The Mongoliad: Book One

She couldn’t run. To trigger the chase instinct of a bankhar was death—about the worst kind of death imaginable. Better to stand and face it.

 

It gave out a low, gruff bark, declining to a suspicious growl, and began trotting toward her, lowering its head and casting its heavy muzzle back and forth.

 

Cnán backtracked along the trail of parted reeds she had made in her own wake. Putting more distance between herself and the dog couldn’t hurt, as long as she did it quietly—and she could move very quietly. There were no trees to climb. She couldn’t outrun a bankhar on open ground. She could probably outswim it, though. But first she would have to get to water that was deep enough for swimming and too deep for the dog’s paws to get purchase on the bottom. She remembered a backwater, about a stone’s throw behind her, where she had suddenly slipped knee-deep into a stagnant pool. A lateral sprint out of the reeds, across the intervening sandbar and straight for the water might work. But it was her last resort; it would betray her position, not only to the bankhar, which would come right at her, but to the four Mongol riders now picking their path up a rocky stretch of riverbank, still oblivious to the fact that their dog was on the trail of new and unexpected prey.

 

He—for she could see now that it was a non-gelded male—let out a little woof and broke into a trot, confident now that she was worth chasing. She began retreating with greater speed and more noise, fighting what the Shield-Brothers referred to as the fobo, the irrational fear that would, if you let it rise out of its hole, seize control of your body and make you do things that would assuredly lead to your death. In this case, the fobo was telling her to turn on her heel and run for it.

 

The ground grew muckier under her feet. She risked a quick look, saw the dark backwater growing closer and closer, but it was shallow enough that the bankhar could wade it, and it was separated from the main channel by a sandbar, which she would have to cross before the creature plunged its fangs into her leg.

 

She prepared to slip off her tunic. She could trail it behind herself as she ran. The dog would snap at it, rip it out of her grasp, waste a few moments shaking it like a squirrel while she dove naked into the water and swam away…

 

Or was that the fobo trying to bubble up?

 

A whine from the bankhar quickly rose to a shrill bark. It was very close now.

 

Her feet felt the backwater’s slimy edge. This was foolish.

 

She stood tall and faced the dog. Startled, it plowed to a stop. Then it barked loudly and steadily, alerting its masters. She glanced over its head and saw the four Mongols. One had reached the top of the bank and was looking in her direction. The other three abandoned their climb, turned, and began picking their way down the bank to see what was happening. They first spotted the bankhar, then her, and pointed, exclaimed, stood high in their stirrups to get a clearer view—and reached for their bows.

 

Keeping the bankhar in sight but not staring it in the eye, Cnán slowly sidestepped, going knee-deep into the stagnant water, a loop of current only a couple of arm spans across. The bankhar started after her, stopped, growled, barked again. A bluff charge, trying to make her panic and break for it.

 

She did not like dogs, but she understood them in the same way as she understood men: they needed a leader. A boss. And if you weren’t the boss, the dog would appoint himself to the position. It had nothing to do with size. She had seen a rat chaser dominate a lumbering wolfhound with the sheer force of its personality.

 

She locked her eyes on the bankhar and willed it to submit.

 

A rumbling growl emerged from its huge chest.

 

She backed up out of the water and onto the sandbar.

 

One of the Mongols was riding straight for her. She could feel the terror rising in her chest, her heart hammering at the underside of her breastbone, booming in her ears.

 

The Mongol called out a word of command. The bankhar looked back at him, remembered who was boss, bounded into the water, and came up on the sandbar, close enough that he could have reached Cnán’s throat with a single lunge. Only some cautious instinct, a concern that Cnán was more than she seemed, prevented him from killing her then and there.

 

Her fear took charge. She knew she was about to die—if not ripped apart by the bankhar, then shot through and through by the Mongol following after or the two behind him. Her heart slammed with such force that she could feel it in the soles of her feet.

 

Her feet?

 

The dog looked beyond her suddenly, then crouched and quailed. A word of astonishment escaped from the Mongol’s lips.

 

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