Under the Falcon's Wing

The Rus were scattering in every direction now. Their mail armour was little protection against our hail of arrows and for every man still on his horse, another lay wounded or dying. We were careful not to injure the horses, since previous engagements with the enemy had lost us a number of our own stout, well-bred animals that had fed on the grasses of the high steppes themselves.

Houlun, the leader of our war-band, lifted her lance in the air and raised a shout to the heavens. "People of the Plains! The Rus dogs are fleeing before us! Again they have brought boys to fight women. Trample them as they cry out for their mothers!"

With these words she spurred her horse and bore straight at the last pocket of the enemy's resistance. Echoing her cry we all followed close behind. The Rus fought valiantly, as only cowards can when faced with death. The battle was already raging when I reached it, my mare having been injured in our previous battle and favouring her left side. I hung off my saddle to the right to compensate for the list in her gallop and my lance struck true, taking one Rus warrior straight in the chest as he swung his shield about and lifting him straight off his horse. I flung the broken lance aside and looked for Houlun.

As usual she was in the thick of the battle, hungry for glory. Her blade shone bright in that late afternoon light, and wherever it flashed blood soon followed. Then her horse collapsed beneath her and she vanished behind the fray.

I spurred my mare forward, trampling the injured Rus still struggling with the point of my lance in his chest. I saw Juchin, Houlun's second, swing off her horse to come to her aid. A Rus had hamstrung Houlun's stallion and it lay on its side, neighing pitifully.

I drew my battleaxe from my hip, swung off my own mare and threw myself into the battle. I was no longer as fast as I had been when everyone had called me the Falcon, but I was still fast enough for the likes of these Rus.

Juchin fell, her face and front a torrent of blood. The tall Rus warrior who had struck the blow was swinging his greatsword in an arc towards Houlun as she struggled with another foe. I came between them, bringing my axe down upon his head. It brained him and he sunk to the ground, twitching, his life-blood spilling down into the earth.

Houlun, pulling her sword from the gasping Rus on the ground before her, turned and grinned at me.

"So the Falcon can still fly!"

I said nothing, but threw myself against the few exhausted Rus still standing.

They were quickly defeated. As we tended to our wounded and dispatched the enemy already half in death, we took stock of the outcome. Fifteen Rus dead, and only one of our own, Juchin, struck down.

Some of her friends busied themselves with preparing her body while Houlun saw to the gathering of the booty and captives. I contented myself with the chore of dispatching the wounded. We Plainspeople are no torturers, unlike many of our enemies. When we bring death, it is swift and final.

I found the bodies of two Rus lying beside a fallen horse. They were dressed differently from the others and wore richly embroidered robes. I had seen such Rus before. They were priests, followers of the Book. One had been riding the horse when our arrows had felled him -- fletching bristled from his back like a forest. I knew he must be dead.

The other was shorter, slighter in build. I sensed movement from him, secretive breathing. I placed my foot on his body and rolled him over.

A boy - no, a young man, one just freshly touched by manhood. Beardless and slender, his milk-pale skin and hair of woven gold marked him out as Cuman rather than Rus.

As I drank in his beauty, his eyes flashed open and he was upon me, a blade shining in his hand. I stepped back and slapped the blade from his grasp, returning to backhand him to the ground.

Foolish to try such an old trick! No, not foolish - courageous, perhaps. So often the Rus showed themselves to be cowards, even when there was nothing left to lose. That a boy-priest, untrained in battle, would attempt such an attack earned my grudging respect.

The boy lay crouched on the ground, staunching the flow of blood from his broken lip with the back of his hand. He stared up at me with sky-blue eyes filled with hate.

I sighed. Perhaps the one beside him was his father. He had every right, then, to hate me. But the battle was over and he had lost. Things would go easier for him if he accepted the fact.

I pulled him to his feet by the neck of his hood and marched him to where the other captives were. He was the youngest by far, and the fairest. He would not be destined to tending the yaks and collecting dung for the fires. No, his fate would be the warming of some lucky warrior's bed.

I left him. He gazed after me, his wide blue eyes fearful. The warrior in charge of the captives pushed him to his knees.

