The Mongoliad: Book Three

  A grim smile touched his lips as he finished. Munokhoi had pissed all over his gear. Such a feral response, one wolf marking the territory of another.

  He started to retie his sash, and then paused, his senses suddenly alert. He didn’t turn his head, but he tried to read as much of his peripheral surroundings as he could. He listened intently to the sounds of the forest: the rustling of the leaves as they were stroked by the gentle caress of the wind, the creaking and croaking of insects, the crunching sound of his horse’s jaws as it chewed on long grass that it had pulled up, and the distant chatter of birds.

  Close by, it was too quiet. An uneasy silence.

  His horse raised its head, ears flicking. Its nostrils widened as it smelled the breeze.

  Gansukh left his sash half tied and, slowly, put his hands on his bow.

  His horse wasn’t frightened by the scent, which meant whatever was out there in the woods wasn’t the bear—or a wolf or some other predator.

  He heard the arrow, a rustling that whispered through the trees. It hit its target with a meaty thwap, and his horse let out a dreadful scream. It reared, a long black-fletched arrow protruding from its neck. Blood spattered from the wound, and the beast stumbled as it found its range of movement limited by the reins tied to the sapling. It snorted, its eyes wide with fear and pain, and then it stumbled again, falling heavily against the nearby tree.

  Gansukh had instinctively dropped to a crouch as soon as he had heard the arrow, his back pressed against the thick trunk of the leaning oak. He unslung his bow and quickly reset the string, a series of motions his hands performed automatically, unconsciously.

  His horse collapsed, its body shuddering with pained breaths. Each one was shorter and more violent than the last. The grass around its head glistened with blood. It couldn’t lie its head down; the reins were still caught in the tree. The fletching on the arrow in its neck matched the arrow he had broken the day before.

  Gansukh’s eyes were drawn to the quiver of arrows nestled among his saddlebags. He had no idea where Munokhoi was. The other man would be moving to a better position, but he had no idea how long that would take. He couldn’t stay where he was for long.

  If he could just reach his arrows... Even one would be enough.

  He shifted his weight, readying himself, and his foot slipped. He glanced down, remembering why the roots of the tree would be wet, and noticed a fist-size rock close to his left boot. He pitched it downslope, hoping it would make a great deal of noise as it rolled through the brush. As soon as he hurled the rock, he made a mad dash for his fallen steed. He didn’t have time to release his quiver from the straps holding it in place; all he could do was grab a handful of arrows.

  He kept running, his eyes scanning for a suitable hiding place. An arrow sang past his head, and he changed his direction, forcing Munokhoi to adjust his aim. Gansukh spotted the ragged shape of a giant stump, nearly waist-high, and he dashed toward it, skidding across the ground as he tried to slow his headlong rush. An arrow smacked heavily into the moss-covered wood above his head as he scrambled to cover.

  The upper part of the stump had become hollow over time, and there were numerous gaps in the bark. Shifting back and forth between several of the larger holes, he spied on the upward slope. Such scouting was torturous, but he kept at it, hoping to catch some flicker of movement that would indicate Munokhoi’s position.

  A shaft of light was eclipsed, and Gansukh fumbled with one of his precious arrows. Holding its fletching with his right hand, he tried to lay the arrow across his bow but it didn’t seem to catch, and he tore his gaze away from his secret spy hole to see what was wrong.

  The arrow in his hand was too short, missing its head and a portion of the shaft. It had snapped off during his dash to safety. Cursing, he threw it aside and grabbed another one, visually checking this one before laying it across his bow.

  He peered through the bark hole again, moving his head from side to side to increase his field of view. Had he missed his chance? He ground his teeth in frustration and leaped to his feet, drawing his string back and loosing an arrow. He immediately fell back to his crouched position, peering through the gaps.

  He didn’t expect to hit Munokhoi, but his arrow drew a response. He heard a hollow thock as one of Munokhoi’s arrows sunk into the old bark. He prepped another arrow and stood up again. He tried not to focus on anything in particular, waiting a fraction of a second for something to move, some target to suggest itself. He sensed motion without actually seeing it, and loosed his second arrow.

