reading

Year of the Ram

Cover design by Jake Starkey

ISBN: 9781483552002

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electrical or mechanical, including photography, recording, or by any information or retrieval system without written permission of the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Also by Glenn Starkey

The Cobra and the Scarab

Solomon’s Men

Amazon Moon

Praise for SOLOMON’S MEN

“…a genuinely suspenseful novel…Exciting and unpredictable, Solomon’s Men is highly recommended as an original action/adventure thriller.”

Midwest Book Review

“…a fast-paced and enjoyable read… Starkey’s writing reminds me of other great authors in the genre. I couldn’t put this book down and wanted to keep reading it. If you liked The Saint series or Tom Clancy, you’ll love this book. The ending will surprise you.”

MWSA Military Writers Society of America

Silver Medal Winner, Military Writers Society of America’s Mystery/Thriller genre

Praise for AMAZON MOON

Notable Indie Book of 2013 Award – Shelf Unbound

Bronze Medal Winner — MWSA Military Writers Society of America

“Amazon Moon is the sort of novel that grabs you by the throat on the first page and doesn’t let go until the last. It is an exciting story and, at the same time, something more. It is a fable about one man’s redemption, his rediscovery of innocence.”

Nicholas Guild - New York Times Best Selling Author of

The Assyrian, The Berlin Warning, The President’s Man and more…

“With Amazon Moon, Starkey has done it again-- lured me in, set me up and wrung me out! Splendid.” Jeff Mudgett – Author of Bloodstains

For Jake,

When you gaze with love and pride into your son’s eyes, only then will you understand the depth of my heart for you. There are no manuals for fatherhood. I simply tried my best.

The Warhorse

Chapter One

…the artisan’s necklace…

“It is an omen,” the Mongol whispered, entranced by the beams of sunlight breaking over the mountain’s crest and outlining clouds with silver threads. Dawn had given birth to a north wind that cut deep into his body and slashed his face, but this moment of good fortune overcame the bitter cold.

Behind him, three thousand horsemen remained motionless in a serpentine line stretched along the ridge as far as one could see. They continued their vigil, waiting for the single command that would hurl them into battle as finely honed weapons of war.

The harsh wind moved among them and caught the swords hung from their saddles. Steel bumped against leather and created an unearthly music, the prelude to violent conflict.

The melody of steel broke his fascination with the sunrise, returning him to the realities at hand. He closed his eyes, gave silent gratitude to the spirits of the sky for their favor and wheeled his horse about to begin his customary pre-battle inspection.

Blooded veterans hardened by years of brutal warfare, they freely had pledged their allegiance to him long ago. It was as visible in their eyes as it was evident in their actions. At no point would they hesitate to obey him. To ride under the command of such a great warrior was honor enough, yet to die for him brought glory and everlasting fame.

Known more as the “Death Stalker” than by his true name, Etar was a living legend. In every dwelling and around every campfire could be heard the tales of his battles and of the countries that had fallen under his blade. As Sovereign Commander General he held absolute command over the mightiest military force known to the world, the Mongol army of the Great Chingis-Khan, Emperor of Emperors.

Son of one of the Emperor’s thirty wives, he held a rightful place in the long line of potential heirs to the throne. But Etar retained no desire for the ruler’s position.

“Let others fight for it. I have what I want—command of the army,” he told his mother the day the Khan announced his appointment.

In youth he had displayed such military genius and skillful ability with a sword that he instantly captured the approving eye of the Khan. All knew though the approving eye was more than that of a teacher to his prize student; it was as a proud father gives to his son. Oracles had given prophecies of a great warrior who would lead the Khan’s armies across many nations, capturing lands for the mighty ruler. As Etar grew to manhood none questioned his destiny, nor did the Great Khan doubt this favorite son would one day command his legions.

Throughout the rites of manhood Etar never cried out in pain. His combative trials against experienced warriors; days of near starvation in the wilderness; the exhausting cross-country race over grueling terrain, all had been accomplished with an unbreakable determination and inner fortitude. The Khan never failed to be amazed by Etar’s natural instincts and abilities. On a horse he rode across the land as if carried upon the wind. With sword in hand, he became more savage and cunning than a wild beast. The mighty ruler of the Mongol nation believed this son would be the chosen one.

Etar had felt it. From the first moment his hands touched a sword he knew the prophecy would be fulfilled, and he would be the fulfillment.

Very little seemed different to the nomad general this shivery autumn morning. A nation refused to pay their yearly tributes as other nations did and the Khan had ordered it be taken as a lesson to others. The problem child must be punished. It must become the property of the Mongols, property of the Great Khan. But their mission surpassed the simple conquering of a country. Within a few hours all knew Tabas would no longer exist.

The people had chosen to fight the invaders rather than surrender. They felt confident in their protection behind the timber and stonewalls of an aging fortress that had withstood the tests of battles long ago. Their confidence gave rise to imprudence. As Mongol messengers arrived outside the capital gate the king had ordered cattle dung thrown at them in answer to their ultimatum. The insults alone signed many a death warrant but as the messengers turned to ride away, a soldier atop the fortress wall shot an arrow into the shoulder of a rider. The sight of his messenger returning wounded had sent the General into a rage, but at hearing dung was cast on them, he vowed this pompous nation would pay dearly for their cowardly acts.

