But they had doggedly kept moving, hauling their horses by the reins when the beasts balked at going any farther. He had taken part in the crusade in Egypt, and the disastrous march on Cairo had tested him vigorously; others in the company had been in similar campaigns, and they knew their wills were stronger than any temporary pain. They knew the only way to complete any journey was to focus on the ground in front of them. Place one foot, and then the next. Do not look at the unmoving horizon or the immobile sun. One step at a time. The Shield-Brethren can always take one more step.
The Gap was a narrow slit, as if God—or Tengri—had cut a notch in the shoulder of the mountain, and the wind shrieked with near physical violence as they dragged their terrified horses through the rocky defile. On the eastern side of the gap, the land dropped away rapidly. By nightfall, which came so quickly that Raphael wondered if God had snuffed out the sun as soon as it had passed beyond the notch of the gap, they were already below the snow line.
The route descended into an endless forest filled with tall and narrow trees, unlike any evergreen that Raphael had seen before. The needles were like the trees in the West, long and pointed, but the trees held their branches close to their trunks. In the West, the evergreens spread their branches wide, as if they were offering shelter to any weary traveler; the trees on the eastern slopes of the Tien Shan struck him as being wary of strangers.
He felt as if he was constantly being watched as the company made their way down into the long valley. This land knew they were invaders and regarded them with a great deal of suspicion.
He slept poorly that night.
Shortly before midday, the evergreens began to thin out, invaded by squat, broad-crowned leafy trees. R?dwulf recognized them as walnut trees, and he and Yasper dismounted from their horses to fill several bags with the hard-shelled nuts. Istvan enjoyed cracking the nuts with his bare hands.
Raphael suspected the walnuts signified the presence of water, and an hour later, the company discovered a crystalline tarn nestled in the basin of the valley. A rocky moraine at the southern end formed a natural dam, and the water was bluer than the pale, cloud-dappled sky.
And much colder.
Feronantus called a halt and announced they would overnight on the bank of the lake. They had been traveling hard for several weeks, and the strain of the journey was clearly etched on everyone’s face. The sun was warm on the rocks, there was little wind (especially in comparison to the howling gale of the gap), and there was food and water in ready supply. It was a good camp.
Yasper broached the lake first. With some effort, he pried his stiff clothing off. Venting a shrill battle cry, he dashed for the water. His voice became more agitated as his pale legs entered the lake, and his words turned blasphemous. But he kept going, and eventually his head disappeared beneath the surface. He reemerged almost immediately—shuddering, his lips blue and teeth chattering—but his mood was irrepressibly jubilant. “It’s warmer than it looks,” he shouted to the rest of the company, all of whom wore doubtful expressions. He splashed water at Istvan, who danced back from the spray as if it were hot coals.
“You first,” Vera said to Raphael in response to his raised eyebrow. Her expression brooked no argument.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In the Shadow of Burqan-qaldun
As the terrain became rockier, the caravan folded itself into a narrow formation and wound its way along a more circuitous route. To Gansukh, perched on the flat, sun-warmed crown of a rocky promontory, the elongated caravan looked like a serpent, fat and swollen with a recent meal. Sluggishly, it slithered around uprisings of crumbling rock. Beyond, a day’s ride back, lay the grasslands. They had found the edge of that endless sea and left it behind.
Now was the time for an ambush. There were numerous tactical advantages in this terrain: how the narrow track forced the caravan to spread itself out, making it more difficult for the patrols to guard it well; the rocks offered so many more hiding places from which to launch an assault; these same rocks provided cover for a retreat. Why had the Chinese attacked them in the lowlands? They had had inferior numbers, and the caravan had been stationary with a defensive perimeter established.
Gansukh shaded his eyes and peered at the tiny shapes darting around the bulky midsection of the serpentine caravan. The Torguud and their endless patrols, eternally vigilant and restless since the attack. Like an anthill after it had been probed with a stick.
His horse nickered softly. His mount had spotted another horse, one that it knew, and Gansukh caught himself hoping the approaching rider was Lian. He knew it couldn’t be, and as he glanced over his shoulder, he squashed the momentary thrill of the idea.
The horse was black, and the rider wore black. His long beard trailed behind him.
“Master Chucai.” Gansukh scrambled to his knees, thought about standing, and then realized, in an awkward reversal, that he would be taller than the other man. Instead, he remained on his knees. A ridge of stone pressed against his left knee, and he wobbled slightly as he offered a perfunctory bow.