  At this range, without having time to aim properly, it was next to impossible to hit his target. He could only hope to draw Munokhoi closer. He counted his remaining arrows—three—and decided he didn’t have enough to play this game with Munokhoi.

  A booming noise echoed through the forest, and something heavy crashed into the stump, knocking great holes in the wood. Bark pelted Gansukh, and like a startled deer, he sprinted away from his hiding place. He dashed through a clump of spiny bushes, branches clawing at his bow and clothing, and slid to a stop behind an aged spruce. His heart pounded in his chest, and the echo of the thunder still rang in his ears.

  Smoke came through the trees, a gray haze that drifted slowly downslope. The upper portion of his previous hiding place looked as if it had been clawed by a giant bear; ragged strips of bark poked up from the crown of the stump like crooked fingers.

  There was no bear. Gansukh had heard nothing prior to the sudden boom, nor had there been any subsequent sound of a large animal crashing through the underbrush. It could not have been a lightning strike either. The sky was clear of clouds, and no fire had been started. It had to have been Munokhoi, but what sort of sorcery was it?

  Gansukh remembered the night of the Chinese raid. When he had been chasing Lian, he had heard similar booming noises. Afterward, some of the Torguud had spoken of a Chinese weapon, a portable cannon that used fire to hurl shards of metal and pottery with incredible force.

  Looking at the wreckage of the stump, Gansukh imagined what such a weapon would do to him. His armor would offer no protection. But the handheld cannon had to be cumbersome to wield, otherwise Munokhoi would have used it when he had first attacked. He wouldn’t have waited until Gansukh had been hiding. In fact, Gansukh theorized, he had only used it because he hadn’t been able to get a clear shot with his bow. I would have done the same, he thought, risking another glance. If your target is obscured, make him move or make his hiding place no longer safe.

  Munokhoi had both bow and fire thrower, and Gansukh had only three arrows. He was at a disadvantage, but he thought he knew what Munokhoi was thinking.

  An arrow struck the trunk of the tree above Gansukh’s head, and he didn’t flinch. He glanced at it, noting its angle and orientation in the tree, and rose to his feet, mentally reversing its flight path as he drew his bow back and loosed an arrow. It disappeared into a thicket to the right of the last tendrils of drifting smoke, and as he ducked back behind the tree, he noted movement in the brush.

  He had to coax Munokhoi close enough that the ex–Torguud captain would try to use the Chinese weapon again. Gansukh suspected it would take Munokhoi some time to ready the weapon—his attention would be devoted to that task. That would be Gansukh’s opportunity to get a clear shot. He had to have time to aim his arrows. He had to see his target without being seen.

  Gansukh poked his head out once more, and another arrow hissed past. He darted in the other direction, up slope but still away from Munokhoi. He paused behind every large tree—varying the time spent in cover so that Munokhoi couldn’t anticipate when he would emerge again. He kept looking for a suitable hiding place, and finally spotted a fallen tree that had lodged between two other trees. The trio of trees made for excellent cover—he could stand upright and still be hidden from view—and the long trunk of the fallen tree provided him the means to crawl away from cover without being seen.

  He made it to the other side of the barrier with
out being hit by an arrow, and he caught his breath before he carefully poked his head out for a quick peek. He saw no sign of Munokhoi, and he shifted to the center of his cover. Grabbing onto the thick bark of the fallen tree, he hoisted himself up to risk another look. An arrow skipped off the bark, not far from his head. It vanished into the forest behind him as he dropped back down.

  Munokhoi was still coming. Gansukh didn’t have a lot of time with which to accomplish his ruse. He dropped to his belly and began worming his way along the ground. When he had gone several body lengths, he got to his knees and slowly rose to a half crouch, peering over the dead tree. He had chosen a spot where a leafy fern had spouted from the trunk, and he was confident he wouldn’t be seen.

  His ruse had worked. He could see Munokhoi clearly, kneeling behind a large bush. His bow lay on the ground beside him, and he was busy stuffing something into an iron tube held cradled in one arm.

