Dakaniha had a dilemma. He was tracking a warrior he desperately wanted to learn from, but whose martial skills terrified him. Although he had yet to set eyes on him, Dakaniha could tell from the trail of destruction that teaming up with this man could mean the difference between life and death in this new, dangerous land he found himself in, so he had followed the track of footprints: a trail of broken twigs and broken bodies.
For days, Dakaniha had followed this trail, finding pieces of discarded clothing with loops of leather that suggested the owner was well armed. In a small clearing, he’d discovered the body of a large, striped beast that, judging by its wounds and the tracks in the dusty ground, had been slain by two warriors, a third individual joining them after the fight. None were the man he tracked. He found three sets of bloody clothes nearby. Their footwear matched the footprints near the beast, yet Dakaniha assumed all three deaths had been the work of the man he was tracking. If these men had killed the huge carnivore, and the man he pursued had killed them, he had to be an even greater warrior!
He’d had his own encounters with beasts. Dakaniha came across a lethargic stream where he took off his rawhide armour and poured the cool water over his shaved head. Thoughts of his wife, Adsila, and his young daughter, Ayasha, had come to him: they were waiting patiently for him, so he would have to be patient in order to return to them.
It was then that he’d seen the creature.
A galitsohidv? Dakaniha thought as he marvelled at the beast’s lethal-looking horns.
It had noticed him. With a twitch of an ear and a trio of hoof stomps, it charged, full speed. Dakaniha had scared off lone wolves and hungry bears, but this animal was not going to be frightened by sticks of fire and its hide was too thick for his arrows. It bore down on him with a thundering gallop, leaving him two options – run or climb. So he did both. He scrambled up the low branches of the nearest tree as the heavyweight dashed beneath, ripping up clods of earth and snorting as it passed. Dakaniha was back on the ground in a second, running in the opposite direction and hoping the beast was not as good at tracking as he was.
Deeper into the forest he’d travelled until finally he’d come across another, intertwining path. So now, as the light faded and dusk closed in, he crouched to study the trail. The footprints weren’t those of a British soldier, yet they weren’t Aniyunwiya or those of the great warrior.
Will this land give me no clues? Dakaniha asked the canopy of leaves above.
As he lowered his head, he caught a glimpse of light in his peripheral vision. A campfire! Dakaniha closed in, with soft steps, avoiding dry leaves and twigs. He crouched nearby and saw a white man by the fire, which flickered and glinted off the bronze chest plate and helmet lying by the soldier’s side. He had the wrong clothing to be British and had no rifle. Creeping closer, Dakaniha saw a long spear and a round shield and saw the man was wrapped in a red cape.
The stranger spoke, but used words Dakaniha didn’t recognise, then tilted his head to one side and smiled.
Dakaniha stood to his full height and stepped into the light of the fire. ‘I am Dakaniha of the Aniyunwiya people. Your people call us Cherokee.’ He stood patiently, waiting for a reply.
The man spoke again and studied Dakaniha’s bow and axe with obvious interest, but Dakaniha didn’t recognise a single word.
‘I am Dakaniha.’ He stabbed his chest with a forefinger.
The man smiled then laughed a little, shaking his ponytail, then gestured to the fire.
Dakaniha frowned. Who was this man? A scout from another invading army? A new soldier fighting for the British?
The long-haired soldier gestured to the fire again and pointed to the ground. Then he tossed a cooked leg of bird to Dakaniha, who caught the charred meat and frowned. He weighed up the stranger’s motives and, deciding he would be able to defend himself if attacked, sat down to tuck into the meat. It tasted good.
‘We should leave,’ Dakaniha said the next morning as he shook the dust off his cloak and pulled it over his shoulders.
The long-haired soldier stretched, pointed at the hazy sky and made a comment Dakaniha couldn’t understand.
He squinted at the foreigner, trying to make sense of his words. ‘We go this way.’ He led the man to the great warrior’s trail, pointing out the shoe prints and pieces of broken twig. ‘This belongs to a brave warrior who killed three dangerous men.’
The soldier casually swung his long spear over his shoulder, gave Dakaniha his broad smile and started jogging along the trail.
By dusk, there was still no sign of the warrior.
On the second morning, the pair entered a range of hills covered in orange and yellow cacti.
Dakaniha stood on the peak of the first hill and scanned the horizon but there was nothing he recognised. The twigs on the trail had been replaced by snapped cactus spines. They followed the trail, where the hills formed a rolling plateau, until Dakaniha found new tracks that merged with the path.