Advancing along the line of his men, the warlord inspected each with a trained eye. They sat upon their horses, staring down into the valley where their next prey waited. Occasionally, Etar halted in front of one of the men, gazing briefly over horse and equipment, and then rode on. The scars covering their bodies could tell many tales of wars past yet none told more than the look of their faces or the cold stare from their eyes. No sorrow, pity or remorse flowed through them; they were Mongols, and Mongols never knew of such things in war.

Their abilities in combat were well known. Behind them lay nations that had been laid to waste, towns burned and villages so badly plundered that they would never be known again. Of the one hundred thousand men Etar commanded, he preferred this select group of fighters. Each had been individually chosen to ride with him while his remaining force was spread throughout the Mongolian empire under the command of lesser grade officers.

The Khan disliked Etar being on the battlefield, even less, being with such a small military unit, yet he knew his son would never be satisfied staying in the Imperial City planning and organizing campaigns. Only through extreme reluctance did he allow Etar to stay with the army, hoping all the while he did not take unnecessary risks. Etar knew too, the Khan could easily issue an order to keep him in the city and he would be forced to obey. Fortunately, his father always stopped short of making such a demand whenever the subject arose between them.

Etar rode several hundred feet before acknowledging satisfaction with his men’s readiness. He knew there was no need for an inspection. The sight of his presence served as the real purpose. It instilled even greater ferocity in their attack.

Returning to his ledge lookout he recalled his scouts intelligence reports. This would be no true conquest. Defenses were lacking, pathetic in nature. Still, these people must learn they could not cast insults at the Khan’s army and live to speak of it.

The wind howled dolefully through the valley; eerie at times, changing to a moan that laid the sensation of approaching death upon the ears of all listeners. The spirits that rode upon the wind gave warning of doom, yet in this nation its rulers turned a deaf ear to the voice.

Etar heard it though. He relished its intoxicating sound, taste, and feel. War was a part of him, a vital part. At no other time did he feel more comfortable than in battle. War supplied life to his soul. It flowed through his veins. It was his mistress.

* * *

The affluent stood with the poor in panic-stricken clusters along the capital city streets, pointing toward the mountain ridge, crying out their disbelief of the calamity upon them.

“The king’s soldiers cannot fight off these barbarians! Why has he jeopardized our lives? Why did we believe him?”

Two days before, though, those same voices had spoken with confidence of their defenses holding the invaders long enough for soldiers to easily shoot down riders as they attacked. The people laughed when news reached the city of the Mongols’ approach. Now, no humor could be found. Now, even the soldiers whispered talk of surrender.

“Perhaps it would be best for all. Why should we suffer for the stupidity of our king?”

The whispers carried throughout the town as quick as a wildfire spreads across the open plains in summer.

* * *

Rising over the mountain, the sun’s gleaming light displayed every man and horse along the ridge. It glistened off the metals of swords and planted additional seeds of terror in the hearts of the populace as they looked to the skyline.

The General wanted his men to be seen. It was a simple tactic to taunt the valley people in their last moments of life. He wanted their souls filled with the horror of what awaited them.

Etar sat patiently on his horse. The moment must be right to attack. Tension was rising and soon no Tabas soldier would be able to properly control his arrow’s aim.

The General glanced at one of his cavalry units already in place near the city. From their positions they would pound upon large leather skinned drums, the pounding echoing throughout the valley like thunder. He would allow this for an hour, and then ride down into the valley and eliminate the dung throwers forever.

Easing forward in the saddle, he stood in the stirrups and raised a hand. When it fell, two fire laden arrows soared into the sky. No sooner were the arrows airborne than the sounds of the drums began reverberating off the mountain walls; slow, methodical pounding, each beat a countdown to death.

* * *

Pandemonium took control inside the king’s room. The incessant beating of the drums grew louder. Men began to yell to one another; no longer laughing as their hysteria grew.

“What fools we’ve been! Why did we heed your words?” the assembly of court officials said, shouting their thoughts aloud, blaming the king for their plight. “Possibly we could still surrender? Give them food, jewels, women, anything if they will spare us!”

The king gazed at their terrified faces, realizing too late his error in judgment. Never once had he envisioned such heights of fear in his people when confronted by the barbarian horde. Fleeing for his safety was out of the question. The invaders had blocked all escape routes days ago.

He sat back on his throne woefully, knowing there could be no surrender. He had heard tales of what the Mongols had done to other nations.

Maybe this time will be different. Maybe all I need do is announce my loyalty to the Khan and my life will be spared.

He tried to think of a solution then all thoughts vanished. The room grew silent. The drumming had ceased. The only pounding he could hear was the rapid beating of his heart.