  Gansukh nocked one of his two remaining arrows and, holding the bow sideways so that he wouldn’t reveal himself prematurely, he drew back the string. Rising slowly to a standing position—his thighs quivering at the glacial pace of his motion—he aimed carefully. Munokhoi sensed his presence right before he let go of the bowstring, and Gansukh had a brief glimpse of the ex–Torguud captain’s wild eyes before he ducked back down behind the log.

  Gansukh scrambled farther to his left, not worrying too much about being quiet, and finding another fern to obscure him, he risked another glance over the log.

  Munokhoi was gone, but he had left a leather satchel on the ground. Gansukh wasted a few seconds peering at where Munokhoi had been crouching, trying to ascertain any other sign that his arrow had struck its target, and movement in the nearby bush warned him in time. Munokhoi’s arrow shredded the leaves of the fern as he ducked. That one would have hit him if he hadn’t moved.

  He saw a gap between the tree trunk and the ground and realized he had gone as far as he readily could. The gap grew wider on his left, and Munokhoi would be able to track his movement.

  The Chinese weapon thundered again, and Gansukh flinched even though he was protected by the dead tree. Wood splintered and cracked nearby, and he looked upslope to see a spindly tree start to topple. Munokhoi’s cannon blast had destroyed the tree’s trunk, and the tree was falling right toward him. Its looming branches were like a hundred eager hands, reaching for him.

  Gansukh scrambled out of the tree’s path, and the trunk missed him—striking the heavy log and rebounding. It slid downhill, its branches clawing and tearing at his clothes. He tripped and struggled to free himself of the tree’s clutches. After being dragged a few paces, he managed to roll free of the branches, still clutching his bow.

  But he had lost his last arrow.

  His heart racing, he ran, weaving through the trees to spoil Munokhoi’s aim. Arrows whistled through the branches around him as he fled, and some of them smacked into trees, sounding like a flat hand swatting a horse’s rump. Run faster, young pony, run faster.

  As the arrows faltered, he began to pay closer attention to his surroundings: Where was the brush thickest? Could he find a hollow log to hide inside? Were the shadows beneath a copse of evergreens dark enough?

  None of these places mattered though if he didn’t have an arrow. All he needed was one clear shot, but there had to be some bait for Munokhoi. How to best the hunter at his game? Where could he hide that Munokhoi wouldn’t think to look for him?

  The forest had gotten thicker, the trees bristling with densely packed branches. He stopped beside a wide alder with a generous shroud of thick branches. The owl falls upon its prey from above, he thought, mentally charting a path up through the branches of the tree. The hare doesn’t see the owl until it is too late.

  He draped his bow around his neck so that it lay close to his chest. Branches poked at his face as he began to climb, and his heart leaped into his throat when one branch snapped as he put his weight on it. He looked down once, and his head started to swim as he saw how far off the ground he was, but he tamped his fear down and kept going. He paused once more, balancing on one foot, to hack at a relatively straight branch with his knife. Finally, he found a pair of thick branches that would work as a perch, and he steadied himself against the rough trunk.

  He held his arm out, measuring the length of the branch he had cut. Satisfied that it was both long and straight enough, he trimmed it down and then carefully set about stripping off the bark. There were a few tiny buds, and he cut them back, smoothing out the shaft with delicate strokes of his knife. Once all the knobs and burrs were gone, he whittled one end to as fine a point as possible, and then he cut a deep notch in the other end. The last step was to peel back the soft wood on either side of the notch so that he could create makeshift fletching from leaves stuffed under the flaps.

  It wouldn’t fly very far and, judging by the gentle curve he hadn’t been able to work out in the shaft, it would pull to the right. But it was an arrow nonetheless.

  Settling in to wait, he laid his rough arrow across his bow and kept his right fingers loosely curled around the leafy end. He kept his breathing shallow and measured, ignoring as best he could the cramps and aches that came from holding one position too long. The branch on which he was standing was narrower than his feet, and he couldn’t shift his footing too much without danger of slipping. He watched the landscape below, constantly scanning for some sign of his prey. I am a patient owl.

  The hare came.