‘They’ve walked over the footprints,’ Dakaniha said, growing anxious, and his pounding heartbeat sounded loud in his ears, along with another sound carried by the wind.
‘Somebody is in trouble,’ Dakaniha said and looked to the stranger to see if he could hear it too.
He tapped his ear and pointed off the path.
They followed the calls to a shallow valley where the cacti grew thin. A red ground vine covered the dusty soil and, at the centre of the dell, sat a dark, ridged crater, staring at the sky like a pupil in a giant eye.
Dakaniha jogged behind his companion and eyed the enclosing hills warily. He rubbed his left temple. Something didn’t feel right here. They jogged to the crater and Dakaniha stared into the abyss to see three pairs of eyes peering back up. The hole was twenty paces across with steep sides lined with shards of white glass, like the mouth of a giant subterranean beast. A voice shouted from the darkness but it was another garbled mess Dakaniha didn’t understand.
The long-haired warrior had walked out of view but reappeared carrying an armful of red vines. Dakaniha took one and pulled on it to test its strength.
‘This might work,’ he said, tied two lengths together and lowered one end into the hole.
The trapped soldiers were still shouting as Dakaniha and the stranger took the strain and felt the weight on the other end of the vine. After a few yelps and growls from the pit, a black face appeared and clambered over the lip.
Dakaniha looked at the African with wide eyes and the man gave him a similar stare. Dakaniha saw glistening cuts on his forearms and shins but he seemed more concerned with getting everyone out of the hole.
The next soldier was another African, whose face carried a deep wound on his swollen eye.
Finally, a soldier with a round helmet pulled himself over the crater’s ridge. He spoke with a rapid tongue and Dakaniha had no idea what he was saying. After several failed attempts and several cautious glances to the sky, the soldier pulled a mushroom from a bag and offered it to the long-haired soldier, who declined. Dakaniha refused as well and was ready to draw his dagger when the soldier blew a dust from the mushroom in his face.
Dakaniha stepped back, coughing and sneezing. A distant boom made him turn but he saw nothing in the sky. He scanned the landscape for cannon smoke but it was clear. By the time he had turned a full circle, the words of the saved soldiers had become clear.
‘…two bodies down there, but we have to leave them.’ The round-helmeted soldier spoke with authority.
‘What happened to them?’ the long-haired warrior asked.
‘One was killed by the bird and the other died when she fell into the pit.’
Dakaniha scowled at each soldier, confused. ‘What sorcery is this?’ he asked.
‘Ah, it worked!’ The soldier who had blown the spores at Dakaniha gave him a nod. ‘I am Tode of the Golden Horde, my thanks for rescuing us.’
‘I am Dakaniha of the Aniyunwiya,’ he replied, still confused.
‘This fungus,’ Tode held up a grey mushroom, ‘gives us the power to communicate.’
Dakaniha looked to the long-haired soldier, who seemed to accept the idea.
‘I’m Kastor of Sparta,’ he said and gave his broad smile. ‘Nice to understand you at last.’
‘Yes,’ Dakaniha replied.
‘And I am Osayimwese of the Oyo Empire,’ the first African said.
‘You are injured,’ Kastor looked from man to man as they sidestepped down the crater.
‘We were cut by the eggshells when we climbed up,’ said Osayimwese, and he pulled a sliver of white stone from his belt and his eyes lit up. ‘But I managed to take a piece.’
Dakaniha turned to the soldier with the swollen eye, but he was running away from the crater. A flash of lightning lit up a dark shape in the clouds, followed by a distant crackle of thunder.
Tode looked up to the cloudy sky and said, ‘We must leave this place.’
Dakaniha watched in horror as a huge eagle descended from the clouds, its enormous talons gripping two struggling bodies. He had his bow strung in an instant.
‘We must find cover!’ Tode cried.
‘There is no cover!’ Kastor shouted and stood beside Dakaniha, switching the grip on his spear.
Long lines of lightning spat at the giant bird’s back as it raised its enormous wings to slow its descent and dropped its prey into the pit. With a thrust of its wings, it arched around and released a high-pitched scream.
‘Hold your ground!’ Kastor shouted as the bird swept in to attack.
With forty paces between the diving eagle and the men, Dakaniha released an arrow. The eagle dipped its head and the arrow grazed its white feathered tail. Then Kastor’s long spear flew true but only clipped a talon. Another arrow left Dakaniha’s bow, followed by another from behind. Both hit the bird in the chest, but its speed only increased as its talons came down to grab the warriors. A long spear struck the eagle’s wing, sending it into a lopsided lunge.
