The Mongoliad Book Three

If he asked her. But he wasn’t going to. He didn’t need to. Munokhoi was his problem, a problem that wasn’t going to go away. And since he couldn’t just stick a knife in him and be done with it, he had to come up with some excuse.

 

Judging by the Torguud captain’s tension, it would not take much to provoke him, and if Munokhoi became openly hostile, then wasn’t lethal self-defense justified? What better way to provoke him than by injuring his pride? And here was a convenient way to do just that: by publicly backing the pale man against Munokhoi’s favorite.

 

“The scrawny one?”

 

The crowd fell silent at the voice, and everyone’s attention turned to the Khagan’s ger. ?gedei stood—swaying slightly, cup in hand—on the platform. “You favor the scrawny one?” he said, waving an arm at the pale warrior’s cage.

 

“I wager what he lacks in muscle he makes up for in skill, my Khan,” said Gansukh. “Even the superior force can be defeated through speed and tactics.” The last was unnecessary, but he saw the effect his words had on Munokhoi.

 

“I remember your fight with Namkhai,” the Khagan laughed. “I do not recall you being that swift, nor your tactics very effective, young pony.” He let his gaze wander about the assembled throng. “Namkhai,” he shouted, looking for his favorite wrestler. “Which do you prefer?”

 

Namkhai emerged from a clump of warriors not far from the platform. “I prefer to regard both men as equally dangerous,” he offered diplomatically.

 

?gedei waved his cup back and forth, and wine slopped out, staining both his and Master Chucai’s robes. “That is the sort of answer I expect from my spineless administrators. Not from my champion wrestler.”

 

Namkhai bowed his head briefly, acknowledging the Khagan’s insight into his reply. “If I were to fight one of them,” he said, “I would be more wary of the pale-haired one.”

 

The Khagan stroked his beard expansively. “Perhaps I will offer you that chance,” he mused as he raised his cup toward his lips. Namkhai tipped his head deferentially once more.

 

Munokhoi spat in the dirt, and several of the gamblers looked nervously between the Torguud captain and Gansukh.

 

Still drinking, ?gedei waved his hand at the guards surrounding the cages, indicating that he was done waiting for the fighting to begin. Cautiously, the cage doors were opened and the two contestants were offered crude wooden sticks approximating swords. The crowd yipped and yelled in frenzied bloodlust as the two men were directed at spear point toward one another.

 

“The winner,” the Khagan decided with a glance at the cup in his hand, “receives one cup of arkhi.” He languidly raised a hand, and when he let it fall, the spearmen withdrew their weapons, leaving the two men, sword-sticks in hand, to face off against one another in the ring of stones.

 

 

 

 

 

Haakon had never learned the other man’s name, or even where he hailed from. Now, he might not need to. While the crudely carved shape in his hand implied this fight was not intended to be deadly, his opponent’s expression suggested otherwise. The man stood still, solid as a boulder, both feet firmly planted, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his hairy chest. He held his stick directly in front of him instead of keeping it to his shoulder or some place where it could not be knocked aside.

 

Haakon figured him to be untrained in the finer arts of wielding a sword, but the man held his sword-stick firmly and resolutely, as if he had some knowledge of what a hilt felt like in his hand.

 

He will come quickly, when he does, Haakon thought as he slowly circled his opponent, prowling just out of easy reach. He will seek to capitalize on his strength. Haakon tried to calm his brain, but now that he was out of the cage, his brain was a whirling confusion of thoughts. Part of him focused on the fight, but other parts of his mind were reflecting on his situation. Was this not unlike the arena in Legnica? From violence to captivity to violence again, here he was, forced to be a fighting dog for the amusement of these barbarians. And when he ceased to be amusing? What then?

 

It’s what they want you to think. It is the fear that will make you fight. It is the fear that will make you do something stupid.

 

Impatient, the big man lunged at Haakon’s chest. The thrust was quick and dangerous, but it lacked any real strength. Haakon—anticipating this very attack—sidestepped easily, and whipped his own stick out to knock the big man’s weapon aside. The first defense every student learned, drilled into them until it was an instinctive reaction. When Haakon tried to snap his stick back for a quick blow to his opponent’s face, the man simply raised his arm and ducked his head. Haakon felt a momentary flare of anger at having made such a foolish mistake: these pieces of wood did not have sharp edges like real swords, and a blow on the upper arm and shoulder would sting, but it wouldn’t do any real damage.

 

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