“Care to test your skill?” he asked, nodding at the nearby rack of bows.
Tarbagatai laughed. “I have heard the stories about you,” he said. “In the Khagan’s garden. How you felled a deer with one arrow.”
Gansukh shrugged as he wandered over to the rack. He let his hands roam across the bows-stroking the hardwood curves, fingering the sinew of the strings-and he finally selected a likely candidate. Smoothly, he strung the bow, and then offered it to Tarbagatai. “Maybe I was lucky that day,” he said.
Tarbagatai snorted, and dismissed the offered weapon with a wave of his hand. His gaze darted toward his lazy companions. “I’ll use my own,” he said, and he called for one of them to fetch his bow.
Gansukh wandered back to the line, and standing shoulder to shoulder with Tarbagatai-who was slightly taller-he looked out at the scattered targets, counting them, noting their distance. “In the mountains,” he said, “if you have a good position, you can see everything.”
Tarbagatai nodded. “Anyone can shoot one arrow and hit one target.”
Gansukh smiled at the mountain man’s tone. Respectful, and yet slightly challenging at the same time. Tarbagatai had known who he was when he had approached, and he was certain the story of the deer in the Khagan’s garden wasn’t the only story that had been passed around. The cup at the Khagan’s feast. The wrestling match with Namkhai. His ongoing feud with Munokhoi. All of these stories contributed to his reputation among the Imperial Guard, but every member of the Guard had been hand-picked for his own prowess and reputation. Stories meant little; actions counted for more.
The consensus about his match with Namkhai was that it had been a draw, and only because the Khan had allowed them to withdraw from the field. Opinion was split on who would have truly won, but regardless, no one could recall anyone ever besting Namkhai before. And Namkhai, of course, hadn’t spoken one way or the other.
There was some allure to challenging Chagatai’s envoy, then. There were few other opportunities for members of the Imperial Guard to distinguish themselves.
“We could pretend these targets are Chinese raiders,” he offered. “A race to see who can kill more of them?”
The other guards wandered over in the wake of the man who brought Tarbagatai his own bow, eager interest plain on their faces. The pair in the back began to speak in hushed tones, making wagers.
Tarbagatai glared at the pair for a second, and then shook his head slightly, as if he was pushing their wager from his mind. The mountain man looked over the targets once more. “Ten,” he said. “A full arban. Shall we have ten arrows each?”
“I would hope you would not miss that many,” Gansukh said with a laugh. “How about six? That should be enough to warrant a clear winner.”
Tarbagatai agreed, and with a word, sent one of the men to fetch two quivers of arrows. Each archer selected six, and Tarbagatai stuck his in the ground before him-a neat line, waiting to be snatched up.
Gansukh slowly pushed each of his arrows into the dry ground, making sure they were all firmly planted with their fletching pointed straight up. He opted for a tight cluster of shafts, a grouping that his hand fell upon naturally without requiring a look.
Tarbagatai would have to chase his arrows. Each shaft was a little farther away, and eventually, he would have to take a tiny step to his left in order to reach the last few arrows. Such movement wouldn’t take much time, but in this contest, that tiny delay might make the difference.
“Ready?” Gansukh asked, laying his first arrow across his bow.
He heard the creak of a bowstring being drawn back, and Tarbagatai grunted.
“One of you,” Gansukh called to the onlookers as he raised his own bow, “Give us a word and we shall start.” He peered along the straight shaft of his arrow at the first target. His right arm quivered for a moment before his muscles relaxed into a well-remembered position, and his breathing slowed. His belly tensed, and his vision shifted. The target-pale thatching stuffed into the ragged end of a log-sprang into greater focus, while everything else softened and dropped away.
“Hai!”
Gansukh loosed his first arrow before the man had finished shouting. He had heard the sudden influx of breath from behind him, and had known the cry was coming. His arrow flew true, burying itself deep in the thatch of the first target, though he did not hear the sound of its impact. Tarbagatai released his first arrow in concert with a horrific battle cry, as if his shout would give the arrow more loft in its flight. The sound was startling, more so for being projected right into Gansukh’s ear, and he hesitated for a split second, caught off guard by the racket. Ruefully, he snatched up his second arrow, nocked it, drew back the bow string, and let it fly.
His second arrow struck a target that already contained one of Tarbagatai’s arrows. His shaft was closer to the center, but the mistake was already made. As he reached for his third arrow, he silently commended Tarbagatai on his clever ruse.
There was no time for further recriminations. The mountain man was quick, and Gansukh lost himself in the rhythm of archery: nock, pull, release. As soon as an arrow was clear of his bow, he would focus on the next target. He tried not to wonder if he was shooting at the same target as Tarbagatai; to worry would be to hesitate, and to hesitate would be to lose.
As he released his last arrow, he heard an echoing twang from over his shoulder, and he released the breath he was not aware he had been holding.
The archers and their audience stared out at the field of targets, watching as the two arrows buried themselves in the thick thatch of the farthest target. The rustling impact of the arrows in the dried stalks was like the fluttering noise of a bird’s wings-two beats so close together that they could be easily mistaken for one sound.
“Every dog is dead,” Tarbagatai announced, clapping Gansukh on the shoulder. “You shot well.”
“Indeed,” Gansukh replied, “As did you.” He looked around and saw no arrows in the ground, and then let his gaze roam across the targets once more. This time he checked every target more closely. “We seem to have shot all our arrows, Brother,” he pointed out.
“Yes, and we did not mark them ahead of time,” Tarbagatai laughed. “Do you remember which ones were yours?”
Gansukh pointed at the nearby target that sported two arrows. “That one was already dead when my arrow hit it,” he said.
Tarbagatai grinned. “But what of the last?”
Gansukh shaded his eyes with his hand and made a show of peering at the farthest target. “It is very far away,” he said, “And I have developed a thirst. Perhaps we can check later.”
Merriment danced in Tarbagatai’s eyes as his grin stretched even wider. He raised his bow and let out a loud whoop of joy. “Yes,” he chortled. “Let us have a drink in celebration.”
As the other men noisily agreed with the resolution of the match and eagerly dispersed to gather skins of arkhi, Tarbagatai put his hands on Gansukh’s shoulders. “I would follow you into battle, brother Gansukh,” he said, and the intensity of his gaze matched the fervor of his words.
Gansukh returned the embrace, and found himself considering a strange idea. Could he lead men like Tarbagatai? To have the Imperial Guard at his command? The idea presented itself with no preamble, and he was surprised to find himself considering it.
And then he remembered the siege of Kozelsk, and the idea was like a black stain in his mind. He wanted to make it go away, but it only spread.