Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Ganbold. Warrior. Hunter.
Ganbold had traveled to Samarkand. He did not find her.
He found a few people who could speak his words or read his parchment. He had learned to say Frenchman and woman in common Mongolian. It helped, but no one had seen them.
The man who told him to come to Samarkand had lied to him. Or maybe Ganbold had just not understood. He felt anger in his fists as he sat in the square, deciding where to go next.
The ancestors did not make the path to find this woman easy. He did this to honor them. To honor the old ways. The true ways.
Travel was more difficult than Ganbold had expected.
No language made it hard to negotiate a ride, to understand routes.
He had spent his life with his tribe. The only times he had come in contact with westerners, he had been with others, with the il-khan and the elders who could speak more than their tribal language.
Alone, he had little money, no horse, and almost no communication.
But he was a good nomad and could live easily from the land.
He could not make any more errors. Others would be searching for her by now.
His next route had to be correct, or he would surely lose the chance to be the one to bring the woman home.
He looked to the sky, begging for guidance.
The afternoon sun beat down as he sat in a busy square at the edge of Samarkand, a place of large buildings with rounded roofs, very different from the cities closer to his home.
Ganbold, with distaste in his mouth about going further West, decided he would backtrack.
There were hundreds of routes in this area, going through outposts, towns, and villages.
The woman and the Frenchman could have gone over the hills, across the mountain ranges.
Ganbold felt fury that the people in this city could not talk to him.
He would already have the woman by the hair if they had not mingled with the westerners and lost their ancient language.
He thought of the pride he would feel in his chest when he brought the woman to his tribe.
He thought of the relief he would feel when he was allowed back around his tribal hearth.
He thought of the pleasure he would feel when he took the woman he wanted for his wife.
Ganbold had not been permitted to marry her before, because they were of the same tribe and were in danger of having close relations.
The last time he had gone to her yurt, her father was waiting.
The girl had rushed between Ganbold and his father, and she had been struck.
That was the last time Ganbold saw her. He escaped through the window because there was so much screaming. The Il-khan shamed him for the attack and sent him out of the tribe.
Sadness at the loss of his tribe and his woman was brewing inside him when, suddenly, he heard the throaty language of a Frenchman there in the square. Ganbold’s eyes snapped to the source: a tall man with a shorter blond companion.
The woman! The ancestors had blessed him.
The figure was cloaked, but the light hair betrayed her.
Relief and excitement surged. Ganbold hunched and stalked the pair through the crowd.
They moved through the square, past a tavern, on the road that led out of town.
He would like to attack now, but the people would not allow an open war with a Westerner, and they might even protest the woman being taken.
No, he had to catch them on the roads, away from others.
So, he prowled, letting the pair get further down the road that led into the rustling trees of the plains.
Hunter.
As they reached the outer limits of the town, away from the crowds, the man and his companion came into better view.
Ganbold saw that the blond companion was not a woman, but a boy, tall but thin, just on the verge of becoming a man.
Ganbold felt frustration in his shoulders, across his back, and tightening up his neck.
He wanted something in his hands to squeeze.
Then Ganbold got a very good idea. Since he could not find the correct Frenchman to kill, he would start to kill all the Frenchmen he found.
All the travelers and all the merchants.
There were rules from his clan that controlled how his people acted with the Westerners, but Ganbold didn’t want to mind them.
As long as he could do it away from the eyes of the townspeople, no one would know.
The ancestors did not give him the woman yet, but they gave him this idea.
He would use them to find the Frenchman, to find the murderer woman, so he could bring his trophy home.
Warrior.
Moments later, the pair stopped for a drink. The trees along this stretch were sparse, but Ganbold stayed hidden in the high grasses off the road. When they paused, Ganbold approached.
He heard the blistering gibberish as he came near. The pair jumped when they finally noticed Ganbold.
“Hello,” the man said, a word Ganbold knew, before trailing off into words Ganbold didn’t know.
“I seek a woman,” Ganbold said in his own language.
The man stared. He did not understand.
Ganbold grunted. He moved closer with his hands out to terrify, a tactic used by those of his lineage.
The man reached for the sword on his hip and spoke words to the boy. The boy said something back to him.
The man shouted at Ganbold and held out his sword.
Ganbold.
Ganbold had a sword, but he preferred to use his hands. He moved to lunge, baring teeth.
“You scared us,” the boy said, his voice high with fright. “We are going to rejoin our company.”
Ganbold stopped short, hands still outstretched. The words were not perfect for his language, but they were close. He understood. “You speak my language,” Ganbold began. “How?”
The boy shrugged. “I am a translator. I’m good with languages.”
The older man next to him spoke words to the boy. He indicated toward Ganbold.
The boy nodded. “He says to tell you that there are more of us just down the road.”
“More Frenchmen?” Ganbold asked.
The boy hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “Twelve. A merchant convoy returning to France. We don’t want trouble.”
Twelve Frenchmen would be easy for Ganbold to kill with his strength and the spirits of the land and sky on his side. But he wanted information first. “I want to find a Frenchman and a woman,” Ganbold said. “Hair like yours, tribal like me.”
The boy glanced at the man beside him. They exchanged words. Then the boy spoke to Ganbold. “No,” he said. “They are not with our group.”
Ganbold felt anger in his chest. He crouched to lunge.
“I know them,” the boy shouted, holding his hand out as both he and the man stepped back.
Ganbold paused, waiting for the boy to continue.
“I-I traveled with them.”
Ganbold took a step toward the boy. The man stepped back, holding out his blade. It shook. The boy stayed.
“Where are they?” Ganbold snarled, his words infused with his hatred.
The boy glanced at the other man again, then back to Ganbold. “What will you give me if I tell you?”
Ganbold grinned. “I don’t kill you.”
“And him?” the boy asked.
Ganbold just kept grinning.
The boy swallowed. “Bukhara,” he said. “They are in Bukhara. They will travel to Samarkand within the week.” The boy turned and said something to the man. The man smiled and dropped his guard. He nodded at Ganbold.
Ganbold had all he needed, so he leapt at the man, snatching forward.
He ripped the sword out of his hand, grabbed his arm, and put his other hand to his throat.
Ganbold squeezed, holding his grip tight just for a moment longer to watch the man’s eyes blaze in a panic, his free arm flailing.
Then he applied enough pressure to stop his breathing.
The man collapsed, and Ganbold went down with him, holding him in the dirt.
Ganbold didn’t know what he heard break first, the man’s neck or his arm, but in moments, Ganbold was breaking bones like brittle twigs.
When he knew the man was dead, Ganbold remembered the boy. He looked over and saw him, wide-eyed, staring back. Ganbold moved toward him.
“You-you said you wouldn’t kill me,” the boy yelled.
“You come with me now,” Ganbold said, thanking the ancestors for this gift of someone who could speak the languages that Ganbold could not.
“Where are we going?”
“First, to your group of Frenchmen.”
Ganbold. Warrior. Hunter.