‘Get down!’ Kastor shouted as the bird brought its immense talons down on them.
Dakaniha rolled away and saw Kastor swiping with his sword.
A shriek from behind caused them to turn and the bird took off.
‘It’s got Askum!’ Osayimwese shouted.
Dakaniha and Tode fired arrows at the bird as it grabbed the half-blind African with one talon and powered its enormous wings to take off again.
‘We must regroup!’ Kastor shouted.
‘Here,’ Kastor threw Osayimwese his spear. ‘We have to attack it when it reaches the pit.’
The group ran back to the crater, watching as the eagle swooped down to drop Askum into the hole. Dakaniha took the right flank and fired as soon as he came into range, while Osayimwese ran straight for the bird, under the cover of Tode’s arrows.
‘Keep it grounded!’ Kastor yelled.
Kastor and Osayimwese released their spears, piercing the eagle’s back and side. The bird flapped its wings wildly and dropped to the floor to rip out the offending lances.
Kastor held his sword and shield tight and leapt in.
Maddened with injury, the eagle snapped its hooked beak at Kastor while Dakaniha ran to attack from behind.
Tode fired arrow after arrow and Osayimwese jabbed at the huge bird of prey with his spear, but it only had eyes for the Spartan. With jarred movements, Kastor shuffled to either side, swinging his sword, then lunged at the breast of the eagle. In response, the bird snapped at the sword, catching it in its beak and tossing it to one side.
‘Damn it!’ Kastor shouted as he disappeared from view under the eagle.
With his arrows barely scratching the bird, Dakaniha ran and leapt on its back: his axe hooked into the flesh of a wing while he stabbed frantically with his knife. Wild with fury, the eagle shrieked and rolled to the ground, knocking Dakaniha off, who scrambled away. The bird turned on him, but its head suddenly snapped to one side. A loud crack echoed around the valley and the giant bird fell dead on its side.
Kastor was on it in a flash, plunging his retrieved sword deep into the eagle’s chest.
Dakaniha stood panting, not sure if he could believe the fight was over. He walked over to see blood pouring from the bird’s eye.
‘Who killed the tlanuwa?’ he asked.
Osayimwese looked blank and Tode was scanning the horizon. ‘Over there,’ he raised his head.
Dakaniha turned to see a silhouette with a long rifle but, before he could shout, the soldier had fled.
Gal-qadan sat patiently on the grass, cleaning and sharpening his knife, as he often did while he thought about what he would like to do next. The motion of sweeping the whetstone back and forth along the knife had an almost hypnotic quality. His mind drifted and images of the men he had killed came and went, followed by those of his horse and his men, and he wondered how he came to be in this place.
His last memory before his arrival had been his journey returning to Mongolia with his host of mounted soldiers, following a winter of plundering Rus towns. A band of rebels had attacked on horseback, streaming down the foothills of the Ural Mountains like an avalanche. With little time to prepare, his men had fought in their full winter gear.
Gal-qadan had charged through the snow, his bow singing in his ear as he took out two horsemen before the rebels released a single arrow. Pass after pass, he and his men rode hard, firing and dodging until his horse started to slow: their steeds had no energy for their lethal retreat and counter-attack tactic. Instead, Gal-qadan plunged straight into the melee, his lance in one hand and his sword in the other.
Two frantic minutes later, with his lance stuck in the chest of one horseman and his shining scimitar held high above his head, a brilliant-white flash had blinded Gal-qadan and he’d found himself here, on this grassy hillside.
Gal-qadan thought about all the ways he could have lost his memory – hallucinations brought on by frostbite, dehydration or an internal wound? Had the flash been one of the exploding missiles the Han used? He removed his fur hat and replaced his helmet. He took off two layers of woollen clothing, but kept his lacquered leather armour, which led down to a set of iron fish-scale plates connecting his belt to his leather boots. These boots had lasted well, he thought, through countless raids on the Rus, travels across Kyrgyz, all the way from the Eastern open plains: his homeland.
Born on the edge of the Gobi desert where his nomadic tribe bred goats and horses, Gal-qadan, or ‘cliff of steel’ in his native tongue, had been raised to be as tough as the desert. His father had cast him out the day the supreme Khan took control of all tribes and summoned men for his army, a month before Gal-qadan’s thirteenth birthday. Bullied by the soldiers, Gal-qadan had become a servant boy to the cavalry archers who made up the Khan’s mobile army. Knowing nothing better, he’d cleaned horses, cooked food and endured the backhand of any officer who didn’t like the look of him.