Houlun divided up the booty. Despite her arrogance and recklessness, she was always unerringly fair. I had my eye on several of the horses -- although nowhere as strong as our animals, they were not uncomely beasts. New blood was always welcome in our herds and my mare was needful of a strong stallion to father her foals.

But when the time came for Houlun to distribute the horses, they went to others. I sat there, gnawing at my liver. Had I not done her a service by braining that Rus who would have slain her? I fumed in silence at the slight on my honour.

At last the time came for her to distribute the captives. They were led out and the interested warriors busied themselves with examining them. The boy attracted particular attention and he was well stroked and prodded with many a lewd jest.

The process bored me. Houlun put an end to the inspections and raised her voice.

"Today my life was spared by the skill of one of our most courageous warriors. Step forth, Chamuka! Or Falcon, I should say."

I started at the sound of my name and my old title. Houlun grabbed my hand and gave me a resounding clap on my back, then addressed the others. "Today the Falcon showed that even with the keepsakes of many combats weighing her down, a great heart is all that is needed to fly. For this reason, I consider it fitting to give to her the flower of our booty: the gold-haired boy."

At first there was some scattered murmurs, but they quickly turned to words of congratulation. The others knew that Houlun was not flippant in her generosity.

Yet the gift made me uncomfortable. "I thank you, Houlun, for your generosity, but what need do I have of him?"

Houlun grinned. "Come now, Falcon! I know these river plains are far warmer than the steppes, but an empty bed is not a thing to be relished. And even if he does not please you in that way, surely having someone to clean your ger and prepare your tea is not unwelcome?"

I knew better than to argue. There would be no changing Houlun's mind and to refuse would be unseemly. Still, I felt as though the gift held some hidden jest. Well, if that was so, then let her enjoy it!

And yet, the boy... I had never had any interest in slaves. Houlun, I knew, had an eye for pretty young men. Had she not been feeling generous today, this boy would not doubt have replaced her current favourite, dressed in silk and lying on the many pillows of her ger awaiting the return of his mistress.

The boy looked on, ignorant of what was happening. As I approached, the warrior in charge of the captives lifted him gently to his feet in deference to the fact I now owned him. He brought him to me and spoke a few words of Rus to him.

The boy's eyes went wide and he shook his head. The warrior chuckled and pushed him toward me. Embarrassed, I grabbed the boy by the arm.

"Come," I told him. It was the only Rus word I knew.

The boy did not put up a fight but came with me, his blue eyes downcast. I knew well such a posture: one often saw it in captives who have given up hope.

But what to do with the boy? Well, Houlun had spoken well of me at least. She had mentioned the keepsakes of my many battles, meaning my wounds, of course, or rather that one wound from many battles ago.

A keepsake, she called it. The long scar above the badly-knitted bone was a memento of a far greater pain than just the loss of my previous swiftness. For the same battle had laid my husband beneath the earth, only months after we had lost our son.

I looked at the boy. He was around the same age as my son had been when he died. And yet he looked nothing like my son had.

My son, lying in the ger given over to the dying. No shaman would allow someone to die within their own ger and bring disaster upon the others who dwelt within it. I remembered the last time I saw him, wasted away to a bundle of mere sticks wrapped with skin, though his eyes still held their deep, shining glow.

He had said nothing and lifted his hand. I took it in my own and he had died. And that had been the end of my hopes. I was too old to have any other children. Over forty summers had come and gone, and perhaps several more I had forgotten to count.

Not long after, battle had taken my husband from me. I did not see him die. I was far from him, lying beneath my injured horse, my leg crushed and useless, splintered by a Rus axe.

The Rus. I hated them, but as much as I hated any enemy. I hated the disease that had taken my son more.

I looked at the boy. His eyes were wide and fearful. Of course, my appearance frightened him. Taller than him, I bore all the features of a woman of the Plainspeople: almond eyes, far darker than his own sky-blue ones, high cheekbones, black hair worn long in twin braids upon the neck, skin the colour of bronze. I must be utterly alien to him, so unlike his own feeble women, so unlike the mother he would never see again, who would mourn him, though ever hopeful of his return.

Well, at least he lived. He had no reason to complain. The earth holds many more far more deserving of life than him.

