Blue Wolf, Fallow Doe

By Nathaniel H.C. Kim

BLUE WOLF, FALLOW DOE is the sequel to the fascinating historical novel, KHWARAZM. In KHWARAZM, the avenging hordes of Cinggis Qan invade the great muslim kingdom of the Shah Muhammad Ala ad Deen. During the campaign, Cinggis Qans firstborn son, Jochi encounters the beautiful daughter of the Shah, Aisha and her betrothed, Captain Qafar of the Shahs Imperial Guard and becomes enamored with her.

In BLUE WOLF,FALLOW DOE, the story continues as Jochi discovers his attraction for the princess runs much deeper than he realized. While on campaign with the Mongols great general, Subotei Baatur in the lands of the Orusud (Russians) and Kama Bulgars, he learns that the princess of Khwarazm and her Captain are alive and living in the tent city of an old Mongol enemy, the Kangli Turks. Excited, Jochi sets out with his fathers army to find her. Alas, he is not the only one with such desire. Word of Aishas legendary beauty reaches the ears of the brutal and arrogant Orus Prince, Mstislav Mstislavich Udaloy of Galicia. With his son-in-law, Daniil Romanovich, Prince of Volynia and the blessings of the Grand Duke of Suzdalia, Mstislav mounts an army and sets out to find her, sparking an epic conflict that foreshadows the future of Russia for the next two hundred years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 15, 2004
• ISBN: 9781462835447

Nathaniel H.C. Kim

Sarai is the third and final installment of the Qans Triology. Nathaniel Kim resides in Kaneohe, Hawaii with his two sons and is presently working on a fourth novel based on the legend of Chinggis Qan’s return eight hundred years after his death.

Book preview

Chapter one

They stretched along the crest of a low hill, silent and brooding, a great black forest of fur and steel, recurved bow and double quivers. For three days they had laid siege to their enemy on the banks of the mighty Dnieper River. Now they waited beneath iron standards and tuft-haired lances on the lone rider below them.

Polskinia Khan boldly cantered toward the wooden ramparts of the fort rising eight feet above him, bundled in wolf-and-fox fur and wearing a fine black sable cap. His small eyes surveyed the soldiers lining the ramparts, a hedgerow of red and brown with drawn bows and nocked arrows. Advancing to within a few yards of the fort’s gates, his gloved fingers tightened around a long pole of ash from which flew a white flag of silk. With a loud grunt, he firmly planted the sharpened end of the pole into the ground.

State your name and business! The commander of the fort shouted down from above the gates.

Polskinia bowed and stretched out his arms with a flourish. "Dobroe utro! It is I, Polskinia Khan of the mighty Brodniki, come to offer terms of surrender on behalf of the great qa qan of the Mongols, Cinggis Qan!"

The commander hesitated a moment then gestured at the Brodniki to wait and disappeared from view. Snorting, Polskinia stroked his thick mustache and grabbed a leather pouch hanging from his saddle. He held it up and squeezed a white stream of airag into his open mouth.

Stupid fools, he thought.

In the middle of the fort beneath a shelter of felt, Kynaz Mstislav Romanovich of Kiev sat, bearded, grey eyed and pensive as he watched his commander hurriedly approach.

Something’s up, he remarked to a young man with a sharp nose and narrow face standing to his left, adorned in a chain mail vest over a white-and-red-embroidered tunic.

Perhaps the Tartari have finally come to their senses and wish to surrender to us, Oleg Smolensk, Kynaz of Kursk scoffed.

Romanovich smiled wryly and stood up slowly, leaning on a wooden cane.

Your grace, the commander said with a bow. The leader of the Brodniki, Polskinia Khan, is outside. He demands an audience to offer terms of surrender on behalf of the Tartari.

Romanovich’s brows arched. Surrender? He turned to Smolensk.

So the Cuman bastard’s changed sides, Smolensk scowled. Now he speaks for the barbarians. He spat in disgust, running a large hand over his heavy beard.

