pay the price for that loss.
Little doubt had he that Berke’s logic was much the same, and he puzzled anew over the Golden Horde’s absence. They could not have simply ridden away from a battle of import like this. Indeed, if Berke bested Abaqa here, he might well be able to absorb all of Abaqa’s dominion by continuing to sweep south. A new khan was at his most vulnerable in the first year of his dominion.
It made no sense. Thierry’s scowl deepened and he decided that Berke must have set a trap. A particularly devious trap that Thierry had best discern before ‘twas too late. Indeed, he saw in this moment the fullness of the risk he had taken in assuming the command of the right wing. Much was at stake. Too much, mayhap.
Mayhap Nogai would indeed see enough battle this day to satisfy even his taste.
* * *
Far behind the departing troops the shaman sat motionless on his white horse and watched the dust rise in the riders’ wake. He lifted his nose to the wind and listened to the voices of the spirits whispering in his ears, trying to discern more than they chose to tell him this day.
Death there was in the air, for naught else could that pervasive scent that tickled his nostrils be. Well the shaman knew that ‘twas no normal smell he caught in the wind, but a precognitive one that he alone of the tribe could discern.
But ‘twas there nonetheless, even if only to him, and the shaman knew not its source or meaning. He frowned and asked the elusive spirits, but they confided naught new to him. Their whispers assured him only that Death had passed and done his work already.
At least the Dark One came not for him this time.
Which gave the shaman pause to think. His eyes narrowed as Qaraq-Böke’s horse was lost in the distance, and he tapped his staff thoughtfully. The Dark One evidently had not come for that warrior, either.
Unfortunately. Far easier would life be without the threat of a nonbeliever becoming khan, even in the distant future. Despite the shaman’s efforts to undermine him, Qaraq-Böke continued to prove himself an able warrior. Indeed, should all continue thus, the shaman might well lose credibility with Abaqa, who was a believer. Only too willing had Abaqa been to believe his rival a poor warrior at first, but a few well-won battles might easily sway his mind.
And the shaman would have to ensure that he was not on the losing edge of that transition. He clicked his tongue against his teeth with dissatisfaction, wishing the spirits would be more forthcoming on this day. Something had gone amiss, for Berke’s troops were inexplicably gone. And should there be no battle, Qaraq-Böke could not be “accidentally” lost in the fray.
The shaman pursed his lips and hoped the men he had commissioned had more sense than he expected they did.
He recalled Abaqa’s unruly drinking and frowned. Unless he missed his guess, made even without the sheep bones, Abaqa would not boast the longevity of his sire. Nay, something had to be done about Qaraq-Böke before ‘twas too late. Annoying ‘twas that the man revealed no vulnerability, no weak spot that might be turned against him and that the shaman might use for his own advantage.
Even the shaman’s threats and premonitions of the previous night had apparently not affected the impassive warrior. And genuine they had been, as well. The shaman shook his head, disliking even further that Qaraq-Böke did not listen to the warnings of the spirits. One thing ‘twas to be a nonbeliever who would take little guidance from a shaman once empowered, quite another ‘twas to be a fool.
Aye, Qaraq-Böke could not be khan, under any circumstances. And since the shaman alone saw the threat, then he alone must correct the situation.
If only there was some weakness he could exploit. If only...
But of course. The shaman’s gaze drifted down the river to where the women were washing clothes. But of course. Too quick had Qaraq-Böke been to deny his interest in the
Little doubt had he that Berke’s logic was much the same, and he puzzled anew over the Golden Horde’s absence. They could not have simply ridden away from a battle of import like this. Indeed, if Berke bested Abaqa here, he might well be able to absorb all of Abaqa’s dominion by continuing to sweep south. A new khan was at his most vulnerable in the first year of his dominion.
It made no sense. Thierry’s scowl deepened and he decided that Berke must have set a trap. A particularly devious trap that Thierry had best discern before ‘twas too late. Indeed, he saw in this moment the fullness of the risk he had taken in assuming the command of the right wing. Much was at stake. Too much, mayhap.
Mayhap Nogai would indeed see enough battle this day to satisfy even his taste.
* * *
Far behind the departing troops the shaman sat motionless on his white horse and watched the dust rise in the riders’ wake. He lifted his nose to the wind and listened to the voices of the spirits whispering in his ears, trying to discern more than they chose to tell him this day.
Death there was in the air, for naught else could that pervasive scent that tickled his nostrils be. Well the shaman knew that ‘twas no normal smell he caught in the wind, but a precognitive one that he alone of the tribe could discern.
But ‘twas there nonetheless, even if only to him, and the shaman knew not its source or meaning. He frowned and asked the elusive spirits, but they confided naught new to him. Their whispers assured him only that Death had passed and done his work already.
At least the Dark One came not for him this time.
Which gave the shaman pause to think. His eyes narrowed as Qaraq-Böke’s horse was lost in the distance, and he tapped his staff thoughtfully. The Dark One evidently had not come for that warrior, either.
Unfortunately. Far easier would life be without the threat of a nonbeliever becoming khan, even in the distant future. Despite the shaman’s efforts to undermine him, Qaraq-Böke continued to prove himself an able warrior. Indeed, should all continue thus, the shaman might well lose credibility with Abaqa, who was a believer. Only too willing had Abaqa been to believe his rival a poor warrior at first, but a few well-won battles might easily sway his mind.
And the shaman would have to ensure that he was not on the losing edge of that transition. He clicked his tongue against his teeth with dissatisfaction, wishing the spirits would be more forthcoming on this day. Something had gone amiss, for Berke’s troops were inexplicably gone. And should there be no battle, Qaraq-Böke could not be “accidentally” lost in the fray.
The shaman pursed his lips and hoped the men he had commissioned had more sense than he expected they did.
He recalled Abaqa’s unruly drinking and frowned. Unless he missed his guess, made even without the sheep bones, Abaqa would not boast the longevity of his sire. Nay, something had to be done about Qaraq-Böke before ‘twas too late. Annoying ‘twas that the man revealed no vulnerability, no weak spot that might be turned against him and that the shaman might use for his own advantage.
Even the shaman’s threats and premonitions of the previous night had apparently not affected the impassive warrior. And genuine they had been, as well. The shaman shook his head, disliking even further that Qaraq-Böke did not listen to the warnings of the spirits. One thing ‘twas to be a nonbeliever who would take little guidance from a shaman once empowered, quite another ‘twas to be a fool.
Aye, Qaraq-Böke could not be khan, under any circumstances. And since the shaman alone saw the threat, then he alone must correct the situation.
If only there was some weakness he could exploit. If only...
But of course. The shaman’s gaze drifted down the river to where the women were washing clothes. But of course. Too quick had Qaraq-Böke been to deny his interest in the
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