Tenaka led his people down into the valley. Ramrod-straight on his Drenai stallion he rode, and beside him Gitasi felt a surge of pride. He was Notas no longer – he was a man again.
Tenaka Khan rode to a point south of the tomb and dismounted. Word of his coming had spread to both camps and hundreds of warriors began to drift towards his camp-site.
The women of Gitasi busied themselves erecting the tents while the men attended to their ponies and settled themselves down around Tenaka Khan. He sat cross-legged on the ground, staring at the great tomb, his eyes distant and his mind closed to the drifters.
A shadow fell across him. He waited for long seconds, letting the insult build, then he smoothly rose to his feet. This moment had to come – it was the opening move in a none-too-subtle game.
‘You are the half-blood?’ asked the man. He was young, in his middle twenties, and tall for a Nadir. Tenaka Khan looked at him coolly, noting the balanced stance, the slim hips and the wide shoulders, the powerful arms and the depth of chest. The man was a swordsman and confidence blazed from him. He would be the executioner.
‘And who would you be, child?’ said Tenaka Khan.
‘I am a true-born Nadir warrior, the son of a Nadir warrior. It galls me that a mongrel should stand before the tomb of Ulric.’
‘Then move away and continue your yapping elsewhere,’ said Tenaka Khan. The man smiled.
‘Let us cease this nonsense,’ he said smoothly. ‘I am here to kill you. It is obvious. Let us begin.’
‘You are very young to wish for death,’ said Tenaka. ‘And I am not old enough to refuse you. What is your name?’
‘Purtsai. Why do you wish to know it?’
‘If I have to kill a brother, I like to know his name. It means that someone will remember him. Draw your sword, child.’
The crowd drew back, forming a giant circle around the combatants. Purtsai drew a curved sabre and a dagger. Tenaka Khan drew his own shortsword, and deftly caught the knife Subodai tossed to him.
And so the duel began.
Purtsai was good, skilled beyond the vast majority of tribesmen. His footwork was extraordinary and he had a suppleness unseen among the squat, bulky warriors of the Nadir. His speed was dazzling and his nerve cool.
He was dead within two minutes.
Subodai swaggered forward and stood with hands on hips, staring down at the body. He kicked it savagely, then spat upon it. Then he grinned at the watching warriors and spat again. Tucking his toe under the body, he flipped the corpse on to its back.
‘This was the best of you?’ he asked the crowd. He shook his head in mock sorrow. ‘Whatever will become of you?’
Tenaka Khan walked to his tent and ducked under the flap. Inside Ingis was waiting, seated cross-legged on a fur rug and drinking a goblet of Nyis, a spirit distilled from goats’ milk. Tenaka seated himself opposite the warlord.
‘That did not take you long,’ said Ingis.
‘He was young, with much to learn.’
Ingis nodded. ‘I advised Saddleskull against sending him.’
‘He had no choice.’
‘No. So … you are here.’
‘Did you doubt it?’
Ingis shook his head. He removed his bronze helm and scratched at the skin beneath his thinning, iron-grey hair. ‘The question is, Bladedancer, what am I to do about you?’
‘Does it trouble you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I am trapped. I want to support you, for I believe you are the future. Yet I cannot, for I have sworn to uphold Saddleskull.’
‘A thorny problem,’ agreed Tenaka Khan, helping himself to a goblet of Nyis.
‘What shall I do?’ asked Ingis and Tenaka Khan stared at his strong honest face. He had only to ask and the man was his – he would break his oath to Saddleskull and pledge his warriors to Tenaka instead. Tenaka was tempted, but he resisted with ease. Ingis would not be the same man if he broke his oath for it would haunt him for the rest of his life.
‘Tonight,’ said Tenaka, ‘the Shamen Quest begins. Those who stand for leadership will be tested and Asta Khan will name the Warlord. That is the man you are pledged to follow. Until that time you are bound to Saddleskull.’