From behind them, Gansukh watched as Munokhoi focused on the target. Ögedei was still breathing heavily, but the Day Guard stood like a stone, his chest barely moving. The muscles in Munokhoi’s neck tightened as he put pressure on the wide trigger of the crossbow, and he leaned into the recoil of the weapon as he released all three bolts.
The buck was turning as the bolts hit it, and two of them slammed into its neck and shoulder. The third caught it in the eye, spraying blood and humor as it drove clean into the animal’s skull. Its front legs buckled and it fell into a plot of peonies.
“Just one of a dozen marvelous killing machines the Chinese have invented.” Munokhoi grinned and offered the crossbow to Ögedei. “Clever little bastards,” he laughed as he strode toward the fallen deer.
The hunting party flocked around Ögedei, making noises of pleasure and encouragement at the sight of the weapon in his hands. Gansukh didn’t even bother getting any closer. He could see well enough from where he was.
Beyond the clump of fawning courtiers and nobles, Munokhoi stood over the dead animal and raised his sword. Sunlight caught his blade, turning it into a flash of silver as it came down, and the buck’s head was severed with a wet crunch. He knelt and lifted the head by its antlers, blood running down his hands. “For the Lord of All Under the Blue Sky,” he said, turning the head toward Ögedei, “I humbly present this trophy.”
“Keep it,” said Ögedei. “I have far more impressive trophies in my collection.” He laughed, gestured for a servant to bring him another wineskin, which he traded the massive crossbow for, and took a huge thirst-slaking swig.
Another deer was already being led into the garden, and as soon as its handler pulled the rope from about its head, it bolted. It bounded toward the eastern wall and eventually realized there was no escape in that direction. It turned right, disappeared for a second behind a clump of trees, and then came into view again, at the crest of a small rise near the southern edge of the garden. It was still frightened, but it was far enough away that the lure of the short grasses at its feet was stronger. It looked about briefly and then dipped its head cautiously toward the grass.
Ögedei belched and seemed to notice Gansukh for the first time. “What do you think of my guard’s new toy?” he asked, loudly enough that the attention of the hunting party swung toward Gansukh. “It is an impressive weapon, is it not?”
Gansukh bowed his head, recalling Lian’s warnings about reputations and perceptions at court. Not even the Khan of Khans was immune to the lure of the favorite activity. “It seems to shoot very well, Khagan.”
Ögedei looked at Munokhoi, who had put down the severed deer head. The Torguud’s arms were coated with blood. “Yes,” he said, “it does, doesn’t it?”
Gansukh winced internally at the stress Ögedei had put on his words, and judging by Munokhoi’s expression, he had heard the same inference.
Before Gansukh could figure out a way to turn the conversation, Ögedei waved the wineskin at the servant holding the crossbow. “Show me how it works,” he said, and when the servant froze, Ögedei shook his head. “Not you,” he snarled. “Gansukh.”
The servant almost fainted with relief and rushed toward Gansukh, all but throwing the complicated crossbow at him. He would need both hands empty to hold the thing, and suddenly he couldn’t remember the sequence of knobs and levers Munokhoi had had to operate to wind it. The servant thrust the weapon at him, entreating him with his eyes to take it, but Gansukh made no move to do so. “With all respect, Khagan,” he said, forming each word carefully and slowly, “I believe we should leave some of these Chinese contraptions to the Chinese. I hunt best in the way my father taught me—with a simple bow.”
His bow had belonged to his father’s father, a simple recurve of wood and horn and sinew, worn and repaired over the generations. Like the sky, he thought as he took several steps forward to put him a little bit in front of the cluster of bodies around the Khagan. It would never change. It felt right in his hands. There was no complicated machinery that drove it. It was just an extension of his own arm.
Munokhoi snorted. “That old stick? Good for hunting sickly oxen, I’m sure.”
Gansukh allowed himself a slight grin as he gauged the distance to his quarry. The buck was still grazing on the hillock, keeping a wary eye on the hunting party. Yes, he thought as he lifted his bow and took aim, let him do all the talking. He is better at it than you. A difficult shot, but not an impossible one. Gansukh inhaled slowly until his chest was full, and then he held his breath until he was sure his frame had settled. His arms were like stone. The point didn’t waver. Waiting…
“Too far,” Munokhoi said, too loudly. A slur of noise went through the hunting party, assent voiced but not as pointedly—as publicly—as Munokhoi’s dismissal.
The buck reacted to the sound, sensing danger, and it raised its head. The muscles in its legs quivered, but it was too late. Gansukh’s arrow, released on the heels of the noise from the gathered crowd, struck the deer in the breast. The buck staggered once, blood trickling down its white fur, and then it collapsed.
There was no sound coming from the group now, and Gansukh steeled himself to not turn and look at them. “And that,” he murmured, almost to himself, “is how my father hunted.”
Ögedei’s mighty laugh broke the silence. “I see your father was as good a marksman as mine.”
Gansukh turned to face Ögedei, bowing his head respectfully at the suggested compliment. When he raised his head, he realized Ögedei was still looking at him with that penetrating gaze he had seen before, when he had first arrived. It was as if a cloud had cleared from the Khagan’s sight, and he was seeing something that had been hidden from him for a long time.
Out of the corner of his eye, Gansukh watched the servant put Munokhoi’s Chinese contraption down on the grass. No one else seemed to notice, or care.
The early autumn sunrise spilled into the valley too slowly for young Ögedei. He lay prone on the frozen ground at the edge of a marshy clearing. Cold seeped into his bones and the dim light played tricks on his eyes. The hunting conditions were less than ideal, and he had been lying there too long.
Before the sun had threatened to peek over the ridge, Ögedei had been watching two shapes in the grass near the river’s edge, alternately sure they were animals or his older brothers in their hide jackets. His muscles were starting to cramp. Even if he could be sure of the identity of his quarry, he might not be able to pull his bow well enough to shoot it.
He pushed himself up on his hands and knees and inched forward. The brittle grass stalks scraped against his shoulders. The sound was like tree branches thrashing in his ears, and he was sure his quarry could hear him.
Ögedei pressed his belly and chest to the ground and breathed out slowly. He was nearly within shooting distance. If he nocked his arrow, stood and shot in one motion, he’d have a reasonable chance of bringing down a deer.
But if the shapes were his brothers, there would be no end of ridicule around the fire that night, and more than ridicule if he actually hit one of them.