“You will go where I tell you to go,” Munokhoi raged.
Gansukh took another step back, directing Lian to move with him. He knew that physical contact with her would clearly link them together, but what could be gained by denying their connection? Munokhoi was out of control. He was dangerous when he was soft-spoken and calculating, but that was only because everyone knew that calm facade hid a much more monstrous aspect of the man. They were all seeing it now, and glancing around at the faces of the other men, Gansukh saw that he was not the only one who was concerned.
Namkhai remained unruffled, as if he had seen this facet of Munokhoi before and was not concerned. Gansukh looked at Namkhai’s expression and knew the wrestler had looked upon something much more terrifying than the enraged Torguud captain and had found that thing wanting. Namkhai was still waiting to find a reason to be truly afraid, and judging by the placid arrangement of his features he was prepared to wait a long time.
“Namkhai’s right,” Gansukh said. “There are no more Chinese. They’ve all fled. Back south.”
A few heads turned toward the south, but most eyes were still roving back and forth between Munokhoi, Namkhai, and Gansukh. Munokhoi had gone icily quiet. His hand rested on the hard rim of his saddle, and Gansukh noticed the shape of his saddlebags. They were full. But of what?
“Escaped, you mean. Escaped with the help of their Chinese spy.” Munokhoi had control of his voice again, and Gansukh felt a chill touch his spine. “She may be no danger to the Khagan now, but she’ll bring her murderous brothers back for another attack.”
Lian stirred at Gansukh’s side. Words tumbled from her mouth, but they were so softly spoken that only Gansukh heard them. He tried not to react. She was speaking Chinese.
“She brought them to us; she betrayed our Khagan,” Munokhoi repeated, still holding on to his previous accusation. “Your whore is a traitor. Protect her, and you are a traitor.” His hand twitched, and almost imperceptibly, he turned toward the pair of bags thrown across his horse’s back.
“You are a liar.” Gansukh stared up at the Torguud captain, keeping his gaze away from the bulging saddle bags. “Lian killed the Chinese commander.” He pointed in the direction of the body. “He lies over there. There is her dagger.” He grasped for her hand, found it, and raised it up for the throng to see. “Here is his blood.”
Munokhoi spat on the ground, refusing to look at the dead Chinese man. “Look at my face,” Gansukh demanded, letting go of Lian’s hand. “I was their captive. They were going to interrogate me, but she came to my rescue.”
Namkhai locked eyes with the two men nearest the dead man, and they dismounted to examine the corpse. Namkhai jerked his head, and the two Mongols flipped the body over. Grabbing the corpse by the hands, they dragged it around Munokhoi’s horse and deposited it on the ground next to Lian and Gansukh. She shied away from the body, stepping more closely to Gansukh, her hands lightly touching his arm. The Chinese man lay on his back, the dark ruin of his throat plainly visible.
“Anyone could have killed this dog.” Munokhoi spat on the body.
Gansukh felt Lian go rigid and then relax. When she spoke, her voice was clear and precise. “I killed him,” she said. She wasn’t looking at Munokhoi. She held Namkhai’s gaze. “And when I killed their leader, the rest fled. Like the broken dogs they were. We’ve stopped their attack.”
“We?” Munokhoi’s voice dripped with scorn and disbelief.
“We,” Gansukh said simply. “Following them would be a mistake. We do not know this terrain. We do not know if they even have a camp. Those who are still alive are scattered, running for their lives. What would we gain by chasing lost dogs in the dark? It is better for us to return to the Khan’s side.”
Namkhai nodded in agreement, but he made no move to do that. He only looked at Munokhoi with that same flat expression. Waiting.
Munokhoi had two options as Gansukh read the situation: agree with him and return to the Mongol camp, or insist on continuing the hunt. If they continued and found little trace of the Chinese raiders-which seemed likely-then Munokhoi risked losing face with the Khagan for making a foolish decision. If he returned to camp now, he only lost face with the current group of men by standing down from his challenge to Gansukh. It was an infuriating choice, Gansukh knew, but as he watched the Torguud captain weigh these choices, he realized Munokhoi was considering a third choice. Killing both him and Lian now before anyone could intervene.
Lian sensed the conflict in Munokhoi as well, and she took a step back and to the left, putting some distance between herself and Gansukh. Making two separate targets. Gansukh, surprising himself, took a step to his right, preparing to flank his enemy.
Munokhoi growled deep in his throat, and his eyes betrayed him, flicking down to the saddle bags.
What secret did he have in there? Gansukh wondered.
“Captain,” Namkhai said, breaking the tension. “What are your orders?” What saved them was not the question, but the deference in Namkhai’s voice. The submissive request for direction from a superior.
“We head back to camp,” Munokhoi snapped. “Take them with us.” Without another word, he pushed his horse through the rank of men and the sound of its hooves trailed after it in the night.
Singly and in pairs, the other riders followed their captain until only Namkhai and two other riders remained.
“We’ll follow you,” Gansukh said. “Somewhat more slowly.”
Namkhai shook his head. “Ride with them,” he said, indicating the other horsemen. “We are to bring you back with us.” The expression on his face made it quite clear he was not interested in any more discussion.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Andreas awoke to the sound of the initiates battering one another in the training yard. He lay quietly on his cot for a few minutes, listening to the rhythmic clacking noise of their training weapons. His back and shoulders were cold and stiff, a reminder of a bruising hit he’d taken during his last qualifying bout. He’d endured worse, he reminded himself as he rolled to his side. I am a knight initiate. As long as I can stand-even if only on one leg-I will carry on. A grim smile played itself across his lips as he climbed to his feet and stretched, the muscles in his back and legs complaining. Just as long as I can still hold a sword.
Shuffling slowly, he wandered from his alcove-a tiny cell once used by a lay brother as a quiet sanctum for prayer-through the ruined monastery, and to the heavy cloth masquerading as a door over the ragged threshold of the hall. Squinting, even though the outside light was diffused by the pale morning fog and the tall trees surrounding their chapter house, he pushed through the cloth and tottered outside. A barrel had been placed next to the door, and rain from the last few days had topped it off. He dipped his hands in, and splashing his face, drove away the last clinging vestiges of sleep. Warm, we sleep. Cold, we wake.
No longer bleary-eyed and befuddled by the dawn light, he straightened and looked for the source of the clacking noise-the young men, sparring with training blades.
Since the Shield-Brethren had made this place their temporary home, the overall deterioration of the buildings had been arrested, and the unkempt grounds had been transformed. The training yard, in particular, had been nothing but a swath of open ground covered with pale grass and a few fiercely determined shrubs. But after many hours of men trampling back and forth, the ground had been scoured of plant life and pounded flat.