He stumbled. I pulled him up sharply and he cried out. I loosened my grip on his arm. My anger slipped away from me as quickly as it had been kindled. There was no need to hurt the boy. He was young and frightened. He had fought back. Maybe he would prove useful in some way. I took hold of his hand instead.

The hand was soft and warm in my own.

Perhaps Houlun was right. My empty ger, taking tea alone. Alone with thoughts and ghosts. He would warm the place.

And warm my bed? I chuckled at Houlun's bawdiness. The boy would have his own blankets. I had no interest in his slender, girlish body, his soft golden hair. I would prove Houlun a fool if she was trying to belittle me with the boy, trap me into emulating her degeneracy. The boy would be put to work, and he would work hard. That soft hand in my own would soon know the roughness of work in a camp of the Plainspeople.

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Nestled before me on my mare, the boy shivered. From fear or the cold? It was early autumn here in the northern lands of the Rus, and for me it felt like the depths of highest summer back on the steppes.

His shivering annoyed me, whatever its cause. Weakness! No wonder the Rus fell so quickly to us. They were followers of the Book, and their religion made them weak. A religion for slaves rather than warriors -- so strange that they shared so any of their beliefs with the followers of the Prophet! But the boy was no doubt well-versed in its teachings, well-versed in the sayings of Jesu. An educated boy might prove helpful.

I grinned. How different a fate would now be awaiting him if Houlun had chosen him for herself! Little chance she would wait long before stripping him of the flower of his innocence. Houlun, I imagined, was no more gentle amid her blankets than she was on the field of battle. She would wrestle him out of those robes and throw him to the floor and despoil him like any other foe. I knew the boy had no knowledge of women. As a priest of the Book, he would be wholly innocent of the delights of the flesh. How surprised he would have been to find such mysteries so suddenly and aggressively forced upon him!

And yet the image that came to my mind did not please me. Houlun's hunger, her body pressed upon his, her demands and lewd laughter, treating him as her plaything. I recoiled in disgust.

We reached the camp. I glanced down at the boy, saw the wonder on his eyes. As a priest of the Rus he had likely never have seen one of the permanent camps of the Plainspeople. The open fields beside the river were spotted with the white and gold of our gers, their red horse-hair pennants flying in the breeze like tongues of fire. My mare whinnied to her brothers and sisters grazing by the river.

Following after Houlun we passed through the gates of the camp, with only the riders carrying Juchin's body breaking away. Bukidai and the other shamans were already coming to meet her, take her body and recite over it the spells that would help remind the death-spirits of her worthiness. Then her body would be left upon a hill far from the camp for the animals to strip her of her flesh and hurry her spirit to the afterlife.

I reined in my horse and watched the little funeral procession. The boy looked up at me, wondering why we had stopped. I felt the hot sting of humiliation and muttered dark words under my breath. I spurred on my mare and we entered the camp.

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I pushed aside the felt door of my ger and gestured to the boy. He took a few steps forward, hesitant, but in no mood for such foolishness I shoved him inside. The funeral of Juchin had turned into a celebration of our victory, and along with the other captives he had watched us at our drinking and singing around the fires. The many cups of airag had done little to temper my earlier annoyance. The sound of the singing and laughter was clear even now through the felt of the ger, and I bristled at it.

Foolish. Foolish to resent such happy sounds. It was right to celebrate. We had been victorious!

And yet, funerals have always weighed heavy on my heart. Maybe it had been better, better if I had died In that battle long ago. All of us, together.

It had been thought such as these which had driven me to seek the solace of my ger. Houlun had grinned when I grabbed the boy and gave my apologies.

"It looks like our Falcon's blood runs hot after battle!" she'd said to the others, laughing, and then to me, "Go easy on the boy, Chamuka. Even a youth's soft bones may break!"

I had grinned at the jest, but in truth my heart had rankled.

The boy looked about, wide-eyed, as I took up the poker and roused the fire in its central pit. The dormant embers there stirred and I tossed on more dried horse-dung to feed it. There was wood enough to feed the fire here by the river, but the old ways are the most comforting. Soon the air was filled with the rich scent of the fire and I felt good to be home.