Romanovich limped to the edge of the shelter, eyes traveling around the interior of the fort. For three days the forces of Kiev and Kursk had held out against the Tartari and their Brodniki allies following the utter disaster at the Kalka River Valley. There, he, Kynaz Smolensk, and the men of Kiev and Kursk had covered the flight of the routed forces of their fellow princes, Mstislav Mstislavich Udaloy of Galicia, and his son-in-law, Daniil Romanovich of Volynia, only to arrive at the Dnieper and discover that the two and their men had taken all the boats across the river and burned them on the other side, stranding him and his men on the eastern banks. Had it not been for his foresight six days earlier to build this rudimentary fortification before joining in the pursuit of the heathens, he, Smolensk, and their men would have been slaughtered on the banks of the river like thousands of terrified rats. Although they had held out for three days, no soothsayer need tell him how this situation would end. He could no more count on Mstislavich or Daniil returning to their rescue than the thousands of brave souls that now fertilized the valley floor of the Kalka with blood and bone, including a half dozen Rus princes and seventy of their finest boyars.

Romanovich shot Smolensk a glance over his shoulder. If we get out of this, Oleg, Mstislav will pay for his stupidity, he said.

Smolensk snarled. If we get out of this, Roma, I’ll spike Mstislav’s head for all of Galicia to see—the traitorous sonofabitch!

Romanovich turned to his commander. Let the Brodniki Khan in, he ordered. With a sharp bow, the commander hurried toward the gates shouting orders. Let’s hear what the Brodniki has to say.

The princes watched as the gates were pulled open and Polskinia trotted in straight and tall in his saddle. Romanovich turned to a young sergeant on his left.

Inform the men to stand down, he said. I don’t think much will happen now.

The sergeant bowed and walked off to pass the word.

Smug and keen eyed, Polskinia nodded and smiled at the soldiers around him. At the shelter, he reined up. A soldier hurried forward and grabbed the halter of his horse. The Brodniki dismounted and strode toward Romanovich and Smolensk accompanied by the commander.

"Privyet, Kynaz Romanovich, Kynaz Smolensk, he said, bowing to both of them. I pray you’re in good health."

Do you now, Brodniki? Romanovich said. He glanced at Smolensk who spat once more into the ground. Let us dispense with niceties, Polskinia. You’ve come to offer terms of surrender. What exactly do your heathen comrades demand?

Polskinia smiled and surveyed the interior of the fort a moment, noticing that many of the men on the ramparts were slowly coming down to gather around and listen while others slumped down to rest after three weary days of siege. Romanovich tapped him on the shoulder with his wooden cane.

Brodniki, he snapped.

Many pardons, my grace, Polskinia replied with a dip of his head. The Mongols—Tartari—are reasonable men. They wish to acknowledge the bravery of you and your men by offering you surrender with a single condition—that you give a small token of good faith.

A heavy furrow appeared between Romanovich’s brows. What kind of token?

A pittance from the prince of Kiev—a hundred thousand rubles from your treasury. Polskinia shrugged. Let us call it a payment for your freedom and that of Kynaz Smolensk.

To the Brodniki’s surprise, Smolensk burst out laughing.

You find this amusing, Kynaz Smolensk? he said.

Amusing? The Kynaz of Kursk glowered at the Brodniki. I find it outrageous! He looked sharply at Romanovich. A ridiculous demand! You must reject it, Roma!

Romanovich held up his hand and gazed calmly at Polskinia. Tell me, Polskinia, what did these heathens do to turn you and your people? I imagine Kotian Khan will be greatly distressed to learn his trusted Brodniki leader now rides with barbarians.

Polskinia coughed up a wad of phlegm and shot it to the dirt. Fuck, Kotian Khan, he said, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic. The Polovtski’s a loser. He took a couple of steps to his right. The Brodniki aren’t stupid, Kynaz. We know strength when we see it. These Mongols are real. They’re no bandits as you think. He gazed at the nails of one hand. I strongly advise you and Kynaz Smolensk to accept their offer. He looked at both men. Or never see your families again.

Bastard! Smolensk’s hand gripped his saber to draw. Romanovich stopped him.

Make it fifty thousand rubles and we leave with our weapons, he said.

Polskinia laughed. I’m afraid not, Kynaz.

