Subegei overheard him and offered his own interpretation of the rules. “Seven arrows,” he said. “Tarbagatai gets dark fletching; Gansukh will have the light-colored fletching.” He gestured at the archers who had just finished shooting, and they started to dig through their quivers to assemble the requisite arrows. There were some friendly disagreements about what constituted light and dark among the arrows.
Subegei rolled his eyes and shrugged at Gansukh’s inquiring glance. “You’ll be judged for speed and accuracy,” he continued, ignoring the altogether too-complicated process of arrow selection. “The archer who finishes first will be awarded one additional point, and then we’ll examine the targets. Does that sound fair?”
Gansukh gave Tarbagatai back his bow and received his own in turn. “That sounds fair,” he said as he slipped the string loose and bent his bow to restring it properly. Tarbagatai agreed too, and both men stepped up to the edge of the range and collected their arrows. Gansukh took the other arrows out of his quiver, placing them on the ground, and arranged his seven carefully so they were ready to be pulled. He noticed Tarbagatai lagging behind him, the younger man carefully copying every motion-the mountain archer wasn’t going to make the same mistake he had last time when he had failed to set up his arrows for rapid shooting.
Gansukh nocked the first arrow and looked down the range, checking the location of each of the targets. There were ten targets in all, but no more than two were at any given distance, and they started fairly close-not much more than ten strides away. He would start with the closest pair-that would allow him to gauge the distance more readily-and he suspected Tarbagatai would employ the same tactic. But Gansukh also suspected Tarbagatai would be seduced by possibility of the extra point for firing all his arrows first, and in his mind, Gansukh had already conceded that point. He knew Tarbagatai was faster, so he had to be more accurate.
“Quiet,” Subegei called behind him, and when the assembled soldiers didn’t stop their chatter quickly enough, he raised his voice. “Shut up, you louts!”
Gansukh turned his head to the left and glanced at Tarbagatai; the mountain archer favored him with a tiny grin. “Are you ready?” Tarbagatai asked, and Gansukh nodded. As the crowd finally settled down, Gansukh returned his attention down range. The morning sun made the red paint gleam, and a slight breeze wafted up the rise. The conditions were perfect.
“Archers!” Subegei cried. “Ready!” Gansukh raised his bow, pulling the string back to his ear. His shoulders were tight, and he tried to relax. He tried to focus on the first target, but something seemed amiss. A bead of sweat slid down the left side of his face, almost going into his eye, and he blinked heavily.
“Fire!” Subegei shouted, and Tarbagatai let out a tiny grunt as he released his arrow.
Gansukh took one step back.
He heard a whisper of sound, the fluttering noise of an arrow as it passes. He sensed more than saw a black blur flying past him, moving from his left to his right. Without thinking, he stepped forward and turned, causing Tarbagatai to flinch, fumbling his second arrow. Gansukh ignored him, looking across the river for his target.
Looking for the source of the arrow that would have hit him if he hadn’t taken that backward step.
Behind him the crowd was making noise-not all of it pleasant-and Tarbagatai had stepped back from the edge of the range, his eyes wide. Gansukh studiously ignored all of the distractions, his eyes scanning for some sign of Munokhoi.
He was out there. Gansukh hadn’t imagined the arrow.
“Gansukh, hold,” Subegei tried to get his attention. “Put your bow down.”
Growling in his throat, Gansukh lowered his arms and let out the tension in his bowstring. His eyes kept scanning the row of ger, looking for any sign of movement. Finally, he relented, letting out a pent-up rush of air. “I am sorry, Tarbagatai,” he said, looking toward the mountain archer. “That was very unsporting of me. I was…” he cast about for some suitable explanation, “momentarily dazzled by the sun. Disoriented.” He let out a short bark of laughter. “I was so frightened by your first arrow that I thought I was in the midst of a terrifying battle.”
Tarbagatai raised an eyebrow, but the tension remained in his face and shoulders. “You are a bad liar, Gansukh.”
“Bah,” Gansukh said, dismissing Tarbagatai’s claim. “It is a good thing to be bad at, don’t you think?”
Tarbagatai managed a weak grin.
Gansukh glanced at the row of ger again. “Shall we try again?” he asked, even though part of him wanted to charge across the river and search for the elusive Munokhoi. “I promise to be less frightened of your magnificent shooting.”
Someone in the crowd groaned noisily, and a voice piped up: “Make him give you his bow if he does it again!”
Gansukh nodded in agreement. “Fair enough. You may have my bow if I am nothing less than virtuous in my shooting.”
Tarbagatai tried to remain aloof, but his gaze lingered overlong on Gansukh’s bow. “I suppose we can try again,” he said.
Gansukh gestured at the crowd. “My opponent will need two more arrows,” he called.
“Only one,” Tarbagatai corrected. He pointed. “I’ll keep that first one.” Tarbagatai’s first shot was dead-center in the nearest target’s red heart.
“Fair enough,” Gansukh said, squinting at the target.
An arrow was provided, and Subegei counted them off again. Gansukh shot slowly, striving for accuracy, and Tarbagatai took care with his shots as well, knowing that Gansukh would not be rushing. Still, in very little time, the quivers of both archers were empty.
“Extra point for Tarbagatai,” Subegei called. The crowd shouted, pleased with the performance of both men. “Let us go check the arrows,” Subegei said, and the crowd moved forward, sweeping both Tarbagatai and Gansukh up with it.
Gansukh let the group pass around him, and once the bulk of the men were past, he turned to his right and walked in a straight line, his eyes scanning the ground for the straight shaft of dark arrow.
He didn’t have to walk far. Munokhoi’s arrow was buried in the scrub grass, and only a short span of the shaft and the fletching were visible. Gansukh looked back, tracing the path of the arrow, and gauged from between which two ger Munokhoi had most likely shot the arrow. He stepped purposefully on the shaft, breaking it beneath his boot, and then went to join the others.
The flaps of Gansukh’s ger sagged open like the slack mouth of a dead man, and Gansukh knew what he would find inside. He paused, out of direct line with the opening, and looked around once more, checking for any out of the ordinary movement.
He had seen no sign of Munokhoi since the incident with the arrow at the archery range, but he knew that meant little. The ex-Torguud captain was watching him, stalking him throughout the camp. Waiting for an opportunity to strike with impunity.
The fact that Munokhoi hadn’t openly assaulted him meant the ex-captain was still aware of the consequences of assassinating another Mongol, especially one whose death the Khagan would notice. In some ways, that made him more dangerous.
Satisfied that there was no one watching him, Gansukh approached his ger and cautiously peeked inside. As he suspected, all of his gear was in disarray. Munokhoi had been here and had taken out his frustrations on Gansukh’s belongings. Gansukh wrinkled his nose as he smelled the acrid stench of urine. Munokhoi had done more than shred his shirts and slash all of his water skins; he had pissed all over everything.