Munokhoi adjusted his grip on his sword, swallowing the tiny glob of fear in the back of his throat. He sucked air in through his nose, taking the metallic stink of the Chinese weapon deep into his chest. Death can come quickly, he thought. Better to die with his sword red with Chinese blood than to stand dumbly like a stupid cow.
He charged toward the fighting, swinging his sword heavily as if he were butchering an ox for a feast. A Chinese soldier parried him weakly, stepping back under the force of the blow, and Munokhoi smashed his sword down again, breaking the man’s guard and feeling the heavy shock of impact. The soldier groaned and collapsed; Munokhoi tried to pull his sword free of the dying man, but the blade was caught in the bones of the man’s chest.
Nearby, a Mongol fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach. His Chinese attacker raised his sword to deliver a killing blow, his face alight with triumph, and Munokhoi quickly drew his dagger as he charged. He got his shoulder under the man’s sword arm, forcing the weapon away from the downed soldier, and he stabbed upward with his dagger, finding the soft spot beneath the chin. The man choked, spitting blood, and more blood gushed from the hole in his neck as Munokhoi pulled the dagger free.
The blood was hot on his arm and chin. Some of the blood splashed on his lips, and he touched it with his tongue, savoring the sweet taste.
The fear fell away. This was all that he needed. “For the Khagan!” he screamed, wrenching the sword from the dying Chinese soldier’s hands.
As if in answer, the thunder sounded again, and the strength of its breath threw both one of his Mongol warriors and his Chinese opponent to the ground. Wildly inaccurate, he thought, sniffing the air for its tangy scent, but still quite dangerous.
He wanted it. There was a sensation in his groin not unlike what he had felt when he had first put his hands on the tiered crossbow made by the Chinese or when he had first seen Chucai’s new whore. This was something he did not possess, that he was not the master of, and the thrill of conquest coursed through his body.
He would not be denied.
“For the Khagan!” he screamed again. For my glory, he thought.
*
The walls of ?gedei’s ger were draped in shiny panels of embroidered blue silk, masking the rough leather of the outer layer. An iron brazier, its top twisted into an intricate array of blooming flowers, sat on a thick Persian carpet. It was filled with glowing coals, and it heated the room evenly against the chill of the night air. Furs and pillows were scattered near the brazier, transforming the floor into a soft terrain that extended almost to the silk-draped walls. The intent was to create a space not unlike his rooms at Karakorum, a refuge from the less hospitable reality of traveling, but this luxury was nothing more than a prison to ?gedei, a blatant reminder that he was isolated from what was happening.
“Do you not hear the sounds of battle?” he growled at the two men who stood near the laced flap of the ger. “I should be out there—fighting! I should be leading my men into battle.” He raised his hands at the men, clawing at the air. “My hands should be covered in the blood of my enemies.”
The slimmer of the two men stroked his long black mustache. “It would be fine sport, my Khan,” he offered. “But—”
?gedei snarled and stepped closer to the man, the muscles in his neck straining. Daring him to continue.
The guard fell silent, and his hand dropped to his side. His mustache drooped.
The other guard, broad in the chest and arm, cleared his throat nervously. “They have come to kill you, my Khan, and for that, they are fools. If you were to step outside of this tent, would you not be giving these fools what they seek?”
?gedei stormed over to stand too close to the second guard. He loomed over the shorter man, breathing heavily on the crest of his helmet like an old bull challenging a young rival. Daring the man to look up at him, to give him an excuse...
The guard stared at his boots.
“Pah.” ?gedei spat on the carpet, and he rudely shoved the man with his shoulder as he returned his attention to the first guard. “What is your name?” he demanded.
“Chaagan, my Khan,” the first guard said, dropping to his knee and bowing his head. The second man, recovering from the Khagan’s shove, did the same. “And I am Alagh,” he said.
“Selected by Munokhoi for your obstinacy and allegiance to his command, no doubt,” ?gedei continued. He started to pace around the tent, the hem of his cloak stirring up a tiny cloud of dust in his wake. The coals in the brazier seemed to wink at the three men.
“Yes, my Khan,” Chaagan replied.
?gedei caught himself clenching and unclenching his hand. He wanted the security of his giant cup—wanted the strength that the wine would give him—and his hands could not hide his desire for the drink. I am weak. He squeezed his fist tightly, as if he could crush that thought into dust.
Was this not the purpose of his journey? To cast off the shackles of the wine and regain his dignity and honor. To have his subjects look upon him with faces filled with devotion and respect. Not the way they refused to look at him now, embarrassed by his drunkenness. By his weakness.