The Mongoliad Book Three

“We?” Munokhoi’s voice dripped with scorn and disbelief.

 

“We,” Gansukh said simply. “Following them would be a mistake. We do not know this terrain. We do not know if they even have a camp. Those who are still alive are scattered, running for their lives. What would we gain by chasing lost dogs in the dark? It is better for us to return to the Khan’s side.”

 

Namkhai nodded in agreement, but he made no move to do that. He only looked at Munokhoi with that same flat expression. Waiting.

 

Munokhoi had two options as Gansukh read the situation: agree with him and return to the Mongol camp, or insist on continuing the hunt. If they continued and found little trace of the Chinese raiders—which seemed likely—then Munokhoi risked losing face with the Khagan for making a foolish decision. If he returned to camp now, he only lost face with the current group of men by standing down from his challenge to Gansukh. It was an infuriating choice, Gansukh knew, but as he watched the Torguud captain weigh these choices, he realized Munokhoi was considering a third choice. Killing both him and Lian now before anyone could intervene.

 

Lian sensed the conflict in Munokhoi as well, and she took a step back and to the left, putting some distance between herself and Gansukh. Making two separate targets. Gansukh, surprising himself, took a step to his right, preparing to flank his enemy.

 

Munokhoi growled deep in his throat, and his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the saddle bags.

 

What secret did he have in there? Gansukh wondered.

 

“Captain,” Namkhai said, breaking the tension. “What are your orders?” What saved them was not the question, but the deference in Namkhai’s voice. The submissive request for direction from a superior.

 

“We head back to camp,” Munokhoi snapped. “Take them with us.” Without another word, he pushed his horse through the rank of men and the sound of its hooves trailed after it in the night.

 

Singly and in pairs, the other riders followed their captain until only Namkhai and two other riders remained.

 

“We’ll follow you,” Gansukh said. “Somewhat more slowly.”

 

Namkhai shook his head. “Ride with them,” he said, indicating the other horsemen. “We are to bring you back with us.” The expression on his face made it quite clear he was not interested in any more discussion.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

 

 

An Auspicious Outing

 

 

 

Andreas awoke to the sound of the initiates battering one another in the training yard. He lay quietly on his cot for a few minutes, listening to the rhythmic clacking noise of their training weapons. His back and shoulders were cold and stiff, a reminder of a bruising hit he’d taken during his last qualifying bout. He’d endured worse, he reminded himself as he rolled to his side. I am a knight initiate. As long as I can stand—even if only on one leg—I will carry on. A grim smile played itself across his lips as he climbed to his feet and stretched, the muscles in his back and legs complaining. Just as long as I can still hold a sword.

 

Shuffling slowly, he wandered from his alcove—a tiny cell once used by a lay brother as a quiet sanctum for prayer—through the ruined monastery, and to the heavy cloth masquerading as a door over the ragged threshold of the hall. Squinting, even though the outside light was diffused by the pale morning fog and the tall trees surrounding their chapter house, he pushed through the cloth and tottered outside. A barrel had been placed next to the door, and rain from the last few days had topped it off. He dipped his hands in, and splashing his face, drove away the last clinging vestiges of sleep. Warm, we sleep. Cold, we wake.

 

No longer bleary-eyed and befuddled by the dawn light, he straightened and looked for the source of the clacking noise—the young men, sparring with training blades.

 

Since the Shield-Brethren had made this place their temporary home, the overall deterioration of the buildings had been arrested, and the unkempt grounds had been transformed. The training yard, in particular, had been nothing but a swath of open ground covered with pale grass and a few fiercely determined shrubs. But after many hours of men trampling back and forth, the ground had been scoured of plant life and pounded flat.

 

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