His fingers toyed with the knife, moving it around in his hand. Moving it into a better position to throw.
A giant figure burst through the crowd next to the platform, shoving his way into the circle. He wasn’t as tall as Krasniy, the red-haired giant who was also a prisoner, but his shoulders were as wide. He jabbed a finger at Haakon, exhorting him to drop the knife.
Could he do it? Would the knife fly true?
Haakon pretended to not understand the muscular Mongol’s words. He recognized the man’s voice as the one he had heard earlier, responding to the Khagan’s questions. He shrugged, holding up his wooden sword as if the stick was the item being discussed. In his left hand, his fingers stopped fussing with the knife, settling on a good grip.
The Mongol kept coming—not hurriedly and not cautiously, but in long confident strides across the fighting ring. His path put him between Haakon and the platform.
Haakon backed up, maintaining a visible pantomime of confusion, though he let go of neither weapon. Each step took him farther from the Khagan, increasing the distance the knife was going to have to travel if he threw it.
Was he strong enough to make the sacrifice?
The Mongols would kill him. He might be able to keep the captain at bay for a little while with the wooden sword, but the crowd would turn into a frenzied mob. They would overwhelm him. Would they tear him to pieces immediately or would they torture him first? What if he missed the Khagan or didn’t deliver a mortal wound with the thrown knife. Would his punishment be any less severe?
The Kitayan sat up, blood dotting his nose and lips. His right arm hung awkwardly at his side, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of Haakon.
As the Kitayan was struggled to get to his feet, the tall Mongol reached down and easily picked up the Kitayan. The Kitayan shrieked as the Mongol hurled the smaller man.
Haakon was completely unprepared. No one had thrown a human body at him before, and he froze. He caught a quick glimpse of the whites of the Kitayan’s eyes and the man’s open mouth, and then one of the Kitayan’s elbows glanced off his cheek as they collapsed in a heap. The air was forced from his lungs as he was caught between the Kitayan and the ground. He struggled to push the stunned man off him.
A shape threw a shadow across him, and he looked up to see the ridged line of the captain’s knuckles zooming in at him, and then more shadows came, blotting out all the light.
“Can you believe that?” Tarbagatai shouted in Gansukh’s ear.
“I can,” Gansukh laughed, slapping the young archer on the shoulder. “I have had personal experience with Namkhai’s strength.”
The crowd was frenzied with excitement, and the tumult of their jubilation was so pronounced that speaking loudly enough for someone other than your immediate neighbor to hear was impossible. Gansukh couldn’t hear the conversation Munokhoi was having with the moneylender, but the ex–Torguud captain’s body language was easy to read.
Munokhoi shook his head sharply, his hands clenched into fists. The moneylender shrugged, unperturbed by Munokhoi’s ire, and when the ex–Torguud captain stepped even closer, threatening the smaller man with his angry presence, the moneylender waved at the nearby cluster of Torguud. Munokhoi backed off with a sneer as the Torguud drifted toward the cornered moneylender.
Gansukh wandered over, wearing as innocent an expression as he could muster. “Fifty cows,” he said loudly. “My family will really appreciate those cows, Munokhoi.”
“I owe you nothing, country boy,” Munokhoi snarled.
“Well, someone owes me some cows,” Gansukh said, ignoring Munokhoi and directing his attention toward the moneylender. “If Munokhoi isn’t going to pay what he owes, maybe I should be asking you for them instead.”
“Me?” The moneylender was incredulous.
“I clearly heard him make the wager, didn’t you?”
The moneylender waved his hands, clearly not wanting to be a part of the conversation.
“I wonder how the Kitayan came by that knife?” Gansukh made a show of puzzling over this question. “Isn’t it odd that Munokhoi was so eager to match my wager? Almost as if he—”
Growling like a cornered wolf, Munokhoi stormed up to Gansukh, grabbing Gansukh’s jacket with both hands. He put his face close to Gansukh’s. “You are not as clever as you think,” he raged.
“I do not doubt that,” Gansukh replied. He stood very still, his hands loosely at his sides. As long as Munokhoi had both hands on his jacket, Gansukh wasn’t too worried about what the other man might try. “Still,” he continued, “the issue isn’t who is more clever, but which of us has a better grasp on sums.”
Munokhoi bared his teeth, his eyes focusing on the tip of Gansukh’s nose. “I will kill you, country boy,” he whispered.