Then, tell the heathen bastard to go to hell! Smolensk shouted.

Polskinia bowed, body tensing. That you may do yourself. He bolted off to the right.

What the—

Something whipped passed Romanovich’s head. The commander groaned and spun around, hands grasping at his throat, the shaft of an arrow sticking out of it. Blood bubbled up out of his mouth. He fell, thrashing.

A trap, Roma! Smolensk shouted but it was too late.

Like a swarm of angry bees, the zip and hiss of arrows filled the air all around them. Bewilderment turned to panic as men began to fall. Mongols poured over the walls, surprising soldiers with saber thrusts and axe swings. Fighting erupted on every side of the fort. Bodies toppled from ramparts. More fell where they stood. A half dozen Mongols jumped on the scrambling guards at the gate and savagely chopped them to pieces then pulled the gates open.

Romanovich stood, numb.

The dark mass once gathered on the hill now charged through the open gates. Heavy cavalry worked flesh and bone with lances and axes, ripping off arms, breaking bones, opening up the most grievous of wounds. For the men of Kiev and Kursk, there was no place to hide, no shelter to seek, no place to run. Carnage reigned. Feces, piss, and snot shot out of orifices as fear took hold. Groups grappled in clouds of death beneath the leaden sky. Those still alive rallied around their two princes beneath the shelter, and desperately tried to protect them. All fell like ripe fruit, Mongol lances and arrows peeling back layer after layer of soldiers and officers until, at last, only the two remained standing.

A flaming arrow whistled high into the sky. An eerie silence suddenly settled over the fort like a dense fog but for the wretched groans of the wounded. Between the shelter and the gate, Mongol horsemen parted like the sea as two men beneath a standard of nine yak tails trotted into the fort and headed directly for the Rus princes. One was barrel chested and swarthy in appearance; the other, slimmer and youthful looking. Both wore the sable trim of noyon around the brim of their pointed steel helmets and the black and red trim of the royal guards—the keshig. Red ribbons fluttered from either side of the crown of their helmets; the saddles and bridles of their mounts fashioned of red leather. A few feet from the shelter, they reined up. The swarthy-faced one nudged his mount closer and bowed. Polskinia abruptly reappeared, saber in hand, face streaked with blood and grinning. The man began to speak. Polskinia interpreted.

"I am, Subotei Ba’atur, orlock of the Mongol tumans. This is my second, Jebe Noyan. The youthful-looking man dipped his head. Put down your weapons, Orusud."

Romanovich and Smolensk looked at each other, sabers drawn, hesitating.

You prefer to die, Subotei said flatly.

Slowly, the sabers lowered. Subotei smiled, saddle creaking.

Good. Tonight, you’ll be our guests of honor as we celebrate our victory. Subotei turned and raised his silver baton.

The fort exploded in a crescendo of cheers.

Chapter two

"What a shot, ecigeI"

The youths dismounted and scrambled through the pine forest toward the fallen deer, an arrow through its heart; tanned, boyish faces beaming with delight. One of the youths had long dark brown hair and deep hazel eyes and resembled the man with them.

Jochi dismounted and stood beside his ko’un, Batu, the tall one.

The antlers are wide and high, ecige, Batu said. His two younger cousins, Baibars and Kadun, examined the fallow buck’s thick, bladed antlers and counted the number of points. At twelve, Batu had the bold-cut features of his father and the beginnings of a rangy physique. On more than one occasion, Mongols had commented on how much ko’un resembled the father. His cousin Baibars was the ko’un of his father’s de’u, Ca’adai and Kadun the ko’un of the future qa qan, Ogodei.

Dress it and let’s take it home, Jochi said, motioning to them. Happily, Batu and Baibars drew their daggers while Kadun ran off to retrieve their mounts.

Your ecige’s a great archer, Baibars said, leonine eyes

glowing with admiration. I like the antlers. He looked up at Jochi. Could I have them, Uncle?

We’ll see, Jochi smiled, climbing back onto his horse, Qutula. He watched them a moment than walked Qutula to the edge of the forest.