Then something changed.
It was a week after a steed had caught him on the side of the head with a wild hoof and Gal-qadan’s skull still ached.
‘Clean my horse, pig-boy!’ A Mongol officer whipped him while he worked, trying to get a response out of the stubborn desert boy. ‘Make sure you do a good job or I’ll be feeding you horse shit for breakfast,’ the officer spat.
Gal-qadan kept his head down and cleaned, avoiding eye contact. The treatment was nothing new, but this time, as his head throbbed, he heard a voice and a whip-crack opened a line of blood on his neck. The voice spoke, pulsed with the pain in his head, and seemed to say the same word over and over… kill, kill, kill.
That night, under the cover of darkness, the officer became Gal-qadan’s first kill: his throat slit while he slept. Just like slaughtering sheep, Gal-qadan had thought, and wondered why he didn’t feel any emotion. When he was younger, he had felt sad for the death of an animal, but now he only felt calm.
With a clear mind, Gal-qadan had taken the officer’s weapons, strapped on his armour and leather boots – then fled on a spare horse. Two days later, he was riding west with another unit. Despite the odd-fitting armour, nobody questioned him, and he soon found himself in battle. With speed, Gal-qadan learnt to master the sword and bow, on horseback and on foot. Cold and fast, Gal-qadan’s fearless fighting style earned the respect of his unit and, within two years, he was promoted to lead his own troop of horsemen. Through his leadership and cold-minded ruthlessness, over the next thirty years they became one of the most formidable and trusted units in the Khan’s cavalry.
Gal-qadan smiled at the thought of his first kill, but it faded when he lamented the loss of his horse, which carried his rations, battleaxe and land bow, leaving him with just his small bow, quiver and sword.
Free from his winter clothing, he strode downhill into the forest, stepping over the smouldering limbs of dead soldiers.
Gal-qadan was well travelled but he couldn’t picture any forest similar to this. From the shores of the Black Sea to the coast of China, nothing here was recognisable. The trees looked deciduous but, without a mountain range or a recognisable mammal or bird, he was lost. One thing was for sure – he had never seen or heard of the golden hills he could see in the distance.
With an eye on the trees and an ear open for the sound of fresh water, Gal-qadan picked up twigs as he walked and snapped them every few steps. They felt like birds’ necks, he thought, and smiled.
‘Well, at least we’ll be eating well tonight.’ Kastor gave a broad smile and pointed his bloody sword at the fallen bird.
‘You want to eat it after it feasted on human flesh?’ Tode asked.
Kastor shrugged. ‘I can’t see much else to eat. What do you want? A bit of leg?’ He patted a muscular leg and made a slicing motion.
The men ignored him as Dakaniha pulled his axe out of the bird’s back.
‘We don’t have time,’ Tode said. ‘We must keep walking.’
‘What do you mean we don’t have time?’ Kastor asked, looking serious now.
Dakaniha stood and watched, still unsure how he could understand these foreigners.
‘The message on the obelisk said we have fourteen days to reach the silver gates.’
‘What obelisk?’ Kastor and Dakaniha asked in unison.
‘On the hill,’ Tode replied.
‘I remember the hill, but no obelisk,’ said Dakaniha.
‘Are you not searching for the gates?’ Osayimwese asked.
‘No,’ Dakaniha said, ‘I am tracking a great warrior. He travels light and has killed many, including three swordsmen who killed a striped beast.’
‘And he knows the location of the gates?’ Osayimwese asked.
‘I’m sure he will have the answers we seek.’
‘Are you suggesting we don’t set camp and eat?’ Kastor asked.
‘No,’ Tode answered sharply and looked up. ‘We will find this leader and make for the silver gates.’
‘Who made you in charge?’ Kastor asked, staring at Tode.
‘In charge? I’m just stating the obvious course of action,’ Tode held the Spartan’s stare. ‘Do you have other options?’
‘No.’ Kastor didn’t look fazed, Dakaniha thought. ‘But, what happens if we don’t get to the gates in time?’
Tode shrugged. ‘Of that, I have no idea.’
‘Stop!’ Dakaniha crouched and the other three followed suit.
They had been walking for half a day through the tall orange cacti and hadn’t come across another soul, until now.
‘What is it?’ Tode whispered.