I took off my hat, placed it carefully on one of the chests then sat myself down on a stool. The boy was still gawking at everything -- this was, after all, the first time he had seen the inside of a ger. No doubt the brightly painted and intricately carved chests and stools and the low, lacquered table were very different from what he was used to.

I drew his attention by clicking my fingers then gestured towards the rugs on the floor beside the fire. He blinked at me, took a step forward and then stopped again.

I sighed. The boy, so brave in battle, was frightened now of his own shadow. I sat up, took hold of his sleeve and led him to sit down.

I shook my head, wondering just how useful he would prove to be. I sat down across from the fire and began to take off my armour.

Well, there was no time like the present for the boy to learn his duties as my servant. I pointed at the leather thong that held together the chest and back plates of my cuirass. He stared at me and I mimed untying the thong with my fingers. Still he made no move, so I grabbed hold of his hand and placed it against the armour.

At last he seemed to understand what I was asking. With fumbling fingers he undid the thong, revealing the silk jacket I was wearing underneath. His eyes went wide and I was reminded that silk for him was a symbol of wealth and opulence. For the Plainspeople it was also a practicality, since silk helps catch the heads of barbed arrows and allows them to be pulled out of wounds without recourse to the knife.

But that wasn't the reason for his surprise. The flush that spread across his pale cheeks told me the real reason: it was merely the fact that he was looking upon a woman's undergarments that had elicited such a strong response.

Grinning, I turned and offered him my other side. This he undid as well, his slender fingers still nervous.

I lifted the cuirass from my shoulders. My arm and leg greaves soon joined it and I had the boy place them together in their chest.

I stretched, glad to be free of my armour at last. I did not bother to change from my underclothes but sat by the fire.

The boy sat too, but on the opposite side, his eyes turned away from me. Was it hate or embarrassment that made the sight of me so unpleasant, I wondered. As I watched him from the corner of my eye he edged closer to the fire, as though guilty for accepting something offered by the enemy. Well, the cold makes allies of us all and the day was waning. He was probably hungry, too.

I went to the cupboard and took some cheese and meat from it. This I brought to him.

"Don't grow used to this, boy. After this it will be your job to serve me."

He did not understand me, and the gruffness of my words alarmed him, though I had meant them in jest. The food, however, he well understood. He took it from me and gazed at it for a long while. Then all of a sudden he fell upon it. I sat back and watched him eat, pleased.

"Is it good?"

He stopped eating and glanced up at me. His childish face betrayed some emotion I could not place: resentment? Thankfulness? But he quickly returned to his meal.

I went and poured myself a cup of airag from the vat, then after a moment's thought filled another cup and offered it to the boy. He took it and sniffed. I laughed.

"Drink it. It's good. Good!" I rubbed my stomach. I sat back down on the rug and took a long desired draught of the sour and salty liquor.

The boy sampled his own and soon fell to spluttering. I laughed again. Airag is nothing like the grape wine that the Rus enjoy so much. The fermented mare's milk was alien to his lips.

I noticed then, that he had left the goat and eaten only the cheese even though he was no doubt still hungry. The priests of the Book very often deny themselves meat, a religious taboo I suppose, and one I could respect. The Plainspeople have many such taboos. I took the meat from him and ate it myself, bringing him some more cheese and yoghurt which he ate greedily.

"Good," I said. "Eat well and get strong. There will soon be much work for you to do." It was pleasant to watch him eat. Like many Rus he seemed underfed.

A few more lusty draughts of airag and the exertions of the battle slipped from my body. I lay on my side and let the fire warm me. I knew my leg would soon stiffen if I did not move it, so I sat back up and stretched it out. I rolled my silk trousers up, baring my tan skin, and ran my fingers across the old scar, the dead flesh smooth and senseless beneath my fingers.

I felt the boy watching me. No doubt he found the scar ugly to look at. I turned to face him and he dropped his gaze, the pale skin of his cheeks growing pink.

The dark thoughts that had been stealing up upon me as I touched the scar fled and I was filled with amusement. So the sight of a woman's leg was a matter of great shame for him? I decided not to display myself any further. I rolled my trousers back down and sat up.