The flat green-and-brown terrain sloped away from him down to the flowing expanse of the Volga, gunmetal in the afternoon sun. In the clean, crisp air, wisps of smoke curled up in lazy white tendrils from the toono of the felt gers that dotted the plain on the far bank like mushrooms after a morning rain.

For a month his tuman and their families had been camped here on the Volga by the Aman Ford waiting for the return of Subotei Ba’atur and Jebe Noyan from their Western expedition. He had been dispatched by his father after the fall of Khwarazm to reinforce the two who were granted permission to venture further west with two tumans provided they found and destroyed the Kama Bulgars before returning home. Under normal circumstances, being the oldest ko’un of the qa qan, he would have gone with them, but he was held back—punishment for setting the princess of Khwarazm and her captain free when the cliff fortress of Mazandan fell. Jochi’s shook his head, remembering. What a tense time that had been. When his ecige, Cinggis, found out, he had never seen the qa qan so angry. Anyone else would have been dead. Fortunately, as news of Subotei and Jebe’s successes in the West arrived, his ecige’s anger softened and finally, the qa qan granted his request to assist the two men when they rode against the Kama Bulgars. The journey to the Volga had been uneventful and things had been fine up until three days before when a messenger arrived from the qa qan’s camp informing him that his ecige had ordered him to return to the main camp on the Irtysh River.

Jochi shifted in his saddle. Instead of obeying the order, he sent three noyon to report that he was too ill to travel. So far, there hadn’t been any repercussions as a result of his disobedience. Of course, the noyon had not yet returned.

We’re done, ecige, Batu said behind him. Baibars and Kadun helped strap the dressed carcass to the back of Batu’s horse—hands, arms, and faces bloody. When all were mounted, they started back to the camp; Jochi and Batu riding together, followed by Baibars and Kadun.

When we return to camp, all of you wash hands and faces, Jochi said.

Yes, ecige. The camp will be pleased with the deer, Batu said as they rode leisurely along. We should dry some of the meat.

I’ll leave that up to you, boys, Jochi said, gazing at his oldest. When Batu and his two nephews arrived from Kharakorum just after Mazandan fell, his joy at seeing his oldest ko’un was great and made the loneliness of the campaign more tolerable. He loved his ko’un and nephews a great deal for in them lay the future of the horde. The Golden Horde.

May I ask a question, ecige? Batu said.

As long as I can answer it, Jochi teased.

"Why didn’t you go see ebuge when he summoned you? Won’t ebuge consider that disobedience?"

Staring straight ahead, Jochi nodded. Something you’re not to do if ebuge ever summons you, he said.

Aren’t you afraid he’ll punish you? Wouldn’t he punish others if they did the same thing?

Yes. And I expect he’ll punish me as well.

A tiny frown wrinkled Batu’s brow. I don’t understand, ecige. If you know he’ll punish you, why didn’t you obey?

I’ve my reasons, Batu, Jochi said, gazing at his ko’un. But you’re not to follow my example.

Why, ecige?

Because, in this instance, I’m wrong.

As they entered the camp a gaggle of young and old ran over to see what their qan and the boys had brought back. While Batu and the others proudly showed off the buck, Jochi trotted to his ger and dismounted.

Inside, a fire pleasantly cackled in an iron brazier in the middle of the felt tent. Jochi welcomed the soothing warmth of the interior, took off his kalat and hung it on a peg. From another peg, he lifted a pouch of airag and drank a mouthful. It went down sweet and warm. He set his hunting gear to one side and lowered himself to a covering of rugs and pillows; the fire warming his hands and the airag his inside. On one side of the brazier an oil lamp of polished gold sat, etched with patterns of flowers and the lovely designs of Basurman writing. The lamp had been a gift from one of his men after the fall of Samarkand; one he cherished, not because it reminded him of their victory over the Sarta’ul, but of the princess of Khwarazm, Aisha. It had been taken from her room at Samarkand. He stared at the lamp, watching the flame dance on the gold-plated spout. It seemed so much like her: delicate yet hot, something to behold but careful to touch.