“Why did they stop? Are they leaving? What are they doing?” the king asked, leaning forward on the throne. His questions were answered when through an open window he watched fiery arrows streak across the sky toward his capital.

* * *

Etar applied pressure with his knees and his horse moved to the edge of the mountain overhang. He signaled once more and four hundred men stationed around the capital obeyed. With short bows in hand they lowered the oil soaked tips of their arrows into fires and launched them into the air. As quickly as one missile was released another was readied and shot. Burning arrows, trailing thin wisps of smoke behind them, traveled through the sky, appearing to hang in the air before falling inside the city’s walls. No sooner had the first arrow found its target than screams were heard. Hundreds of arrows plummeted into the city, setting fires wherever they struck.

The bombardment continued until Etar observed billowing clouds of smoke and was assured all within those confines was ablaze. Another gesture of his arm and archers shot their blazing arrows at the wooden gates and walls with effortless precision. Watching the tar painted timbers catch fire, the General knew its black smoke would conceal their approach until he was ready for the final attack.

Those who built this fortress knew nothing of sieges and military tactics, Etar thought in revulsion. Putting tar on gates and walls might preserve them against the elements of nature, but it only hastens their destruction in war.

With the slightest touch of hand upon reins he turned his horse toward the path leading to the valley below, followed by scores of other mounts carrying anxious men.

To any other cavalry attempting to snake down a mountain’s side the task might have seemed impossible, but not for these demons. They made their own pathways if needed and soon were standing abreast on level ground. Their vast numbers encircled the capital and all eyes were focused on the burning city.

Red and orange flames streaked skyward, mingling with blackish gray pillars of smoke that spread and blotted out the morning sun and cast shadows over the land.

Completing the fiery bombardment, archers remounted to take their rightful positions with their comrades. To a Mongol, fighting from horseback was far more honorable than on foot though experience had also taught them the necessity of being equally adept at both. Once inside the town, they would slaughter the enemy in close combat as the need arose.

Etar shifted in the saddle to scan the ranks of his men, assuring himself everyone was in position. Leaning forward, he released the leather thong that secured his sword in its sheath on the saddle. The sword was splendidly balanced and designed for battle, its value far more than any warrior would earn in a lifetime. But to Etar the value was beyond gold. The sword was a gift from the Khan when he appointed Etar to his present rank.

Wrapping his hand around the sword’s handle as if expecting it to come alive at his touch, he tightened his grip and pulled it out. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, listening to the wind as he balanced the weapon across his stallion’s mane. The cries and screams from within the town began to fade. Only the howling of the wind penetrated his thoughts. Silently, he called out to the ancient ones to guide his sword this day, and for the spirits of the wind to give courage and speed to his horse.

The crashing of timbers weakened by fire brought him out of his hypnotic state. The chaos stirred his soul and released an exhilarating sensation. He completed his silent requests and opened his eyes. The blood within his body flowed with the intensity of a raging river. One thought swept his mind. He had been born to conquer!

Sword rising toward the sky, he cried out with a demoniac voice. His blade swung downward and the valley exploded in a thunderous roar of hammering hooves and war cries.

The strength within Etar’s legs was immense. His heels dug deep into the stallion’s ribs.

Whether from pain or the tension of excitement, the animal screamed into the morning air and broke into a driving run. Dirt flew upward as the animal’s hooves dug into the foreign soil, every sinew of its muscles pulling and rippling with each movement. His powerful neck strained its length while nostrils flared as hot breath exploded from within.

Insanity reached its peak in the capital when the charge was heard. Men and women screamed; children cried, and soldiers abandoned their posts, ripping uniforms from their bodies in an attempt to pass themselves as commoners or village peasants. Cattle and horses penned in stockades fought to free themselves. Once loose they stampeded through the city, trampling whatever stood in their paths.

Twenty loyal soldiers stood their ground in the massive open courtyard to await the arrival of the Mongolian invaders. Swords drawn, each accepted their coming death. It would be far better than the cruelty Mongols inflicted on their prisoners. Quick deaths would be a blessing.

The gate timbers fell into jagged mounds of fire across the entrance. Etar’s attack had been timed perfectly. Sections of wooden walls crashed as gates crumbled to the ground. Lacking support from the thick wooden beams, stonewalls collapsed. No longer were there obstacles to his men.

Riding to the capital’s main entrance, the General leaned forward and pressed his head against the side of the horse’s mane. He spoke encouragement to the stallion and watched the ground below become a blur as they raced toward the burning timbers.

The open distance was closed within seconds. Never faltering, animal and man launched over the fires with a powerful leap. Etar sat erect, sword raised high above his head. A horrifying war cry poured from his mouth as they burst through the flames. Blackish gray smoke parted as if by sorcerer’s magic, and the blazing inferno gave way as Etar and the stallion vaulted through.

Their sudden appearance stunned nearby townspeople who stopped to watch as the hideous creatures from the dark bowels of the earth crashed through the gate. No sooner did the horse’s front hooves touch ground than Etar drove his sword home, removing the head of a terrified soldier attempting to flee. The headless body never slowed its stride, running three more steps before collapsing into the dirt. The severed head, whipped backward by the blade, began its descent toward the ground. It fell into the melee of charging hooves.

