He heard the creak of a bowstring being drawn back, and Tarbagatai grunted.
“One of you,” Gansukh called to the onlookers as he raised his own bow, “Give us a word and we shall start.” He peered along the straight shaft of his arrow at the first target. His right arm quivered for a moment before his muscles relaxed into a well-remembered position, and his breathing slowed. His belly tensed, and his vision shifted. The target—pale thatching stuffed into the ragged end of a log—sprang into greater focus, while everything else softened and dropped away.
“Hai!”
Gansukh loosed his first arrow before the man had finished shouting. He had heard the sudden influx of breath from behind him, and had known the cry was coming. His arrow flew true, burying itself deep in the thatch of the first target, though he did not hear the sound of its impact. Tarbagatai released his first arrow in concert with a horrific battle cry, as if his shout would give the arrow more loft in its flight. The sound was startling, more so for being projected right into Gansukh’s ear, and he hesitated for a split second, caught off guard by the racket. Ruefully, he snatched up his second arrow, nocked it, drew back the bow string, and let it fly.
His second arrow struck a target that already contained one of Tarbagatai’s arrows. His shaft was closer to the center, but the mistake was already made. As he reached for his third arrow, he silently commended Tarbagatai on his clever ruse.
There was no time for further recriminations. The mountain man was quick, and Gansukh lost himself in the rhythm of archery: nock, pull, release. As soon as an arrow was clear of his bow, he would focus on the next target. He tried not to wonder if he was shooting at the same target as Tarbagatai; to worry would be to hesitate, and to hesitate would be to lose.
As he released his last arrow, he heard an echoing twang from over his shoulder, and he released the breath he was not aware he had been holding.
The archers and their audience stared out at the field of targets, watching as the two arrows buried themselves in the thick thatch of the farthest target. The rustling impact of the arrows in the dried stalks was like the fluttering noise of a bird’s wings—two beats so close together that they could be easily mistaken for one sound.
“Every dog is dead,” Tarbagatai announced, clapping Gansukh on the shoulder. “You shot well.”
“Indeed,” Gansukh replied, “As did you.” He looked around and saw no arrows in the ground, and then let his gaze roam across the targets once more. This time he checked every target more closely. “We seem to have shot all our arrows, Brother,” he pointed out.
“Yes, and we did not mark them ahead of time,” Tarbagatai laughed. “Do you remember which ones were yours?”
Gansukh pointed at the nearby target that sported two arrows. “That one was already dead when my arrow hit it,” he said.
Tarbagatai grinned. “But what of the last?”
Gansukh shaded his eyes with his hand and made a show of peering at the farthest target. “It is very far away,” he said, “And I have developed a thirst. Perhaps we can check later.”
Merriment danced in Tarbagatai’s eyes as his grin stretched even wider. He raised his bow and let out a loud whoop of joy. “Yes,” he chortled. “Let us have a drink in celebration.”
As the other men noisily agreed with the resolution of the match and eagerly dispersed to gather skins of arkhi, Tarbagatai put his hands on Gansukh’s shoulders. “I would follow you into battle, brother Gansukh,” he said, and the intensity of his gaze matched the fervor of his words.
Gansukh returned the embrace, and found himself considering a strange idea. Could he lead men like Tarbagatai? To have the Imperial Guard at his command? The idea presented itself with no preamble, and he was surprised to find himself considering it.
And then he remembered the siege of Kozelsk, and the idea was like a black stain in his mind. He wanted to make it go away, but it only spread.
The arkhi, when he shared a skin with Tarbagatai a few minutes later, was incredibly sour in his mouth, and he fought the urge to spit it out.
She shouldn’t have stayed, but she had, and when Gansukh stirred shortly after dawn, she had laid still and kept her breathing as even as possible, hoping he would think she was asleep. With her eyes lightly closed, Lian listened to Gansukh as he rolled out of the tangled mass of furs and blankets that were their shared bed. He stretched, grunting and mumbling to himself, and noisily fumbled his way into his clothing.
Trying to be quiet, and failing miserably. She fought the urge to smile.