It’d been just over a year since that day he set her and her betrothed free on the plains of Mazandan. Had she and the captain returned at the head of an army as his de’u, Ca’adai speculated, his life would not have been worth much even to his ecige. Fortunately, that never happened and the princess and captain were not seen again though he heard many rumors in the ensuing months. One rumor had her living a life of slavery in Baghdad, concubine to the caliph al-Nasir; another told of a beautiful, young woman of royalty living in luxury in Tiflis; still another, as whore to the king of Georgia, Giorgi Lashas. He had no idea whether any of the rumors were true though he noted that the rumors never mentioned anything about a husband or children which left him wondering whatever happened to the Sarta’ul captain. Had the two fallen out of love? Had the captain met with misfortune? At times, he regretted the decision he had made that day. At others, he felt it’d been the right thing to do. He had found Aisha to be self-centered, independent, and stubborn, the same qualities he had seen in his own fiancée, Nyla, before their falling out and her untimely death; qualities he rejected as incompatible characteristics for the wife of a qan. At other times, he wondered if he had been too hasty in his judgment; if he couldn’t have changed her in time or ignored her flaws altogether in exchange for companionship. A lot of ifs. He chided himself for brooding about her and told himself, in time, all thoughts of the princess would fade like ink on parchment. Yet, to his dismay, his thoughts continued. Every woman he met, he found himself comparing to her. A whiff of frankincense or perfume brought back memories of her. He tried shaking the thoughts, slapped his own face whenever he’d think of her. And yet, he seemed powerless to stop the obsession, the smoldering compulsion which inexorably turned his thoughts back to her. It was as though she had cast a spell on him. Through Sarta’ul magic or charms or some other secret way made it impossible for him to ever again appreciate the beauty or attributes of any woman who didn’t look like her, sound like her, or smell like her.

She did more to me than I ever did to her, he sighed. And I didn’t even know it.

Ecige! Batu’s call snapped him out of his reverie. He capped the pouch, stood up, and walked out. The three boys stood before him.

Where’s the deer? he asked.

"The slaves—bo’ol are cutting it up to distribute, Batu answered. Did you decide who gets the antlers?"

Three expectant, upturned faces made him laugh.

A hard decision, he said, chuckling. So, we must decide by contest.

All right! Batu said. I love contests.

What kind of contest? Baibars asked, pensive.

A shooting contest, Jochi said, gesturing to two of his keshigs standing nearby. Sem Soci and Taisi will set up a target. The first to hit it with three arrows will win the antlers. You’ll each have five arrows to try.

The boys jumped with excitement, drawing a crowd of a dozen other youths from the camp. Jochi surveyed all of the expectant faces, ko’ud of some of his noyon and soldiers. He laughed.

All right. The contest will be open to anyone who wants to try, he announced to the disappointment of Batu, Baibars, and Kadun, but to the joy of the other boys, their whoops and yells rising about them. Follow me, he said.

Chapter three

The door opened. A draft of cold air swept into the room, flowing between the worn wooden legs of tables and chairs and billowing up against a wooden counter. Behind the counter, a grizzled-faced man wearing a soiled grey tunic looked up as two figures in thick fur cloaks and hoods entered. Water from their furs dripped onto the floor. Through the front windows, the last vestiges of twilight vanished.

The taller of the two lowered the hood, revealing an oval face, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed mustache and beard. The man behind the counter set down the plate he had been drying and shuffled along the counter toward the visitors.

Marhaba, the young man said approaching the counter. My apologies for the water on the floor, he noted. It’s been raining outside.

A fact of life, the man mumbled. " Marhabateen."

The young man dipped his head. Are you the proprietor?

Na’am.

My name is Qafar and I wish a room tonight for my wife and me, he said.

The man glanced to his right. The shorter figure had moved to the fireplace, small hands held palms out for warmth.

You’ve come to the right place, the man said turning back to Qafar. I am Rashid, proprietor of this humble tavern. The only one you’ll find in all of Bolykshi. He gestured at the fireplace. Please. Take off your coat and sit down. I’ll get some tea.

Shukran, Qafar said, removing his cloak. He went over to the fireplace where his wife stood and helped her take off the cloak.

From the doorway of the kitchen Rashid gasped as the woman briefly turned in his direction.

