Andreas paused near the jagged trunk of an old tree, felled long ago by ill weather. Even from the height of his saddle, the place where the crowning branches had been snapped off rose well above his head, and the stump carved a gnomon’s shadow out of the sunlight flowing through the hole in the forest canopy above. Even dead, the old tree seemed eternal, and Andreas was a minute speck drifting in its sheltering shade.
Folk legends made the forest a fearful place, home to evil spirits, and only the truly capable or the desperate braved the woods. In daylight, staring up at the ragged trunk, Andreas was reminded of the wonder and the fear he’d not felt for years; the tree, though no longer growing, was still alive, covered in a stippled pattern of moss, its jutting, broken heartwood the host to all manner of small creatures. Insects buzzed in the shade, a low thrum beneath the celestial chorus of hidden birds. Andreas closed his eyes, and this world of faint voices opened up to him, a mystical realm that could only be heard when all the voices spoke at once.
Styg’s horse ambled past him, the young man’s leg brushing his as the horses jostled, and Andreas put aside his meditative calm. As he flicked the reins, his eyes fell on the roots of the jagged tree. They lay exposed, contorted like a mass of thick vines around a piece of aged granite too massive to be sundered by their persistent and perpetual grip. He saw the tree now as a pillar of stone, retained by loyal roots. In his thoughts, stone and tree coexisted.
As they rode on, he locked away the image in his heart.
They would soon be at the chapter house. Perhaps he would tell Rutger about the tree and the stone—maybe even speak of the hidden sanctuary that belonged to Hans and the other ragged boys of Hünern. Though, he suspected Rutger would be more intent on castigating him for the encounter with the Livonians and the horses.
But they were very nice horses.
12
Preparations
?GEDEI STIRRED AND opened one eye fully. His hand unconsciously started to grope for the low table on his immediate right. The enormous cup Gansukh had given him stood on the table, half full of pale wine.
“You wanted me to tell you about the caravans from Onghwe,” Gansukh reminded the Khagan.
?gedei sat up, licking his lips. He squinted at Gansukh as his questing hand found the cup. “What did my son send?” ?gedei’s hand shook slightly as he gulped the wine. Gansukh ignored how the Khagan’s eyes twitched in his direction. I am making him aware of his weakness.
“Tribute,” Gansukh said. “Spoils from the lands of Rus and...” He hesitated, unsure how the Khagan would react to the news. “He sent fighting men, captives from some competition that he holds.”
Master Chucai had given him a brief explanation of the arena that Onghwe would erect during the months when the Mongol army was laying siege to foreign strongholds. While he understood the strategy of such an activity, and part of him was even curious as to what it would be like to compete in such a tournament, he found the idea unbecoming of a Mongol. A sure sign of the Empire’s increased dissolution and its departure from the true path given to the Mongolian people by the Blue Wolf.
“How many men?” ?gedei asked.
“Twelve, and the guards say the red-haired one is bigger than two men. Bigger than General Subutai, even.”
“Not likely,” ?gedei laughed. “And even if he were, his talents would be unlike the General’s. Subutai’s genius is not in hand-to-hand combat.” He raised the cup again, but then he changed his mind and lowered it without drinking. Stealthily, he glanced at Gansukh’s hand, the motion of a nervous and guilty child. Gansukh’s hands were empty; he hadn’t brought a bottle with him. “What of the others?” he sighed, sinking his chin into his chest.
“Christians and one Muslim. I do not know what countries they call home. One has yellow-white hair and very pale eyes. A Northerner.”
“Fighters?”
“Yes, my Khan, that is my understanding. Some of them were victorious at your son’s arena.”
“Fights to the death?”
“All but one.” In response to ?gedei’s raised eyebrow, Gansukh explained. “The Northerner fought Onghwe’s ronin. At the end of the fight, the Northerner had taken the ronin’s naginata and could have killed him with it, but chose to spare his life instead.”
?gedei stared at the Spirit Banner. “Interesting,” he murmured.
Gansukh had heard stories of the warriors from the islands that lay beyond China. More demon than man, the stories went, so impervious to fear that even the Chinese would think twice about facing even a modest army of these skilled swordsmen. A ronin was a disgraced warrior, a man who had lost his lord and who wandered those islands like a ghost, beholden only to his blade. That Onghwe had such a man in his stable of fighters was almost too incredible to believe; that the pale Northerner, almost a ghost himself, had apparently bested the man further beggared belief. Gansukh was inclined to dismiss everything he had heard from the caravan guards as wild rumors, the sort of exaggerated storytelling to which men, bored into foolishness by the tedium of their long journey, would fall prey.
However, the detail that the Northerner had shown mercy to the ronin had piqued his curiosity as well.
“What else?” ?gedei said, his attention drifting. “What other tribute has my son sent? Wine from foreign lands?”
Gansukh nodded, his heart sinking. “Yes, my Khan.” As far as he knew, ?gedei was honoring his wish about the cup—restricting himself to but a single full vessel a day—but he worried that such self-control was a tenuous arrangement, one that could be put aside in an instant. Gansukh wished they would leave Karakorum already. The journey to Burqan-qaldun would offer many distractions—including these fighters. While they remained here, ?gedei had nothing to do but brood.
Gansukh did not know how to fight brooding. Nor, he feared, did the Khagan.