Dakaniha showed two fingers and pointed to the right.
Tode nodded and pointed at Kastor, then at the ground. ‘Don’t move,’ he whispered.
Dakaniha started his advance. Keeping low, beneath the wild orange cacti, he slid forwards to the brow of the nearest incline. Through the vegetation he could see two people staring at the ground. Slowly and silently, Dakaniha crept forward until he was within earshot.
‘…should just take his weapons and go.’
‘All he has is this metal stick – what use is it?’
‘Shh, I think I can–’
The sound of pounding feet made Dakaniha turn as a blur of movement flashed past. Violent shouts filled the air as someone attacked the men. Dakaniha jumped up and rushed in, axe in hand, and stopped with a glare.
‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
Kastor was kneeling on one of the warriors, holding his hands behind his back, while the other lay dribbling into the dust. ‘You three were taking your time, so…’
Tode and Osayimwese walked through the cacti to join them.
‘Kastor, do you understand what don’t move means?’ The Mongol fixed his eyes on the Spartan.
Kastor laughed and pulled his captive’s arms tighter. ‘You think I’m taking orders from you? Look,’ he motioned at the third person on the floor, lying in a pool of blood. ‘These two are dangerous – they killed him, so I knew it would take a real soldier to capture them.’
Osayimwese stepped forward. ‘You are saying I’m not a real soldier?’ He raised his spear.
‘Listen, I’m a little busy right now,’ Kastor replied. ‘But sure, if you want a fight, we can settle this later.’
The three men stared at him in silence.
Dakaniha watched Kastor look from man to man. ‘Listen, I didn’t mean to insult you but…’
The soldier underneath the Spartan mumbled and Kastor pushed his face in the dirt.
Tode slipped his jacket off and stretched his neck.
‘What? You really want to do this now?’ Kastor said. ‘I could have all three of you disarmed in a heartbeat.’
‘Do you want to prove that?’ Osayimwese pulled out a dagger and spun his spear.
‘I was trained to kill from the age of–’ Kastor said.
Dakaniha saw Tode’s hand reach for the hilt of his sword.
‘I’m being serious,’ Kastor continued. ‘What I learnt before the age of twelve is more than–’
Osayimwese spat on the ground and Dakaniha bent down to pick up the rifle by the dead man’s side.
Kastor shrugged and smacked his captive on the back of the head with his sword hilt, knocking him out cold. ‘I guess I’ll have to teach you. Lesson number one.’ Dakaniha was impressed by Kastor’s speed as he rolled away and, in a swift move, slipped his arm into the straps of his shield and grabbed his spear.
‘Don’t threaten to fight…’ Kastor said as, with a spin and a lunge, the blunt end of his spear came down hard on Tode’s knuckles, shoving his sword back in its scabbard, ‘…unless you mean…’ the Spartan spun again, ducking Osayimwese’s spear jabs, ‘…to draw…’ Kastor swiped at Osayimwese’s knee with his spear shaft, then slammed his shield into his face, ‘…blood.’
Dakaniha fired the dead soldier’s gun in the air, releasing a deafening bang, and the men froze. ‘This is a pointless fight,’ he said.
Kastor tilted his head to one side then looked at Osayimwese, who reached for his spear. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
‘We are all soldiers,’ Dakaniha said. ‘And we rely on each other… we fight alongside, not against one another.’ He waited a few seconds. ‘If you disagree, you can leave.’
‘No thanks,’ Kastor grinned. ‘You are far too entertaining – I would start missing you after a few days.’
‘Then we leave this disagreement here, now,’ Tode said.
Kastor nodded and lowered his spear. ‘I was enjoying myself, but yes.’
Osayimwese wiped the blood from his nose. ‘I am a real soldier.’
The Spartan sighed. ‘Yes, you are a real soldier, but I… come on, let’s sort these two out and get moving.’ Kastor kicked the leg of the musketeer. ‘Well, he’s dead.’
The spearman on the floor moved and mumbled, ‘We didn’t kill him.’
‘What?’ Tode stood over him, eyeing up his golden armour.
‘He was dead when we found him.’
Dakaniha said, ‘Our leader must have killed him! I told you – even armed with this gun, this soldier was defeated.’
‘Maybe,’ Tode answered.
‘What if he wants to kill us?’ Osayimwese asked.
‘Why?’ Dakaniha shook his head. ‘I say we give these two men the chance to join us.’
‘Let these murderers join us?’ Kastor said. ‘No way.’