Allah! Could it be? He ducked into the doorway, mind racing, eyes flittering about. He peered around the corner for another look. Yes, yes! Allah! It was her! He would recognize such beauty anywhere—none other than the princess of Khwarazm!

Two years ago, he had seen her when the shah came through with his son and daughter on their way to his private palace in Astrakhan. All the townspeople of Bolykshi had turned out to catch a rare glimpse of the royal family. He would never forget that radiant beauty. The envy of women everywhere. Rashid hurried into the small kitchen and over to a youth of fifteen busy kneading dough on a table at the back. He grabbed the youth by the arm.

Sale, he said, take my horse out back. Ride to the Mughal outpost. Tell them—the princess of Khwarazm’s here—now!

The kneading stopped. Sale’s blue eyes opened wide. The princess Aisha? he echoed.

Na’am. Damnit! There’s a reward for her capture. I’ll split it with you. Go!

Sale hesitated.

What’s the matter? Get moving!

But . . . Uncle, she’s our princess—

Rashid’s fingers dug into his thin arm. Do as I say! Or, you get nothing!

Na’am, Uncle. Sale drew a short coat off a hook by the back door.

Ride quickly! Hurry! Rashid almost pushed him out into the night. As soon as he heard the horse head off, he poured a steaming pot of tea into a copper kettle, placed it on a tray with two glass cups and returned to the main room, taking deep breaths to quell his racing heart. Be calm. Be calm, he told himself. Don’t give yourself away. Allah. An answer to his prayers. Debts would be paid. He might even be able to get out of there! How wonderful!

Something for a cold night, Rashid said, smiling and setting the tray on a low table before them. The princess sat on a couch of down and pillows, back to him, staring at the flames of the fire.

Like many others, Rashid assumed she’d been killed by the Mughals. Yet, here she was, in his very own tavern, looking alive and quite well!

Shukran, Qafar said, filling the two cups. He held one out to Aisha who turned to take it.

My wife, Ahlam, Qafar introduced.

Rashid nodded. A great pleasure, Ahlam, he said.

She gave him a wan smile and slight tip of her head then turned back around to face the fire.

She’s as beautiful as ever, Rashid sighed. Would you like something to eat? Some pastries, perhaps? Very light. Sugary.

Qafar smiled. That’d be kind of you.

I’ll be right back. Rashid hurried away, returning a few moments later with a small silver platter of thin-crusted delicacies. He sat them down on the table and took a seat. The pastries were a week old but it was all he had at the moment.

You wish a room, he said to Qafar.

Na’am. We’ve traveled a long way. We’re very tired.

From where do you come? Rashid inquired, helping himself to one of the pastries.

Astrakhan.

Rashid’s dark eyes grew wide. A traveler recently told me the city was destroyed by the Mughals, he said.

Qafar slowly nodded, nibbling on a pastry. We managed to escape before they came.

Praise be to Allah, Rashid said, casting his eyes to the ceiling. And where do you go now?

North, Qafar said, gazing at the proprietor. Tell me something, Rashid.

Na’am, of course.

Do you always question your guests?

Rashid grinned, sheepishly. A thousand pardons, sire. The curiosity of an old man. You see, I’m stuck here. The only news I get is what passing travelers or merchants choose to share with me. If I don’t ask, I don’t know what’s going on in the world, eh?

Qafar nodded and sipped his tea. How much do you charge for a room?

Normally, five dinari, Rashid said, holding up one hand. But for you and your pretty wife—I’ll charge only three.

Qafar started to reach into a pocket when Rashid touched his arm.

You may pay me later, my friend. You look trustworthy to me.

Shukran. Qafar set his pastry down. I’ve heard a story that the Sultan Ala ad Deen died somewhere around here, he said. Is there truth to that?

Some, Rashid said, an odd tone in his voice. He actually died on the island of Abaskun. It’s about a mile offshore in the Caspian. He shook his head mournfully. Very sad. Such a great man to come to such a sad end. Very sad. The man’s eyes glanced furtively at Aisha. She didn’t turn around.

The Mughals didn’t destroy this village, Qafar said, staring closely at Rashid. Why’s that? We’d heard they destroyed everything in Khwarazm.

