Andreas.
Overhead, the timbers creaked as the guards reacted to his tiny cry. They began jabbering at one another, and before they could investigate, Hans was on his feet. He sprinted away from the arena, his feet flying across the dusty ground. Behind him, the guards shouted, and he heard the whistling hiss of an arrow as it flew past him. Dodging the dead, he kept his head down and his eyes forward. His whole body—lungs aching, heart pounding—was solely focused on reaching the welcoming embrace of the nearest alley and the shadows that would hide him from the arcing arrows of the Mongols guards atop the arena walls.
He didn’t look back. He had seen enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Gift of the Spirits
In other circumstances, Chucai might have marveled at the scenery of the valley at the foot of Burqan-qaldun. He might have stood quietly in a reflective qi pose, and let his breathing become one with the gentle sighing sound of the northern wind. If he didn’t have the responsibility of managing the entirety of the Khagan’s vast empire, he might have lain down on the ample grasses and watched the white clouds chase one another across the vault of Blue Heaven. It was a hard man who was not moved by the beautiful simplicity of the site where Genghis Khan lay entombed, and the austerity of the Great Khan’s grave only furthered the myth that Genghis truly understood his place within the endless expanse of the known world.
However, Genghis was dead, his empire was nearly double the size it had been during his life, and his third son—while perhaps the most capable of his children—was a drunk. Chucai did not have the luxury of admiring the unspoiled beauty of this sacred place. The empire, if it was to survive, needed leadership. It needed a strong Khagan.
Chucai ran his hand through his long beard and let his gaze bore into ?gedei’s back. The Khagan had been kneeling at his father’s gravesite for an interminable time now. At first, the Khagan had been speaking in a low voice, offering a solemn prayer to his father’s spirit and the spirits of this valley; now, the Khagan was still—so still, in fact, that Chucai wondered if ?gedei had fallen asleep.
Gansukh’s impetuous actions had touched a long-slumbering part of ?gedei’s spirit, and for all the administrative headache the trip to Burqan-qaldun had caused, Chucai had been pleased at the initial elevation of the Khagan’s attention to all matters concerning the empire. But the delays and the constant presence of the court—even as diminished as it was on this journey—had mired the Khagan again. The siren lure of the drink was too strong, and ?gedei loved it too much.
Was the hunt for the bear going to be enough to drive that thirst from ?gedei, once and for all?
Voices from the direction of the Torguud escort roused Chucai from his ruminations. Piqued by the movement among the bodyguards’ horses, he turned his attention from the kneeling Khagan.
Namkhai and the other Torguud had surrounded an interloper. The horseman was not Darkhat, though he was clearly Mongolian, and his attire was both well cared for and weather-beaten. His sun-darkened face was familiar to Chucai, though he could not quite place the man, and his unrestrained hair had been bleached of all its color by years of sunlight.
“Who is this man?” he demanded as he rode over to the cluster of Torguud riders.
“He claims to be an old friend of the Khagan’s,” Namkhai rumbled.
“Here? Now?” Chucai scoffed. “The nearest outpost is how many days away?”
“Two, Master Chucai,” the interloper called out. He raised his arm—slowly, so as to not startle the already tense Torguud—and pointed. “In that direction. It used to be an old Merkit village before Temujin and the clans took it over. Do you remember it, Master? Or was that before you came to the Great Khan’s household?”
“The Merkit are no more,” Chucai said. “We are all Mongols now.”
The gray-haired man smiled. “Some of us remember, though, because we were there.”
“Who are you, old man?” Namkhai demanded.
“His name is Alchiq.” ?gedei rode up beside Chucai, and though his face and beard were wet with tears, there was a smile on his face. “He was my father’s man. On one of my first hunts, he helped me carry the meat from my kill back to camp.” His smile became a broad grin. “I thought you were dead.”
“Not dead, my Khan,” Alchiq replied, sparing a withering glance at Chucai as he placed a closed fist over his heart and bowed his head. “Just far away, in the West.”
?gedei appeared to not notice the glance as he waved his hands at the Torguud surrounding the gray-haired man. “He is an old companion,” he commanded. “Do not treat him as an enemy.”