Mongols entered the city, butchering as they pushed forward. Women with children in their arms were trampled under sharp hoofs, and swords sliced deep, brutally severing mother from child. What had once been sand colored soil now ran red with the blood of its nation’s citizens.

Bow in hand a soldier started across the road realizing too late he could not make it before the riders would be upon him. He stopped, drew his bowstring to fire, but fumbled and dropped the arrow. Fear made him grasp the bow in an effort to fling it at the Mongols. They were already too near. The first horse collided into him, throwing the screaming soldier to one side where he fell and was lost from sight, his screams minced by deadly hooves.

Expecting resistance, Etar grew disgusted by the displays of cowardice. The thought of the people laughing when dung was thrown on his messengers flashed through his mind, making him despise them even more.

As men and women fled for safety, Etar rode on through the city with his warriors close behind, cutting a trail of death. Ahead he saw the small group of soldiers in fighting formation. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, ready for mortal combat at the base of the steps leading into their ruler’s castle.

At last, men willing to stand their ground and fight with honor!

A surge of hot blood coursed Etar’s veins. Since entering the city he had not slowed the stallion nor glanced about for his men. He knew they were there, filling the gaps in their ranks as necessary, maintaining a charging wall of flesh and steel.

A smile crept over the General’s lips. Within seconds he and his warriors would all be crashing into the brave group. His gaze locked onto their commander standing out in front of the formation. The officer lifted his sword in salute to Etar and then took a fighting stance. None of the soldiers moved from their stations, appearing to wait, almost tranquil, in the face of death riding down on them. With swords raised they never flinched; they just stood ready.

Again, under the intense pressure of Etar’s heels, his mount obeyed the demand for speed. Within paces of the soldiers, animal and man went airborne over the group. The horse shrieked and Etar felt metal slice through his own leg. Never did the horse falter until he had carried his rider completely clear of the soldiers and to safety atop the large porch above the steps.

On the porch Etar reined the horse in so hard that balance was lost momentarily. When regained, the splendid animal rose upon its hind legs, flailing out with its forelegs into the smoke-filled air, screaming as it turned. In perfect unison with every movement of the stallion, Etar swung the blood-drenched sword in wide circles. All within reach fell to the blade.

From within the enormous hallway of the building the sight of a beautiful stallion with a maniacal rider filled the doorway. The swordsmanship and display of horsemanship left no doubts the Death Stalker stood on their threshold.

Rather than enter the castle, Etar rode down the steps and back into the courtyard. The battle was over too quickly for the soldiers. The massive force of barbarians had created a wall of horses about them, pushing the defenders into one another, making it impossible to swing their weapons. Their opportunity for death in combat was lost. Surrender was the only choice.

Throughout the capital, citizens cried and pleaded for mercy as the invaders herded them into large groups. The Mongols drove their captives with whips and those that did not move fast enough were decapitated.

The General pointed to the castle doors and ten of his warriors rode up the steps in search of the king and court officials. His men knew their post battle responsibilities and immediately set about the city.

Etar sheathed his sword and felt a warm sensation of blood gliding down his right leg into his boot. He remembered the wound, but more importantly, he recalled the shriek his horse had given. Ignoring his wound, he swung his leg over the horse’s mane and slid from the saddle. As he moved around the horse his trained eyes soon found an open cut on the mount’s right shoulder where the tip of a sword had barely caught before glancing deeply into Etar’s leg. Tending the injury, he heard the approach of his men with the king and his followers. Etar kept his back to them as they drew near, refusing to turn around until the ruler had been flung to the ground behind him at his feet.

“Sir, we found these men hiding in a room. One claims to be the king,” reported Nakhu, one of the General’s trusted personal guards.

Everyone remained silent, waiting for the barbarian leader’s response. None came as expected. Etar continued his examination of the horse’s shoulder wound, milling the day’s events over in his mind, growing angrier at each passing moment.

How could this man possibly call himself a king, a leader of people? He has the audacity to cast insults and order a Mongol messenger shot then expects decaying walls to protect him. Even worse, he hides while his countrymen are attacked, showing what value he places on their lives, Etar thought, furious with such overall conduct.

“Was it you who ordered my messenger be shot in the back as he was leaving?” Etar asked calmly without turning.

A tension filled silence fell over everyone as they anxiously listened for the reply. The General kept examining his horse’s wound as if all his attention were on it.

“Oh, Great Etar, conqueror of nations,” the king whimpered, “It was not my order.”

Before another word could be spoken, Etar wheeled and lashed out with the rigid leather quirt hanging from his wrist. The quirt cut across the king’s head, laying open a gash longer than the horse’s wound. Etar’s horse jumped at the quirt’s strike.

“Whoa. Easy now,” he said softly, gathering up the reins and rubbing the stallion’s neck. “Settle down.”

