather off the blade and sliding his dagger back into its sheath. He walked over and stood directly in front of Chaagan. “Would you die for me?” he asked.

“Yes, my Khan,” Chaagan answered.

“Would you fall on your sword right now if I asked you to?”

A muscle twitched in the guard’s jaw, and he hesitated briefly before barking out his answer. “Yes, my Khan.”

“Would it be a good death?” Ögedei asked.

Chaagan looked away and did not answer.

Ögedei stepped closer to the guard and put his hand on the man’s shoulder. He felt Chaagan twitch under his hand, and a flicker of fear twisted the guard’s lips. “I think,” Ögedei said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that if I were to run out of this tent and engage the enemy—an enemy that wants nothing more than for me to present myself in that fashion—that I would be doing something very similar to falling on my own sword.” His grip tightened on Chaagan’s shoulder. “Do you agree?”

Chaagan nodded. “Yes, my Khan.

“That would not be a very good death.”

“No, my Khan.”

“I should let men like you—and Alagh, as well—fight for me, because that is your duty. That is all that you want to do for me—to fight in my name, to fight for the glory of the Empire.”

Chaagan stood up slightly under Ögedei’s hand. “Yes, my Khan.”

“And yet, you are here with me now. Inside this damned tent, watching your
Khagan
fight with a...pillow. There is little glory in that, is there?” Ögedei chuckled at Chaagan’s bleak expression. He released his grip and patted the man’s shoulder—the way a father absently reassures a confused child. “Let us watch the fight outside this tent,” he said, nodding toward the straps that held the tent flap closed. “I want to witness my fierce warriors in combat. I want to behold the glory of their actions.”

The wine would always fill him with bravado, but without the brittle bluster it provided, all that was left was a squirming nakedness, a raw awareness of the prisoner he had become. He had been a warrior of the steppes once, but now he was the
Khagan
, and that title was nothing more than a golden chain crushing the life out of him. He could not participate in the glory of the Mongol Empire; he could only bear witness to it.

“W
HAT ARE YOU
doing up there?” the guard demanded, fumbling for his sword.

Ferenc hung halfway to the top of the old Roman wall, frozen with indecision, fingers of one hand clinging to the gap between two blocks of tufa, and the other scrabbling for purchase on a brick-and-mortar facing.

Left behind on the path below the wall, Ocyrhoe backed away from the guard, who was focusing his attention on the one most likely to escape—the youth clinging to the wall.

“Get down!” The guard raised his sword—with little effect, since Ferenc’s feet were at least two yards over his head.

Bits of grout and decaying brick sifted down from Ferenc’s fingers and broke away from his questing toes. Should he keep going? Was Ocyrhoe going to run?

Comically, the guard now began to jump, waving his blade in an attempt to close the distance. Ferenc arched his back and raised his feet. More grout broke free. Some of it sifted into the guard’s face, and he swore, backing off to rub his eyes.

Ferenc and Ocyrhoe hadn’t planned well, that was obvious—run ragged by their mission and the environment of fear that was sweeping Rome. If they were split up, where would they find one
another again? Ferenc found it strange that he and this tiny girl had become so inseparable, as if they had been running together, struggling to survive, since they were children.

His mother’s secret language had helped, of course. She had never openly taught it to him, as he was not one of
them
, the
szépasszony
who wove the kin-knots, but he had learned it regardless, absorbing the signs and gestures and codes by being attentive in her presence, and by remembering how she had touched and tickled him when he was a baby. The
tündér
magic all children know when they are born and then forget as they learn to be human.

The guard, frustrated by Ferenc’s inaccessibility, now turned his attention to Ocyrhoe. He extended his blade and lumbered toward her.

With a small yelp, she leaped onto the wall and scrabbled up along the brickwork, grabbing frantically at higher handholds in an effort to climb out of the guard’s reach.