Mark Teppo - The Mongoliad - Book Two

Soon enough, he caught up with the Imperial Guard. Several had bows, and their arrows had brought down one of the two skulkers. The surviving one stood near the body of his companion, an arrow jutting out of his leg. He held the approaching Mongols at bay with his long spear, and as Chucai approached, he realized the man was holding the Khagan ’s spirit banner. The horsehair tassels were matted with blood and dirt, and the point of the shaft was more ornamental than deadly. What stopped the Mongols from attacking the man was a reluctance to damage the spirit banner.

Chucai hurled the spear he had taken from the Chinese man, and it struck the last Chinese man in the hip with such force that he was knocked off his feet. He landed with a thump, and when he struggled to sit up, he was immediately hit by a handful of arrows.

Chucai barked at the guards and they paused, uncertain as to the cause of his anger. Chucai approached the two Chinese men, and a quick glance verified they were both dead. “Look for others,” he snapped at the guards, shaking his head. “Try to capture one alive.”

Dead men were useless to him.

Chucai picked up the spirit banner and ran his fingers through its tassels, trying to untangle them. What did they want with it? he wondered. Why sacrifice themselves for a piece of wood covered with old horsehair?

He had never held the banner, much less examined it closely. It was just an old stick that Genghis had started tying horsehair to. We are horse people , he had explained to Chucai, and wherever we are, the wind will be with us too. Over time, the Khagan had added more strands to it, and Chucai had always marveled at how this simple thing had become symbolic of the prosperity of the Empire.

When he ran his hands over the banner, he noticed the texture of the wood. It felt both rough and resilient, as if it were an intricately carved piece of freshly harvested wood. He raised the staff, trying to get a better glimpse of its surface in the flickering light from the fires. His thumb encountered a rough spot, and he peered more closely at the bump.

It was a tiny scar, scabbed over with dried resin, not unlike the sort of growth that forms after a sprig has been cut from a living branch.

In a narrow depression to the east of the Khagan ’s great caravan, Lian and her captor reunited with Gansukh and a few other battered Chinese soldiers. Her Chinese captor left her for a moment as he huddled together with the other soldiers, their voices low and clipped. Gansukh lay nearby, on his side, his hands bound tightly behind his back. His face was a mass of shadows and bruises, and to not look at him, Lian turned toward the Khagan ’s camp. All that she could see of the great caravan were the lights of the torches and still-burning fires. The sparse grasses of the gentle slope were limned in orange-and-yellow light, like the edge of an enormous and empty stage.

“What is your name?”

Lian turned her head. The Chinese man who had held her hair was done conferring with the others, and they stood nearby, awaiting further instruction. “Lian,” she said. She inclined her head and raised an eyebrow, an imperious look that had worked well on many a sweaty and nervous official. And you are…?

“Luo Xi,” he replied. His lips pulled into a thin smile, fleeting amusement at her airs. Under the dirt and soot, he appeared to have a strong face-handsome, even, in a Southern way that Lian hadn’t seen in years, with strong cheekbones, piercing eyes, and a complexion unmarred by constant exposure to the sun and wind-the opposite of anyone from the steppes. He took off his helmet, revealing a head of thick black hair, and tucked the cap under his arm. He was trying to appear relaxed, but the way his shoulders remained stiff and hunched forward, and the restlessness of his eyes, betrayed his uncertainty.

What was he waiting for?

“I’m from Qingyuan, originally,” said Lian, sensing an opportunity to distract him. “When the Mongols came, they burned the city and took every woman and child as a slave. Many of them”-she swayed slightly, feigning dismay with little effort-“mercifully died soon thereafter. Others…lingered. I was…fortunate. I had useful skills.” She paused, knowing his eyes were on her body. “I had to teach them about Song culture.”

Luo tore his eyes away from Lian’s body and looked over at Gansukh. The captive Mongol had managed to sit up, and he looked like a hungry wolf that had been caught in a snare. Resentful, tense, and ready for any chance he got. “Did they learn?” Luo snorted.

“I would have made better progress teaching pigs.” She laughed derisively and hoped it didn’t sound forced.

“Pigs are already more civilized than these mongrels.”

Lian turned to the Chinese commander and bowed from the waist. “You have my endless gratitude for rescuing me.”

Luo acknowledged the bow with a nod and a slight, formal smile. “A lady in distress is always worth saving.”

“You are far from home, even for the sake of rescuing a lady. Or am I simply an added surprise to your glorious efforts at striking the Khagan down?”

Luo stroked his chin in an effort to hide a secret smile that wanted to spread across his face. “What is the point of killing a single Khan?” he asked. “Will these mongrels not elect another one?”

“Ah, I see you are a clever man, Commander Luo. Your actions are much too sublime and hidden for a simple girl such as myself.”

“And you are much too silver-tongued to be mistaken as such a simpleton, my lady,” Luo replied.

Lian laughed. An unexpected thrill ran through her body, making her shiver. She was very much in danger, as were these Chinese men, and yet the two of them tarried long enough to engage in trivial wordplay. Gansukh would never dream of participating in such an exchange, and it had been so long since she had been around a civilized man that she had forgotten how pleasant such company was. There was a nobility in Luo’s bearing that was unmistakably refreshing.

Luo turned away. He may have sensed the change in their conversation, and unlike Lian, he was not so starved for such talk-or perhaps the reality of their situation pressed more firmly on him than on her. “This filthy mutt,” he said, waving a hand at Gansukh, “he is a special advisor to the Khagan ?”

“Indeed,” Lian replied, showing no sign of disappointment, though she felt a tiny panic in her chest. “The Khagan values him highly.”

“Why?”

“He reminds the Khagan of what he once was.”

“And what is that?”

“A man of the steppe.”

Luo laughed. “And why would the Khagan want to be reminded of that?”

Lian shrugged. “I do not know. They value all manner of strange things.”

Luo nodded, his attention turning toward the camp. “Yes,” he said, “they certainly do.” His face grew troubled, and he strode past Lian to get a better view of the camp. He turned back after a moment, and the softness in his face was gone, replaced by a hard certainty, a look Lian knew all too well.

“They have been gone too long,” he snapped at the other Chinese men. “I do not like this.” He gestured at Gansukh. “If she speaks true, then he may be of use to us. Otherwise”-he glanced at Lian-“we are all dead and our efforts have been for naught.” And the look in his eye told Lian that he would not die alone.

Gansukh saw the apprehension in Luo’s eye too, and a low chuckle rumbled out of his throat. One of the other Chinese soldiers smacked Gansukh with the butt of his spear, and the Mongol warrior fell forward, his face driving into the dirt. He rolled over onto his side, and his teeth were bared, a grimace of both pain and joy.