The magnificent black animal pawed the ground with a hoof and flared its nostrils. His coat glistened from sweat. He snorted a powerful blast and calmed, allowing his master to look at the Tabas ruler again.

Etar fought hard to hold back the contempt that boiled inside him toward this man.

“No coward shoots an arrow into one of my men!” the General stated, voice growing louder as he spoke. His anger intensified. The urge to drive his sword through this miserable creature consumed him. But he had plans for him and those plans were not to be spoiled.

He looked down at the quivering wretch sprawled across the ground, robed in red silks, sandals, and smelling of perfume thicker than a tavern whore. His exposed skin was as fair as a woman who had never been in the sun, and his body looked frail, almost sickly. The longer Etar stared at this nation’s leader, the more repulsed he became.

By contrast, Etar looked barbaric as he stood over the captive king. Years of military life had transformed his body into a massive rock. Pure strength rippled in the corded muscles beneath the animal skins and furs covering his torso. At forty-five, only slight traces of gray showed in the long black hair kept swept back over his shoulders. The dark moustache draping both sides of his mouth provided a menacing accent to the already piercing look of cold gray eyes.

Scars marked his body, gifts from battles past. Endless days under the burning sun and harsh winter winds had weathered his skin, giving a savage appearance to his features. Knee-high boots bound tightly with strips of leather protected his feet. Around his waist were several wide belts to which he attached his prize sword whenever he dismounted, and a dagger was worn constantly between the belts and his shirt. Leather gauntlets encircled each wrist, and from his right wrist hung the quirt he wielded with expertise on his enemies.

The Mongol General smelled of horse sweat, animal hides, smoke and death. And about his neck was the ever-present necklace with its stone pendant.

Turning from the king, Etar glanced at the other men who had been brought and placed at his feet. They were as guilty as their ruler; there was no need to waste any more of his time. With a wave of his hand Etar ordered the captives removed.

Nakhu departed with the prisoners. Officers approached the General and began their reports of finding food, treasure and the total number of prisoners captured. Waiting until they finished, Etar’s bodyguard commander, Temur, stepped closer.

“Sir, what of the soldiers by the steps?” he asked, voice lowered so only the great warrior could hear.

“They are the only brave ones in this city. Let them die with honor. Have your men do it.” With a final look, the General surveyed the capital then led his horse away, followed by half of his bodyguard unit.

Comprised of one hundred elite warriors serving as personal bodyguards, the General’s Private Guard unit was the best the Mongolian nation could offer; even the Khan rated them higher than his own men. Selected on bravery, horsemanship and weaponry ability, they were equipped with the finest armaments and were handsomely rewarded for their daring. If one was killed in battle, there were hundreds more waiting for the opportunity to replace them.

Like shadows, they followed Etar wherever he went, ensuring his wishes were carried out to the fullest. The three thousand men who rode for him were loyal yet this private unit surpassed that. Everyone believed they were devoted more to Etar than the Emperor. The entire Mongol nation understood the important status the men of this special unit held. They answered to no one except the Great Khan, General Etar, and their own unit officers.

The courageous Tabas soldiers were led out into the courtyard clearing. Once all were in position, side by side, an arm’s length apart, the Mongols returned their swords to them.

“Kneel and bow your heads,” Temur shouted.

The soldiers lowered themselves to the ground and a Mongol guardsman took a position next to each one. Staring at the dirt, each soldier silently began to make peace with his god. Temur paused to allow them the reverence of this last private prayer and then gave a sharp nod. The Mongols withdrew their own swords and stood ready, listening for the order.

“Oyee!” he yelled.

With the command, twenty swords made a sweeping arc to their targets. The soldiers died instantly, ironically rejoicing that their courage was rewarded by a swift death.

Satisfied with the executions, Temur set off to locate his general. He knew Etar would be safely escorted, but he remained nervous until within sight of the leader. This commander wanted to retain his rank, and more importantly his own head. His body shivered at the thought of ever having to carry news to the Great Khan of his general’s death. The thought quickened his pace.

Remounting, Etar sat gazing at the hundreds of Tabas citizens assembled in large groups. The constant lashes from Mongol whips kept them subdued, but witnessing the execution of their soldiers brought louder wails and cries. Etar paid no heed to their pleas.

Grabbing a handful of his horse’s mane, Temur swung up into the saddle and pulled on the reins, backing the animal until he was almost in line with the other bodyguards. His gaze canvassed the area assuring security around the General was sufficient. No one from the crowds could get near him.

An order was given for the captains to assemble and Etar spoke briefly to each. They acknowledged his commands and returned to their respective units, shouting orders as they traveled.

Two hundred horsemen formed an advance party and broke away. They headed out onto the open plains to establish camp for the night, having everything in ready for the General’s arrival. They rode from the city at full gallop, wanting some advantage of time before Etar rode in.