Na’am, they did, Rashid quickly replied. They spared us because of a most treacherous act committed by my cousin in Astara. The grizzled corners of his mouth turned down. I’m almost ashamed to speak of it—he told the infidels where they could find the sultan. Out of the corner of his eye Rashid noticed that the princess was now staring intently at him. I pray every night to Allah for forgiveness. Abduh was a weak man.

And where’s Abduh now?

Alas. Rashid sighed, shoulders slumping. He died shortly after his betrayal. Got drunk and drowned in his nets. That too was very sad though I must say—deserved after what he did. An awkward silence settled around them but for the crackling of the fire. Rashid glanced up and noticed Qafar and the princess staring at each other.

Please, more tea. He refilled their cups. Although they didn’t destroy the village, not much remains. Many of the people fled after the Mughals came. A few brave souls stayed—like myself.

What of your family?

All I have is a nephew, Rashid said. He moved in with me when his parents were killed by the Mughals in Herat. He leaned forward, lowering his voice. You two must be careful. They’re all around now. You’re fortunate to have made it this far without running into them.

Qafar nodded. There were many things to be thankful for.

So you and your nephew run this tavern? he inquired. How’s business?

You’re the first travelers I’ve seen in a while. The only other people who stay here are the accursed infidels. I considered many times closing up and moving away. But then, I ask, ‘Where will you go, Rashid? Who do you know? Who will take in an old man like you? All you know is how to run a tavern. You’ve no dinar. No gold.’ He heaved a sigh. I’ve lived a very hard life. But you, he gestured. You look to be a craftsman. Or a soldier. An officer, perhaps. A man of education.

Qafar shot Rashid a sharp look. What makes you say that?

Rashid shook his head. Your looks. You carry yourself with confidence. Like a man who knows his business. He tapped his temple with a thick forefinger. "I bet you’re a scholar. A qadi. Either that or an emir. Which is it?"

Merchant, Qafar said. At one time, a wealthy merchant until the barbarians came.

Clearly, punishment from Allah, Rashid mumbled. They’ve changed everything. He stood up and went behind the counter, returning with a bottle of wine and three glasses. He set them on the table. Wine from Shiraz. Very good. He filled the glasses. Qafar took a sip. It was sweet but not too sweet. Aisha didn’t touch her glass.

Your wife doesn’t say much, Rashid said. Does my talking offend her?

"La—no. She’s just tired," Qafar said. He lifted his glass to his lips, eyes drifting over to a window. A sudden chill shot down his back. Something dark had just passed by. He looked over at Rashid. Perspiration dripped from the man’s face. Qafar’s right hand slid toward the handle of a dagger in his belt, alarm raising the hairs of his neck. There was a sound at the door. Rashid leaped to his feet. The door burst open.

There! There! Rashid shouted, pointing excitedly. "That’s the princess of Khwarazm!

Aisha gasped.

Mughals! Five of them dressed in blue kalats, fur-trimmed helmets and lacquered breastplates.

Qafar jumped to his feet, whipped out his dagger and quickly stepped in front of Aisha to shield her. She pushed up against his back. He felt her trembling and cursed. He’d hoped Rashid hadn’t recognized her but he should have known better, especially with all the questions. Exhaustion had dulled his senses. Qha’bi! Moron!

The Mughal nearest Rashid said something to him. He was broad shouldered and thick in the chest with a sharp nose and deep grey eyes. Rashid turned toward them.

Commander Sira says put down the dagger, merchant.

You treacherous pig! Qafar hissed, glaring at the man.

Rashid smiled. Everyone must make a living, fool.

Qafar feinted a step toward him. Rashid quickly ducked behind Sira who said something.

He says put down the dagger. He’ll not say so again, Rashid repeated over the Mughal’s shoulder.

Qafar, Aisha said behind him, please. I’m tired of running. She placed a hand on his arm and pushed down. They’ll just kill us.

He hesitated a moment then lowered his hand, letting the dagger fall to the floor. To his utter amazement, Aisha suddenly stepped out from behind him and looked at Rashid.

Tell the leader I wish to be taken to the Mughal qan, Jochi, she said. Tell him that.

