She remained, though, and her hands began working on his foot. She massaged each toe individually, her hands slick with scented oils, and once each toe had been worked on, she moved on to his ankle, and then his calf, and then his thigh, and then…
Her ministrations helped, albeit briefly. For all her efforts, the headache remained, and its pounding rhythm sent aching waves cascading through his body-down his spine, echoing through his chest, into his pelvis, and down his legs to his feet and toes, which started to throb again.
He dug his way out of his bedding, and squinted at both the light and the sight of Jachin hovering nearby. She had a cup in her hand. “Water,” she said.
He groaned and started to burrow under the furs again, but she stopped him. “Drink it,” she said. She did not have the same forceful personality as Toregene, but the concern in her voice was enough to arrest his burrowing. Lifting his head slightly, he accepted the cup and sipped from it. The water was cold, freshly drawn from the nearby river, and his body shivered as he found himself gulping the water. She poured him another cup, and this one he drank more slowly.
“I have sent someone to get your cook, who will make you soup,” she said, and when he started to protest, she shook her head and pressed her hand against his chest. “It will ease your discomfort,” she said. “Lie still. Rest.”
It was all that he wanted to do, anyway. He felt a distant urge to piss, brought about by drinking the water, but he couldn’t imagine getting up right now to do so. He would have to venture outside his ger-into the sunlight-and he feared he would burst into flames.
It was best to stay here, lying very still, as Jachin commanded. The aches would pass. They always did. This was the spirits’ revenge for his drinking. In the past, he simply kept the pain at bay with another cup of wine, but as he sprawled on his bed, covered by a heavy layers of furs, he knew such succor would not be forthcoming. He could smell the fermented stink of his own sweat, a stench that made his stomach rebel.
He was a drunk. He knew his father would not have approved. For the most part, such awareness didn’t disturb him. Those thoughts only came to the forefront of his thinking at times like this, when he was in the aftermath of a bout of heavy drinking, and he knew-like all thoughts of inadequacy and fear-that they would pass. He was the Khan of Khans, ruler of the largest empire the world had ever seen. He was the master of thousands and thousands of fighting men. He was not a slave. He could stop drinking if he wanted to.
In fact, he was going to do just that. As soon as I return to Karakorum, he promised, squeezing his eyes shut. Rainbows danced across the inside of his eyelids as the headache flared again-thum thum-and then relented, releasing its hold as if it had accepted his promise.
He heard voices, the muffled sound of more than one person talking, and his nose encountered a delicious aroma-fish, garlic, ginger, and the sharp tang of a Chinese pepper. He opened his eyes, blinking heavily in the pale light.
The flaps of the ger had been pulled back, enough to allow a single figure to enter and still keep most of the sunlight out. Soup, he thought, somewhat surprised he could even consider eating. He sat up as the man carrying the tray approached his bed. The flaps of the ger were lowered, and as his eyes adjusted to the happy dimness again, he recognized the weathered face and the long gray hair of the man who brought his food.
Alchiq.
“Where is my cook?” Ogedei grumbled.
“He was only too happy to allow me the honor of bringing you your food, my Khan,” Alchiq said, a touch of a smile twisting his lips.
Ogedei grumbled some more, but kept the words to himself.
“Master Chucai said I should attend to your needs,” Alchiq said.
“Why?”
Alchiq shrugged. “He did not say, though when has he ever explained his commands?”
“Ha,” Ogedei said, scooting toward the edge of his sleeping platform. His stomach growled, vociferously eager for food, though, and he wondered if it was strong enough for such fare. “He is like an old fruit tree: as he gets older, he gets stiffer and his fruit becomes more sour.” He picked up the wide spoon that was resting beside the bowl and gingerly slurped up a mouthful of the broth.
It burned all the way down to his stomach, and his scalp started prickling immediately. “Ah,” he complained. “It is worse than I thought. This isn’t food. Why is my cook trying to poison me?”
“He’s trying to make you sweat,” Alchiq said, favoring Ogedei with his unwavering gaze.
Ogedei stared at his old guard for a moment and then, trying his best to ignore the pain still lacing his throat, he scooped up several of the floating pieces of fish with the spoon. “You used to drink with me,” he said around a mouthful of fish. “In fact, I remember you being able to drink more than me.”
“I do too, my Khan,” Alchiq replied.
“But not anymore.”
Alchiq shook his head slowly.
Ogedei sighed. “Now I understand why Chucai was eager to let you close to me again.” His stomach quailed as he filled his spoon with more broth. “I will need some distraction if I am to get this all down,” he said. “Tell me of the West. My sons and their cousins are conquering it in my name, but I know so little about it.” He laughed. “Did you ever imagine that our empire would be so vast that there would parts of it that I have never seen?”
“I did not, my Khan.”
“My father did.” A huge sigh welled up from his belly, and he shuddered as it worked its way out of his body. His cheeks felt wet, and he swiped a hand across his face. “This soup,” he laughed raggedly, “it is very spicy.”
“It is, my Khan.” Alchiq had the grace to look away.
CHAPTER FORTY
A trio of billowing columns of gray smoke marred the otherwise clear sky. The late afternoon sun winked through the twisting plumes, and Dietrich shook his head in disbelief as his horse galloped around a copse of oak trees that hugged a bend in the river.
The bridge was on fire.
No wind stirred the scene, and the pluming smoke billowed and roiled at its own whim. The plain near the bridge had been flattened by the passage of so many horses and men that it was nothing more than a flat field between the high banks of the river and the verge of a narrow band of trees that demarked fallow fields to the west. There was no shelter on this plain-it was exposed ground that Dietrich had hoped to cover swiftly before his Mongol pursuers could get within arrow range. His goal had been the bridge, but that hope died in his breast as soon as he realized where the smoke was coming from.
The road to Hunern was blocked.
Desperate, Dietrich urged his horse toward the river, pulling up short of the steep incline of the bank. Had he the presence of mind when they’d earlier crossed, he might have paid more attention to the depth and speed of the water. To misjudge either would be the death of him, especially dressed as he was in armor, and he did not have time to discard it. With the Mongols at his back, he dared not even try. He could force his horse into the water, but the animal would probably drown trying to carry him and swim. It was too great a risk, and it would take too long to discard his maille.
He heard the Mongols coming, their voices echoing with equal parts glee and anger. Dietrich suspected they would not kill him quickly.