The hare came.
Down below, Munokhoi stole through the forest. He didn’t step on a single branch, and he eased through the brush more readily and silently than the wind. His bow was held ready, and Gansukh couldn’t tell if he was still carrying the Chinese fire thrower. Munokhoi’s head swung back and forth, his eyes taking in every brush and branch, but he never looked up.
Gansukh drew his bow back slowly, cringing at the slightest creak of the wood. Munokhoi was going to pass on his right, and the best shot would be when the ex-Torguud captain was abreast of him, presenting his own right side to Gansukh. He could take the shot now, but the range was farther than he trusted his ready-made arrow. He had to wait. He held his breath and aimed, feeling the bow become an extension of his body.
As Munokhoi passed Gansukh’s tree, he paused, his head swiveling back and forth. His brow furrowed slightly as if he sensed something out of place in the wood.
Gansukh released his pent-up breath, his fingers opening. His bow sang, and there was a flutter of leaves.
Munokhoi took a step back, and looked down at the shaft of fresh wood protruding from his chest. Shock registered on his face for a moment before he toppled to the ground, disappearing from Gansukh’s view
Gansukh let out a whoop of elation as he half clambered, half fell down the tree. The hunt wasn’t over yet, though. He had to be sure Munokhoi was dead. He doubted his arrow had been fatal. He had to get close and slit his throat. Leave nothing to chance.
Munokhoi lay on his back, blood spattered across his jacket and the branches of a nearby bush. He stared up at the panoply of the forest, and his face was contorted in a grimace. Gansukh’s arrow was imbedded in the right side of his chest, sticking nearly straight up.
Gansukh approached cautiously. While Munokhoi seemed dead, his right hand lay concealed beneath his leg. Such positioning could be a coincidence. It could also be a trap.
Trying to keep as much distance as possible, Gansukh stooped over Munokhoi’s body to reach for the arrow. If Munokhoi was only feigning death, he would react when the arrow was pulled out. Gansukh clutched his knife tightly as he leaned over his fallen foe.
Munokhoi let out a blood-curdling scream as Gansukh yanked the arrow out. The ex-Torguud captain sat upright, his hand-holding a dagger-shooting out from behind his leg. Even though he had expected such a surprise, Gansukh seized up in terror, as though he were facing not a mortal man but an evil spirit. Munokhoi’s dagger tangled in Gansukh’s half-tied sash, and he slapped his left hand down, trying to grab Munokhoi’s wrist. He made contact, stopping the thrust, and as he started a tug-of-war his feet were swept out from under him as Munokhoi twisted on the ground.
He landed on his back with a thud, his knife slipping out of his grip, and Munokhoi rolled atop him, pinning his right arm to the ground with a knee. Blood dripped from the wound in Munokhoi’s chest, dotting Gansukh’s jacket. Munokhoi spat in Gansukh’s face, his breath heavy with the stink of airag. “You are weak,” he growled. Gansukh still had a hold on Munokhoi’s wrist, and he held Munokhoi off, barely. The dagger inched closer to his throat.
Gansukh bucked his hips, trying to throw Munokhoi off balance, and when that failed, he tried to kick his leg up high enough to hit Munokhoi in the back of the head, but the ex-captain was leaning too far forward, bearing down with all of his weight. Gansukh bucked again, but this time he tried to extricate his right hand from beneath Munokhoi’s knee. He managed to pull his arm free, without his own knife, but an empty hand was good enough. He dug his fingers into Munokhoi’s jacket, searching for the bloody arrow wound with his thumb.
Munokhoi howled as Gansukh ground his thumb into the open wound. Gansukh bucked again, and Munokhoi’s weight lessened on his chest. Gansukh heaved, rolling onto his side, finally throwing Munokhoi off.
He scrambled for his knife, found it, and then lunged after Munokhoi. As Gansukh charged, Munokhoi braced his hands against the ground and lashed out with a foot, but Gansukh twisted his body enough so that the foot struck him on the shoulder instead of the face. He grabbed at the leg, shoving it to one side so that he could more readily stab at the other man’s stomach with his knife.
Munokhoi brought his other leg up, attempting to trap Gansukh between his thighs. He batted Gansukh’s outstretched hand aside, and as the pair collapsed into a heap of tangled limbs, he began to squeeze with his legs.
Gansukh struggled to free himself. Munokhoi’s legs were constricting his range of motion-one of his arms was pinned at his side-and he was going to have trouble defending himself from Munokhoi’s blade. Gansukh lashed out blindly with his knife, feeling the blade cut fabric and flesh. Munokhoi grunted, and his legs loosened. As Gansukh scrambled out of Munokhoi’s grip, he kept slashing with his blade. Munokhoi began kicking, and Gansukh retreated before one of the other man’s boots connected with his face. There was blood on his knife and on his hand.
Munokhoi rolled away too, using the motion to propel himself into a crouch and from there to an upright position. He favored his left leg, and there was a bright wash of blood running down the side of his pants. Munokhoi’s gaze was charged with feral rage, his mouth contorted into a savage grimace. He stood ready to fight, oblivious to the wounds he had received.
Gansukh had seen this blindness to injury before. Men who refused to lie down and die, no matter how many arrows stuck out of their bodies or how many times they had been stabbed or cut. He had even heard of a man who continued to fight with a severed arm until his heart had pumped nearly all of the blood out of his body.
He wasn’t surprised that Munokhoi would be filled with this invincible bloodlust. In fact, he was prepared to call upon it himself. After everything, Munokhoi was not going to walk out of the forest. Gansukh was going to be the survivor of this fight. “You are nothing,” he hissed. “I will leave your corpse for the scavengers.”
Munokhoi’s response was a snarl of raw hatred and a lightning-fast lunge. Gansukh darted to the side, staying away from Munokhoi’s knife and keeping to the other man’s wounded side, but Munokhoi grabbed his left arm and tried to pull him close. He slashed at Munokhoi’s neck with his knife, and Munokhoi tumbled forward, shoving his shoulder. He stepped back, stumbling slightly, and Munokhoi slipped behind him, making ready to slit his throat like a sheep.
Gansukh contorted his body, trapping Munokhoi’s arm with his own. They were locked together now, each straining to overpower the other. Whoever lost control first would lose his life. Their faces reddened with anger and effort as they twisted in a macabre dance, trying to break each other’s hold. Trying to drive their knives deep into flesh. They were evenly matched, unable to gain the advantage while keeping the other’s knife at bay. Munokhoi slipped his arm over Gansukh’s wrist, attempting an arm lock, and Gansukh wriggled free and nearly managed to throw Munokhoi in return.
Munokhoi recovered and stabbed at Gansukh’s side, but there wasn’t enough speed or force to his blow, and Gansukh was able to stop the blow by grabbing Munokhoi’s wrist and pushing his hand away. Growling with frustration, Munokhoi hurled himself forward, thrusting with his chest. He snapped at Gansukh’s cheek with his teeth. Gansukh pulled his head back, and Munokhoi lurched farther up his chest, still straining to bite. He latched onto Gansukh’s ear, grinding his jaws together. He shook his head back and forth, like a dog worrying a piece of raw meat.
Gansukh felt blood flowing down his neck. He wanted to jerk his head away, but he knew if he did it would only increase Munokhoi’s blood rage. But letting Munokhoi gnaw on his flesh wasn’t helping either. He twisted his body, trying to slip his shoulder against Munokhoi’s chest, and he felt Munokhoi’s grip loosen on his right wrist.