The victorious general took up the reins and wheeled his mount toward the gate, thinking of the next stage of plans for his cavalry. He released the stallion into a gentle lope and fell deep into thought, but the pleading cries for compassion from the captive king interrupted all concentration. Etar never turned his head nor slowed the horse to show recognition of the begging. All necessary orders had been issued; there was no further need for his presence in this city. The close quarters of the surrounding buildings, the incessant screaming of the captives, were grating on his nerves. Now all he wanted was to return to the open plains, to feel the wind upon his face, and rid himself of the stench of these peasants.

He applied pressure with his knees and the stallion responded. Etar gave him his head, allowing him to run, knowing it felt good to both of them.

Riding through the gate, the General heard death cries begin to fill the air. His men were following their orders; no man, woman or child would remain alive.

* * *

Night was to be spent on a hill nearby which provided an excellent view in all directions. Anyone approaching would be observed long before arrival, and thick grass covered the ground, providing adequate feed for the horses. Temur had suggested the location to Etar because of the security it provided and the Mongol leader agreed.

When Etar and his personal unit arrived, his tent was erected and the advance party was starting a small controlled fire inside to provide warmth.

The General’s tent was larger than that of his men. Dome shaped and ten paces across, hides of yak and other longhaired animals comprised the walls, making it warm in the worst of blizzards and dry in rainstorms. To form flooring, fur was laid throughout, cushioned with firm pillows on which to sit or sleep. A large circular opening at the top allowed smoke from the fire to escape, and a man could stand full height while he warmed himself.

The doorway faced southward to avoid the harsh north winds and to respect the ancient superstitions that evil spirits came from the north, looking for entrance only on that side. Spirits that protected warriors, lived to the south and would readily see the doorways, by that always having access to a Mongol’s tent. Regardless of the beliefs, these nomadic-styled tents were excellent shelter for the Mongolian lifestyle. As quickly as a tent could be built so could it be dismantled and readied for traveling.

Temur rode about the hill, shouting orders and pointing to the various locations where his men should take additional guard. Once satisfied with the defenses and knowing the General was safe among his own men, he left to scout the surrounding terrain before nightfall arrived.

Before Etar’s horse had come to a halt in front of the tent, the General jumped from the saddle to look for herbs. Combining mud with a mixture of grass and herbs, he made a poultice and placed it on the shoulder wound of his mount. The cut was small and would heal well on its own, but every wound, regardless of size, was administered medicine and always before his master’s own wounds were bandaged.

The saddle and bridle were removed and a rawhide halter was put on. Normally, Etar gave the animal full freedom to graze, but now he tethered him with a lengthy rope. The stallion would return to his master with the first sound of a whistle, still, Etar wanted the horse to remain close by because of the wound. With one last look at his herbal work, he left the animal to feed on the rich hillside grass.

Comforts in the night camp were minimal, but the tent provided shelter and Etar had grown accustomed to battlefield conditions long ago. Laying his riding equipment upon the animal hide flooring, he sat leaning against the saddle for support. Cloth was pulled from a nearby pack roll and torn into long narrow strips as he examined the wound above his right knee. Dirt had dried with the blood, clotting the bleeding to a trickle, sticking the trousers to his leg. He knew what must be done and without hesitation withdrew his dagger from its sheath.

The heat from the fire removed the chill of the afternoon air, and felt good inside the tent. Using the dagger Etar moved the coals into a small mound and placed the blade within the center. He stared at the coals, almost daydreaming while waiting for the steel to glow red. The trance was broken when Nakhu entered the tent with a cup of cha, a drink made from special leaves steeped in boiling water.

Nakhu handed the earthenware to his general and backed away to leave. This was the General’s private time. He always felt awkward disturbing the great leader, even to deliver cha. After every battle Etar wanted to be alone, undisturbed, and he had made it an order. Once his cha was brought, no one neared the tent. The elite guards would wait until noise could be heard again from within the tent, then access was permitted.

From his resting position, Etar could look out across the valley and watch the city. Holding the cup gently with the fingertips of both hands, he raised it to his face and softly inhaled the strong aroma of the tealeaf brew. He sipped it slowly and felt it warm his body.

His gray eyes scrutinized the capital as he drank, noting how clearly the fires could be seen at this distance. Clouds of dark smoke rolled into the sky playing games with the sun, allowing it to peek through at times then blocking it completely. The wind steadily blew, half moaning, half crying.

Everything had its price and the costs of insults were paid with human lives. What treasures were found would be sent to the Imperial City, escorted by a detachment of warriors. Full reports of the day’s events and geographical information of the countryside would be scribed to accompany the riches to the Khan. This land was now part of the Mongolian nation. Etar had made it so.

The slaughter of the citizens would be systematic. First, his men searched for soldiers who had shed their uniforms in an attempt to hide their identities. They would be dragged with long ropes behind mounted horsemen through the streets. As they passed, archery contests would take place until each soldier was dead. Some would be hung with the ropes while others would be torn apart between horses pulling in opposite directions. The king would be nailed to a tree, tortured throughout the day, but not killed until the very last. He was to view everything that took place, caused by his moment of glory with the Mongol messengers.

