But Nils didn’t change to a stealth mode. He led with long strides toward the largest of the tents, then at about thirty meters stopped, and bellowed in Mongol that he wanted to speak with the chief there. Baver was dismayed that the Northman had thrown away their surprise advantage, especially since there was no reason to think that any of the Kazakhs understood Mongol.
Understandable or not, it drew a response, albeit delayed. In less than half a minute, people began emerging from tents, some calling out when they saw the situation. Most wore robes they apparently slept in. Some had belted on weapons. Others carried bows, and a handful or quiverful of arrows. Several came from the largest
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tent. When fifty or sixty had assembled, Nils strode toward them, Hans beside him and a step back. Willy-nilly, Baver followed. He saw bows half bent in the hands of several women and adolescent boys. The older men held swords, as did a heavy-set woman who stood before the door of the main tent, and toward whom Nils strode. He didn’t stop until he stood within four meters of her. Then he spoke again in Mongol: “You have our friend.”
Baver’s guts had frozen in his belly. There seemed to be nothing but hard hostility among all the Kazakhs he could see there. They were staring at Nils, whom they’d no doubt kill first. The Northman had come shirtless, probably to strengthen the impression he’d hoped to make. The amount of running the giant Neoviking had done lately had refined his powerful musculature to an extreme degree; his muscles were like thick steel cables with the individual wires visible through his skin. Even in the dawnlight he was awesome.
The woman with the sword examined him narrowly, then snapped something in sharp but fluid Turkic, a language Baver found aesthetic in more ordinary circumstances. Several people went into her tent. The rest continued to watch Nils Järnhann, most of them glowering. The Northman stoodcalm and impassive. If he really could read minds, Baver thought, he’d still have no way of understanding thoughts in Turkic.
In less than a minute, two of the older men came back out, dragging Achilch, who was wearing a wooden yoke perhaps eighty centimeters long, his wrists tied to it with thongs. His ankles were tied too, with cord that might have allowed him little steps of thirty centimeters or so, had the Kazakhs not been dragging him.
The woman snapped angry Turkic at Achikh; he answered in the same language, though haltingly and without anger. Their exchange took the better part of a minute, then Achikh turned his face to Nils and spoke in Anglic.
“She wants to know who you are, and what you want.”
“Tell her I am a shaman of the Northmen, and the
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man who slew Kazi the Undying. Also tell her I want them to free you, and trade horses with us.
“These people set little store by shamans, and I doubt she knows of Kazi. They are likelier to kill us all than to free me.”
“Tell her, and we’ll see what happens.”
There was another exchange in Turkic, her own growing louder as she talked. Hands tightened on sword hilts. Bows were half raised. Achikh spoke to Nils again.
“She pretends to be unimpressed, but she has heard of Kazi. She will not talk with you unless you all give up your weapons, both swords and knives.”
Nils looked mildly at her without touching his weapons. “Ask her if she knows where her fighting men are,” he said.
Achikh stared at him for a brief instant, then turned his face to the woman and spoke. Her reply was imperious. “She says they have ridden out to catch and put to death some thieves who stole cattle here.”
“Tell her her men are camped beside a stream that flows from some mountains two long days’ ride north from here. The mountains are not very high, but high enough that there is forest on their backs. They are there to hunt wolves, and do not expect to return for some days. The chief, Shakir, leads them, her eldest living son. He will want her to trade with us.”