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lively com-pany?"
The Tuigan ruler was trying to use Chanar's rivalry with Batu to draw the Shou's thoughts away from
his family. It was a trick the khahan had tried many times before. The tactic would never work, for
Chanar's rivalry was one-sided. Batu did not care to play at politics with the lanky general. It was not a
game he had enjoyed in Shou Lung, and he had no intention of concerning himself with it now.
Without responding to the khahan's barbed question, Batu took his place. As the renegade sat, the
Tuigan ruler ob-served, "You are not the man I fought in Shou Lung."
"How do you mean?" Batu asked, adjusting his cushion.
"The man I fought in Shou Lung did not fear death," the khahan replied.
Batu absentmindedly accepted a cup of kumiss from a quiverbearer. "My contempt for death has not
changed," the Shou responded. "I fear nothing."
"I know," the khahan said. "That is why Chanar is leading the scouts and you are here with me."
Batu scowled, for the khahan had touched upon a sore point. After two months of crossing the frozen
deserts be-tween Shou Lung and their present location, the Tuigan armies had reached a range of high
mountains that seemed to block further progress. It had taken Batu's scouts several days to locate a narrow
pass.
Yamun had sent five thousand men through the gap to re-connoiter the lands beyond. Batu had wanted
to lead the ex-pedition, but the khahan had sent Chanar instead.
That had been seven days ago, and the renegade had been quietly fuming about the decision ever since.
Now that the khahan seemed willing to discuss the matter, Batu was determined to find out why he had
been overlooked.
The renegade asked, "Why should my fearlessness dis-qualify me for command?"
"As you say, you no longer fear anything—including defeat."
"What?" Batu demanded. "How can you say such a thing?"
"It is true," the Tuigan ruler retorted, pointing a dirt-covered finger at the Shou. "Do not make the
mistake of be-lieving I am blind to the strife between Chanar and you. I have seen how you allow him to
turn others against you, provided he is careful not to offend your honor."
The khahan picked a curd out of his cup and paused to chew it. Finally, he continued, "If that is how you
want things to be, it is not my place to interfere. All I can say is that the general I fought in Shou Lung
would not hide be-hind his memories, especially not from a petty rival like Chanar." The khahan spoke with
a deliberately contemptu-ous tone.
"Do not think I will accept an insult lightly, even from you," Batu hissed. The Shou had no sooner uttered
his threat than the Kashik guards drew their sabers and started forward.
Without taking his steely eyes off Batu, the khahan waved his guards away. "Of course, you should be
killed for that," he said, "but that is what you want, is it not? I will not make dying so easy for you."
Yamun fell silent, then furrowed his brow as if recalling a distant memory. "When you came to me," he
said, "you said it was because you had an appetite for war."
"That has not changed," Batu replied.
The khahan regarded the renegade Shou with a judgmen-tal air. "Know this, then: if you wish to sate
your appetite in my service, you must stop using your past to shield yourself from Chanar's rivalry."
Batu's first instinct was to be angry with Yamun. The kha-han was clearly telling him to forget about his
family, and that was something the Shou would never do. After Ting's execution, Batu had vowed to honor
his dead family as long as he lived, and he had taken great care to make sure others knew that he would
avenge even the slightest insult to their memories.
Still, the khahan's blunt order was not entirely misplaced and Batu knew it. As Yamun said, the
renegade had been us-ing his vow as a shield—not to protect himself from Chanar, but to protect himself
from the truth.
Batu had often told his men that soldiers were dead men. As such, they had no business with families.
Eventually, every soldier would perish on the battlefield, leaving be-hind lonely wives and children. It was a
truth Batu had known all along, but he had always told himself that this ax-iom did not apply to him. If he
fell, his family would not have suffered financially, so the general had always believed his death would be
no more than an inconvenience. Now, he saw that he had been wrong. Wu's anguish and Ji's and Yo's grief
would have been no easier for them to bear than his own sorrow was for him. It had been wrong to expect
them to suffer such hardship on his behalf. Batu understood now that the day he had fallen in love was the
day that he should have laid aside his weapons.
Yet, that had never been an option he would have chosen. The first time he had picked up a sword, Batu
had decided to become a soldier. He had never known anything else, and had never wanted to. Instead of
laying his weapons aside, Batu realized, it would have been better to harden his heart against love—as he
hardened it against the death and agony of those who served under him.
As he reflected on his past blindness, Batu slowly realized that the time had come for him to command
again. It was true that he had been wrong to take a family. Having taken one, it was equally true that he
had been wrong to continue life as a soldier. But those were errors that he had made in the past. By
refusing to face them now, he was shaming himself and minimizing the sacrifice that his family had made
on his behalf. If Batu was to venerate his wife and chil-dren properly, he had to stop using their memories
to shield him from his own guilty feelings. He had to start living again.
The renegade waved the quiverbearer to his side, then gave the servant his kumiss cup. "Take this
away and get me some water."
The khahan raised an eyebrow. "Are you feeling ill?" he asked.
Batu shook his head. "No. It's time I started keeping a clear head."
The khahan smirked. "Don't get carried away. Chanar Ong Kho isn't that much of a rival."
Batu snorted. "I'm not worried about Chanar," he said. "I want to be ready for command when it's time
to fight."
"Don't get ahead of yourself," the khahan warned. "You will have to deal with Chanar."
Yamun remained silent for several moments. Finally, he changed the subject and said, "Since you have
decided to keep a clear head, let me make use of it and ask your advice."
"Certainly."
"I am thinking that if Chanar had found anything beyond the mountains, we would have heard about it by
now." The khahan absentmindedly swirled the contents of his cup.
Batu did not hazard his own opinion. It was clear that the Mighty One's mood had shifted, but he did not
know to where. Undoubtedly, Yamun was leading up to something.
"While we sit here, the snows only grow deeper and the men feel more restless," the khahan added,
looking into his cup.
"This is true," Batu agreed. In the last week alone, more than ten thousand men had left camp, claiming
the need to return to their clans, their ordus, to see that their families were fed through the winter.
Although both Yamun and Batu knew that the real reason for the exodus was sheer boredom, the khahan
had allowed them to go. He was a per-ceptive commander who knew that resentful men made poor
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