  Down below, Munokhoi stole through the forest. He didn’t step on a single branch, and he eased through the brush more readily and silently than the wind. His bow was held ready, and Gansukh couldn’t tell if he was still carrying the Chinese fire thrower. Munokhoi’s head swung back and forth, his eyes taking in every brush and branch, but he never looked up.

  Gansukh drew his bow back slowly, cringing at the slightest creak of the wood. Munokhoi was going to pass on his right, and the best shot would be when the ex–Torguud captain was abreast of him, presenting his own right side to Gansukh. He could take the shot now, but the range was farther than he trusted his ready-made arrow. He had to wait. He held his breath and aimed, feeling the bow become an extension of his body.

  As Munokhoi passed Gansukh’s tree, he paused, his head swiveling back and forth. His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed something out of place in the wood.

  Gansukh released his pent-up breath, his fingers opening. His bow sang, and there was a flutter of leaves.

  Munokhoi took a step back, and looked down at the shaft of fresh wood protruding from his chest. Shock registered on his face for a moment before he toppled to the ground, disappearing from Gansukh’s view

  Gansukh let out a whoop of elation as he half clambered, half fell down the tree. The hunt wasn’t over yet, though. He had to be sure Munokhoi was dead. He doubted his arrow had been fatal. He had to get close and slit his throat. Leave nothing to chance.

  Munokhoi lay on his back, blood spattered across his jacket and the branches of a nearby bush. He stared up at the panoply of the forest, and his face was contorted in a grimace. Gansukh’s arrow was imbedded in the right side of his chest, sticking nearly straight up.

  Gansukh approached cautiously. While Munokhoi seemed dead, his right hand lay concealed beneath his leg. Such positioning could be a coincidence. It could also be a trap.

  Trying to keep as much distance as possible, Gansukh stooped over Munokhoi’s body to reach for the arrow. If Munokhoi was only feigning death, he would react when the arrow was pulled out. Gansukh clutched his knife tightly as he leaned over his fallen foe.

  Munokhoi let out a blood-curdling scream as Gansukh yanked the arrow out. The ex–Torguud captain sat upright, his hand—holding a dagger—shooting out from behind his leg. Even though he had expected such a surprise, Gansukh seized up in terror, as though he were facing not a mortal man but an evil spirit. Munokhoi’s dagger tangled in Gansukh’s half-tied sash, and he slapped his left hand down, trying to grab Munokhoi’
s wrist. He made contact, stopping the thrust, and as he started a tug-of-war his feet were swept out from under him as Munokhoi twisted on the ground.

  He landed on his back with a thud, his knife slipping out of his grip, and Munokhoi rolled atop him, pinning his right arm to the ground with a knee. Blood dripped from the wound in Munokhoi’s chest, dotting Gansukh’s jacket. Munokhoi spat in Gansukh’s face, his breath heavy with the stink of airag. “You are weak,” he growled. Gansukh still had a hold on Munokhoi’s wrist, and he held Munokhoi off, barely. The dagger inched closer to his throat.

  Gansukh bucked his hips, trying to throw Munokhoi off balance, and when that failed, he tried to kick his leg up high enough to hit Munokhoi in the back of the head, but the ex-captain was leaning too far forward, bearing down with all of his weight. Gansukh bucked again, but this time he tried to extricate his right hand from beneath Munokhoi’s knee. He managed to pull his arm free, without his own knife, but an empty hand was good enough. He dug his fingers into Munokhoi’s jacket, searching for the bloody arrow wound with his thumb.

  Munokhoi howled as Gansukh ground his thumb into the open wound. Gansukh bucked again, and Munokhoi’s weight lessened on his chest. Gansukh heaved, rolling onto his side, finally throwing Munokhoi off.

  He scrambled for his knife, found it, and then lunged after Munokhoi. As Gansukh charged, Munokhoi braced his hands against the ground and lashed out with a foot, but Gansukh twisted his body enough so that the foot struck him on the shoulder instead of the face. He grabbed at the leg, shoving it to one side so that he could more readily stab at the other man’s stomach with his knife.

  Munokhoi brought his other leg up, attempting to trap Gansukh between his thighs. He batted Gansukh’s outstretched hand aside, and as the pair collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs, he began to squeeze with his legs.