‘There is more chance of survival in a larger group,’ Osayimwese said.
‘Then let’s vote if they should join us.’ Dakaniha raised his hand.
Tode looked to Osayimwese and, with a smile in Kastor’s direction, they both nodded.
‘It’s getting dark,’ Tode said. ‘We should set up camp.’
‘Just one more hill,’ Dakaniha said, and picked up the pace at the front.
He looked over his shoulder to the dozen men behind him: the lone travellers who had joined his search for a leader. The Incan and Mayan kept their distance from Kastor, as did Osayimwese.
‘There, on the next ridge!’ Osayimwese pointed to a dot of yellow light.
Dakaniha couldn’t hide his excitement. ‘Our leader’s camp!’
Leaving the group of soldiers behind, hoping to savour this moment, he jogged up the low hill and stopped to slow his breath, scratch his itchy temples and peer between the bulbous cactus leaves. A yellow glow reflected on the cap of the hill. Creeping forward, silently stepping around the protruding cacti, Dakaniha coughed politely before stepping into the firelight.
‘Oh…’
The fireside was empty. He circled the fire, picked out the most recent footprints and followed the trail with his eyes. In the dusk light, Dakaniha could see the most likely path, downhill then up. He breathed in sharply and ran back down to the waiting group of soldiers.
‘There’s another fire, in the distance.’ He spoke quickly. ‘We must go to it.’
‘As long as we get a meal after all this walking,’ Osayimwese whispered.
But when they reached the next fire, again they found nothing.
‘Is this a trap?’ Osayimwese asked.
‘There!’ Kastor pointed. ‘Another fire.’ It would take them diagonally away from their path.
‘Why is he doing this?’ the Mayan asked.
‘We must follow,’ Dakaniha insisted. ‘What else can we do?’
‘Nice trick!’ A voice called out as Gal-qadan sat at his original fire, which had burnt down to red coals – ideal for roasting. ‘I recognised it.’
Gal-qadan had the arrow in his bow pointing at the stranger and both men stared at one another, unsure of what to say.
‘This land has many surprises.’ The stranger spoke in a reverent tone. ‘But I didn’t expect to meet an ancestor.’ Slowly, he bent down to place his bow and quiver on the ground. ‘Hail, Great Leader, I am Tode.’
Gal-qadan remained tense, assessing the stranger, reluctant to let him share his fire. I could just kill him, he thought. Take his weapons and food. Maybe his boots as well. But this man could have knowledge of the land, which would be an advantage. But what about the others in the group? Could he trust them? The rush of questions overwhelmed Gal-qadan. So far, he had been alone and managed to push away most thoughts but, in the presence of another human, the floodgates opened.
Gal-qadan lowered his bow. He was no fool. Knowledge of this foreign land was more useful than a meal. Plus this soldier was a worthy companion if he had figured out his game of fires.
‘Come,’ Gal-qadan beckoned.
‘Thank you, Khan.’ Tode sat down.
‘Why “Khan”?’
Tode replied. ‘My companions and I search for a leader to guide us through this strange country.’
Gal-qadan’s stare intensified.
‘We have seen what you have accomplished and require guidance,’ Tode continued.
Gal-qadan grunted and turned to his food. What had he accomplished? He had simply walked from one place to the next, yet they expected answers from him!
Kill, kill. The familiar sound pounded through his head.
‘Where are you from?’ Gal-qadan asked to distract himself from the murderous voices.
‘I am of the Golden Horde,’ Tode said. ‘Our empire is centred around our capital, Sarai Batu.’
‘The western wing of the empire,’ Gal-qadan whispered to the glowing fire, accepting this man was from an age after his. ‘So the empire was divided after the Khan’s death?’
‘Yes, Batu and Orda were given…’
‘Enough!’ Gal-qadan held up a palm: he had never been interested in politics, only fighting. He sighed. He had planned to have eaten and been away from the fire within the hour, timing his departure to just after the motley crew had completed his ring of fires and found themselves back at the first fire.
‘These soldiers who travel with you. Are they from your Golden Horde?’
‘No.’ Tode gave a sharp headshake. ‘They come from distant lands… and ages, I suspect. They have good weapons and their skills are varied.’
‘Do any possess gunpowder?’ Gal-qadan asked between mouthfuls.
‘Yes, Khan,’ Tode replied.
Gal-qadan narrowed his eyes. So there is more here than just a group of lost men. He looked into the red coals of his fire and imagined what he could achieve with such an army.