The thought of sparing the children had crossed Etar’s mind, but he knew this could one day come back to haunt him. No fire burns greater than one fueled for years on hatred and revenge. Knowing this, he had ordered their executions be swift. No tortures were to take place upon them.

At day’s end, his cavalry would take their pleasures with the women of the city, satisfying themselves to exhaustion. Those women who survived would also meet death quickly. To have bedded with a Mongol would be their final honor for certainly they had found few brave men among their own people to do so.

Above all, Etar had given orders to level the capital to the ground. Not one building was to remain standing, and at the gate a tall pole was to be placed, decorated with the king’s head upon its point.

The coals of the fire shifted, causing the dagger to drop lower into the flames. The light sound brought Etar out of his thoughts. Now he focused his attention upon the leg wound and what must be done.

With a quick jerk he tore the trouser cloth from its dried grip on the wound. Blood flowed when the wound was reopened. Etar placed the quirt between his teeth and withdrew the dagger from the coals. Squeezing his free hand into a tight fist, he bit down hard on the quirt, and braced for the spasms of pain to come.

He slowly laid the red-hot blade across the bleeding gash. At its touch his body wrenched with excruciating pain. The sizzling from the metal and the stench of burning flesh filled the tent. Sweating profusely, he uttered a long, guttural groan. To scream out would be permissible for a woman giving birth, but not for a warrior, especially a warrior general.

The few moments the blade had been on the wound seemed eternal to him. He pulled the dagger away and loosened his hold, allowing it to fall onto a metal plate. Fighting the physical torment, he laid back and removed the quirt from his mouth, taking panting breaths in an attempt to release the agony from within. As the pain lessened his eyelids closed from the fatigue overtaking him. The last effort of strength he mustered was to touch the pendant on his neck. Then all faded into oblivion.

* * *

The sun was setting when Etar awoke. He wrapped the cauterized wound and changed clothing. Ensuring the dagger and sword were in proper position on his belt he limped from the tent. The stallion stood nearby, grazing on the plush grass.

Stretching his arms wide as he breathed in the cold air, Etar felt strength returning to his body once again. He could see the city in the distance, still fully ablaze, glowing brightly against the dark shadows filling the valley. He let his gaze travel across the land, noting the campfires his men had made. Already their preparations were underway for the night’s feast of confiscated cattle, sheep, goat and pigs. There were no more screams carried in the wind. The only sound in the night air was the laughter and talk of the barbarous horde as they recounted stories of the day.

Etar thought of how these same men had once warred against one another, yet now fought side by side. The numerous Mongolian tribes had been at each other’s throat for years, fighting, stealing and bickering, Mongol against Mongol with no tribe wanting to accept the ruling of another.

One man though had singlehandedly changed it all. A warrior who proved himself on the battlefield, then through his words and actions pulled the tribes together uniting them. That warrior leader was the Khan.

Now Mongol no longer spilt Mongol blood and other nations no longer hired Mongol tribes to protect them from invading Mongols. Banded together, no nation was their equal in combat, and all bowed to them or fell under their swords. Before they united, each was known by tribal names: Tartar, Merkid, Kereyid, Khitan, and Kiyad. Now they called themselves Mongols.

All had been accomplished through skillful politics, something Etar disliked because it meant saying one thing and doing another. The crafty use of words had served a worthy purpose when the Khan stopped the tribal wars, but still, it was not for Etar. He preferred to let the Emperor be the voice of the Mongols, and he would be their iron fist.

For Etar there were no double standards. What he said he meant. The only games he played were on the field of battle, games of cat and mouse with his enemies until they were vanquished. Unconsciously, he found himself playing with the pendant of his necklace. His fingers held the small blue stone as if it would break.

The gem, commonly found throughout Kashgar’s mountainous region, was bluish-gray and tinged with gold flakes that sparkled with movement. The people of the land often made ornaments and decorations to sell or trade with passing caravans, and each craftsman marked his work in some distinctive manner. Etar’s stone was encased by three slender strips of gold on each side, leaving portions of the gem open to allow its full beauty to be viewed.

By Mongol count he had worn the necklace for twenty-four summers, never removing it since the day it was given to him. From years of rubbing, Etar had made the stone’s surface smooth and polished. This was his most prized possession, valued by him over everything else he owned, including the weapons presented by the Great Khan.

Only two of these necklaces had been by the beautiful artisan. Etar wore one and the other was buried with its creator in Kashgar.

The Mongol General felt his heart grow heavy. He had dealt with many emotions, but none overtook him as this feeling of loneliness. Memories of years long past still haunted him, memories which brought a smile to his face one moment, and at times, a stabbing hurt to his heart.

When given the necklace he was told it would bring him good fortune. It had with one exception. The remainder of his life was to be lived without the woman he wanted. Never had he admitted to anyone the hurt he felt when told of her death, and from that day forward, he had protected his heart from any future grief.

Now his emotions were calloused and the walls built around his heart were as steel to a master blade, cold and hard. The love for battle and facing death were the only desires burning in his soul. The act of bedding a woman now was only to relieve himself, nothing more. He refused to accept it as anything else. So deep was he in thought that he did not hear the man approach from behind.