Frowning, Rashid translated. Sira listened, face stoic. Suddenly, he broke out laughing, followed by his men. He said something to Rashid.

He says he’s in charge here. Not Jochi, Rashid said. Sira gestured sharply at his men. They hurried forward and bound Aisha’s and Qafar’s hands with leather strips. As they led them to the door, Sira stopped Aisha, Rashid beside him. His smell burned her nose.

The nights have been cold. Now I’ve you to warm my bed, he said, chuckling. He glanced at Rashid. Come outside and get your blood money, Sarta’ul.

It was a windless night. In the distance, a full moon rode like a lone rider in an indigo sky. Five more men waited outside on their mounts. Qafar was ahead, Aisha right behind, flanked by Sira’s men. In the rear, Sira and Rashid followed, busy arguing about the amount of the reward. The group had just emerged from under the roof of the building into the soft light of the moon when the Mughal on Qafar’s left let out a funny sound and fell to the ground. Qafar looked down, eyes widening. An arrow protruded from the man’s neck!

Aisha! Get down! he yelled. The night exploded with the zip and thud of arrows.

The men on the horses tumbled out of their saddles. Three of Sira’s men went down. Sira started to shout and took an arrow straight in the mouth and another in the shoulder. Rashid cried out in panic, freezing where he stood. It was over in seconds.

Qafar ripped off his leather strips and crawled over to Aisha.

You all right? he said, checking her, untying her hands.

Na’am. I think so, she said, shaken.

Qafar looked up. The eerie light of the moon seem to sprout shadows from all sides of the building. He grabbed one of the Mughal’s sabers and stood up, helping Aisha to her feet. Behind them, two more men appeared holding Rashid at the end of their scimitars. The man was terrified. One of the Mughals started to gurgle to his right. Qafar looked over. It was Sira, blood filling the cavity of rotten teeth. A shadow briskly strode forward, scimitar in hand, blade glinting in the moonlight. With a vicious thrust, the blade went through the man’s chest. The sternum cracked and split. The gurgling stopped. A mighty pull yanked the scimitar out of the chest and the figure moved toward the two, the veil of a kaffiyeh across the face. Qafar and Aisha tensed, wondering what was next. Who were these men? Qafar raised the saber.

Aisha . . . ?

A thousand years could have passed; a thousand generations gone by but she would have recognized that voice in an instant.

Jalal!

Stunned, Qafar watched as Aisha ran toward her brother and threw her arms around his neck, tears filling her eyes. The two embraced, rocking back and forth in the moonlight. Aisha pulled away and gazed at him.

I thought you were dead. I thought I’d never see you again, she cried. He put his arm around her and walked over to Qafar. The two men hugged, slapping each other on the backs.

Good to see you, Qafar, Jalal said. It’s been a while.

Na’am, it has, Qafar said. Together, they went back into the tavern. Behind them, Jalal’s men pushed Rashid and Sale into the room.

Once inside the light and the warmth, they took seats around the table by the fireplace. Jalal helped himself to some of the wine while his men brought Rashid and Sale over.

The youth was the one who called the Mughals, Jalal said, taking a drink of wine. We caught him coming back.

Rashid suddenly dropped to his knees clasping his hands together. Mercy, he pleaded. Allah, be merciful.

Jalal glared at the proprietor and slowly rose and stepped toward him. Stand up, he said. Rashid got to his feet, quivering.

Do you know who I am?

Rashid dipped his head. Jalal ad Deen, prince of Khwarazm, he said.

How much was the reward for my sister’s head? Jalal said.

Rashid chewed on his lower lip. A pittance, majesty. A lowly amount.

For which you risked the life of you and the boy? Jalal slapped the man’s face. Sale cringed. How much?

A . . . thousand . . . a thousand . . . dinari . . . Rashid stuttered. Please, great one. Have mercy. I’m but an old man. It was my nephew’s idea—

Uncle! The youth exclaimed, shocked, eyes wide with fear. You lie! He lies—

Jalal held up his hand silencing Sale. He turned back to Rashid.

I’ve been told by my men, it was your cousin who betrayed my father, he