He had seen seventeen winters; he did not think he would see another.
The dust swirled in front of him, billowing out from the shape of a charging horse and rider. There was something wrong with his head, and as he emerged from the cloud, ?gedei glimpsed the warrior’s helmet more fully and realized the approaching rider was not from Genghis’s army. The Kereyid, the long feather on his helm broken and bent, flicked his spear down and drove its point into his horse’s flank.
?gedei felt the shock of the thrust in his legs, and his horse reared, lurching to the right. The reins jerked from ?gedei’s grasp, and as he tumbled toward the ground, he caught a glimpse of the sky through the dust. Blue sky.
The fall knocked the wind from his lungs and made his ears ring. He tried to spit out the dust in his throat, but nothing came out when he retched. His sword was gone, and he tried to remember when it had fallen from his grip: when his horse had thrown him, or when he had hit the ground? The dust had swallowed it up.
The ground shook. A horse. His ears were still echoing with the shock of his fall, and everything was muffled. But he could feel the horse coming at him, and he rolled to the side as the Kereyid thundered past. The tip of the man’s sword caught the edge of his helmet, ringing from one of the metal studs in the leather. His head was yanked back and his helmet flew off, eagerly devoured by the dust.
The Kereyid pulled his horse to a stop, wheeling it around again, and as it trotted toward ?gedei, he slipped off its back in a fluid motion. Sword raised, he charged ?gedei.
Scrambling for the dagger in his belt, ?gedei pushed himself off the ground. The wind gusted between them, and the Kereyid’s blow came slowly, as if all the particulate in the air was causing resistance against the blade.
?gedei crouched under the strike and thrust up into the Kereyid’s belly. His dagger hit the edge of the warrior’s breastplate, skipped down, and then slid into flesh. ?gedei pulled the blade along the edge of the hard breastplate and blood splashed over his hands. The Kereyid howled, and ?gedei shoved him down. He was still holding his sword, and ?gedei kicked it from his hands and then stomped on the man’s face. The Kereyid continued to yell, and ?gedei kept kicking until his boots were covered in red mud.
His horse was still alive. It lay on its side, kicking and convulsing around the Kereyid’s spear. ?gedei coughed and spat up sand. His legs trembled as he bent and picked up the Kereyid’s sword. It was heavier than his, and the cross-guard wider and thicker than he was used to. It will do. He squeezed the hilt tightly as he staggered toward his dying horse.
It had been a good steed, sure-footed and responsive to his guidance. It had carried his uncle for several months before Jochi gave it to him. There was blood smeared on the horse’s nose and its eyes were wide and frenzied. Incredibly, it was trying to stand as ?gedei approached, but its front right leg failed to hold its weight.
“Run,” ?gedei croaked. “Run to the Eternal Blue Sky.” His stroke was clumsy, but the blade was sharp enough. The horse’s back legs kicked twice as it died, and ?gedei ground the heel of his hand against his face, fighting the sting of sand and salt in his eyes.
An arrow landed in the side of the dead horse, and ?gedei looked at it dumbly. It was a short Mongol arrow, but the fletching was unfamiliar. A Kereyid arrow. He was still on the battlefield. He couldn’t stay here; he had to find his way out of the sand cloud. He didn’t know whether to advance or fall back, wouldn’t even know where to advance or fall back to. Perhaps he would never see the sky again. He was being buried underground. He wrapped his scarf over his face to keep out the dust, still tasting grit on his tongue.
Something bumped into him, and he fell back against the corpse of his pony. Wildly he looked around, trying to spot a shadow or a shape in the dust. Who is there? Horses charged past on his right. Their hooves pounded against the sand, kicking up swirling clouds of dust. He brought up a hand to shield his face, and pain lanced his neck and shoulder. Glancing down, he saw the bloody tip of an arrow protruding from beneath his chin.
His scarf was tangled in the arrow, and he couldn’t reach over his shoulder to pull it out. His fingers brushed the shaft, and pain shot through his neck. Screaming, he fell to his knees.
There was blood inside his armor. His scarf was turning red, and what wasn’t absorbed by the cloth was running down his chest. His hands were red too, and he realized he was kneeling in the bloody mud of his horse. He shivered, suddenly cold.