“General, is something wrong?” Temur’s voice held sincere concern.

“No. What do you want?” the warlord replied, regaining his composure.

“Sir, there is mares’ milk and meat prepared if you are hungry,” the commander answered. As he spoke, he stepped back to allow his leader time to collect his thoughts.

Temur had seen the General in these dark moods before, staring out into the sky, not uttering a word, rubbing the pendant slowly as if it controlled him. Always at dawn or dusk the moods came, at times passing quickly but occasionally lasting hours.

The bodyguard commander hoped his leader was not being possessed by evil spirits of the dark world as he heard they could do. Certainly, a man of the General’s strength could battle any such demons that might try to enter him.

“I will eat later,” the nomad leader stated in a low voice.

With a bow of his head the commander started to depart but was stopped before he took the first step.

“Temur, do you have a family?” Etar asked, never turning his head to face the commander.

Shocked by such a question, Temur was rendered speechless.

The warlord turned to face his bodyguard officer and asked again.

“Do you have a family?”

Never had his general asked such a question. The seriousness in his voice confused Temur. How should he answer? His general’s eyes looked sad; an appearance the commander was not accustomed to seeing.

“Once I did, sir, a wife from the Kereyid tribe. When young I married a bride who was quiet in nature, and more pleasing to the eye than any other I had ever seen.” Temur stopped abruptly.

Etar’s eyebrows drew together. “Then what?” he asked.

“The quiet became badgering,” Temur said, breaking into a hearty laugh at the memory of his bride. “And later, the beauty became a pig. I gave her back to her father and decided military life better suited me. At least I could die with honor in battle, not in my sleep if she rolled over on me!”

A grin broke the serious expression Etar wore. A smile formed. Before Etar realized, he found himself laughing at the thought of his elite bodyguard commander being crushed under the weight of an obese wife.

Seeing his general laugh relaxed Temur. He continued with his story. “When we bedded I wanted to get my saddle so I would not roll off her big belly.” He chuckled. “And when her river flooded its bank, she would squeal like a stuck pig and I wanted to cover her mouth with a blanket!”

Images flowed through Etar’s mind as he listened to Temur’s tale.

Shaking his head, the bodyguard commander’s smile seemed to fill with regret. “But it was not always like that. The nights of our first seasons together could have melted snow as high as my horse. It was aaaahhh.”

The voice trailed off into silence as Temur’s face rose upward to the dark sky, eyes rolling back as his eyelids lowered.

The warlord’s laughter ceased and only a faint smile remained. He well understood his captain’s mannerisms for he had known a few such nights in Kashgar. Etar reached across, slapping the commander on the shoulder in approval of their conversation.

“Every man should be fortunate enough to melt snow once in his life,” he remarked in a complimentary manner. A hint of sadness accompanied the words. “Now bring the maps to my tent. I have reports to prepare.” He looked into Temur’s eyes for a second and walked into his tent.

Temur watched the nomad leader disappear. He and the General had talked of many things before, but never as now. The bewilderment lasted only a fleeting moment. He realized he should be on his way before the General’s laughter became a growl.

* * *

By the break of dawn the barbarian camp was already alive with activity. The mundane tasks of military life were being conducted across the encampment. Full inspection and repair of equipment were underway and horses were led before unit officers for examination. Archery and swordsmanship practice took place in groups about the hill, and on the level fields between the destroyed city and camp, warriors trained freshly stolen horses in battlefield techniques. A rumbling din filled the valley as the veteran fighters began the day. Everyone had prepared to break camp, anticipating the orders from their leader, but the General informed the officers they would remain two days for rest before leaving.

All night firelight had been observed burning brightly in Etar’s tent. Although he never left it, the warriors knew he was awake. With officers running back and forth constantly, the night’s meetings were a sign the General was planning their next assault.

The accounting of the day’s prior events occupied the General’s morning. All must be in order and properly documented before battle summaries were dispatched to the Emperor. Etar paused periodically when searing pain gripped him and then let up. But he continued with his work, not allowing the wound to slow him. He had learned long ago to live with pain.

“My Lord, the Great Chingis-Khan’s personal messenger wishes to see you,” Nakhu shouted from outside the tent.

The leather skins of the tent door flew back and Etar stepped out. It was as if Nakhu had given the camp’s attack alarm. A messenger from the Khan would only be carrying bad news and this to Etar was an alarm.

The General gave an approving hand wave and the messenger was allowed passage by the guard. From his worn appearance and the dried sweat upon his mount, it was evident the messenger had ridden hard for quite some time.

Bowing head and body in the formal daitou of courtesy, the weary courier extended a leather pouch to Etar as he gasped, “Great General, I bring to you a letter from the mighty Chingis-Khan, Emperor of Emperors.”

The Mongol leader took the pouch and opened it to find a sealed letter inside. He closed the pouch, pretending to be undisturbed then looked to the messenger’s horse.

“How long have you been traveling?”