The Blue Horde
Fame has no trustier guardian than fear.
— Joseph Kessel
"It seemed as if nothing could prevent the Mongols from overrunning Syria and Egypt. But the Egyptian Mamlukes rallied to inflict a crushing defeat of the Mongols at Ain Jalout in Palestine in 1260. In that it saved the heartlands of the Muslim world from being overwhelmed, this was one of the decisive battles in the history of the world. The Mongol threat was far greater than that of the Christian crusaders, but it was also short-lived. Eastern and western christians both nursed hopes that the Mongols could be converted to Christianity. Instead, in 1295, the Mongol khan announced that he had become a Muslim." — "A History of the Middle East", Peter Mansfield.
I.
BALKAN STEPPES
1270AD
"I am Osul Khan, daughter of the Blue Horde. By my grandfather Orda Khan, his father Jochi Khan and his grandfather, most feared above all, Genghis Khan— tremble before my sword!"
"That's no sword; it's a stick!"
"Swordplay is not for girls," says Zvi, "and no girl will ever be Khan."
Osul brandishes her stick, "I will be Khan before you, Zvi. And you, Petar, your ears are too big. A crown would never fit around them!"
Petar flattens both ears against his head and grins.
"Don't you ever tire of boasts, Osi?" asks Zvi.
"It's no boast. It's my birthright."
"Oh yeah, and what about Orda's twelve sons before you? What of your uncles and brothers and cousins?"
Osul glares at him. She slashes at a tree branch, sending down a torrent of leaves upon the boys.
"A Khan is chosen by merits beyond blood," she says, defiantly.
"Come off it, Osi. No matter how fast you whip a horse, you will always be a girl," says Zvi, brushing a few wet leaves from his shoulder.
"Yes!" laughs Petar, "Soon you will be fat with child." He pushes his bony hips out and lurches around like a woman burdened.
"I will never marry," says Osul.
"Now, now little Osi. You're pretty enough." Zvi circles her, pulling a lock of her long dark hair. He pinches her arm. "Though you are so skinny. How will the baby feed?"
Osul swats his hand away. "I will never marry."
"I hear Nogai may think differently," says Petar.
"What's that?" she bites.
"Oh, Osul Osul!" swoons Zvi, "what blue eyes she has!"
"What shining dark hair!"
"What long legs!"
"What small breasts— Ayii!"
Both boys double over, holding their shins where Osul's stick had just stung past.
"Boys are fools," says Osul. She turns and launches her stick into the black line of trees.
Since the birth of their people, thousands of years before any whisper of Genghis Khan and his Golden Horde, the Mongols have been nomadic. Their tribes have worn paths through the craggy steppes of Central Asia, to the lush valleys of Mesopotamia, to the sheer-faced cliffs of Hindu Kush, to the Myanmar ports of the Byzantine, and north to forests full of black trees and white snow. Their livestock—cattle, sheep, goats, and prized horses—urge them onward for the earth entire is their pasture.
Before Genghis Khan died, he divided his kingdom into khanates and parceled them out to his sons and grandsons. The eastern wing of the Golden Horde is called White and West, the Blue. Jochi received the West and so it passed to his son and his son after that. It was of a woman, however, that Osul was born.
From a very early age, Osul encountered the limitations of her sex. Her mother was captured by her father during a raid in the far West. She was a thin, quiet woman who enjoyed sewing immensely. While pregnant, she stitched together one beautiful wedding dress— for she had a special intuition that her child would be a girl. She lived one day to look on her daughter, at her large eyes open in blue wonder, at the crown of dusky hair. That night, she died. Osul was left alone to be raised by men.
The Horde is a communal people, however, and Osul had plenty of chances to learn the womanly trades by any aunt or cousin. Yet, young Osul always bent her sewing needles and frayed basket reeds and burnt crusts on open fires. So, she began to tuck her hair beneath a scarf, don black caftans and oxhide pants, to carry a knife in her belt.
Lech, the second eldest of her brothers, taught her to ride a brown mare, named Tarpan. They would go galloping for leagues down the Danube coast; Osul would bend close to Tarpan's neck, reveled by wind and the power of her beast. Toqta, only a year older, loved to spar with Osul by the livery. Matched in height and temperament, they traded strikes and parries and laughter, always laughter. And Perun, dear eldest brother, always stealing anthologies in every city they passed through— he taught Osul to read maps, to speak with eloquence, to read the histories of their people and of others. Osul especially liked the histories of the Holy Roman Empire. Alexander the Great held a special place among the pantheon of her heroes.
Osul stoops down near the river's edge. She studies the black current, able to see a few silver fish dart into the quick. Quite by accident, she catches her reflection floating atop the water. She stares long and hard at an image she can't quite reconcile. What are these hips and these breasts? Do they belong to me? And if they do, how shall I bear them and keep climbing trees and besting Toqta and riding Tarpan? Soon, a man shall come for me. And I shall die, like mother, or like a slave held captive over a pot of soup.
Osul gathers her hair from the nape of her neck and holds it from view. Her hair appears shorn in its reflection; yes, shorn, but still framing the face of a girl. She supposes she is pretty, but in a harsher way than the other girls. Through her childhood, she had been taunted for the foreign color of her eyes, for growing tall and thin, for towering over the girls. Only recently, has Osul been attracting the attention of boys. Nogai in particular, a cousin much older and second in line to be Khan of the Blue Horde. He never talked to her, though, only stared at her over an evening fire, or as she hauled water across the polestar. His eyes gave Osul a funny feeling: it is like hearing a wolf throw its howl, unable to tell if the beast is near or far.
She slashes the water with her hand, splintering her image. Then, Osul calmly removes the knife from her belt, makes a knot of her hair and hacks it off. She throws the tresses into the Danube and watches them float swiftly away.
"I need a sword," says Osul. Perhaps they will respect me then. And I can go on being a woman with a man's purpose.
A loud noise wrests her from her thoughts. It seems to have come from the valley camp. Osul listens: Horses. Metal clanging. Women's voices shrill above the men's. Are they under attack?
Before Osul can stand, that wolfish feeling steals into her gut. Someone grabs her from behind and slides a large calloused palm over her mouth. The skin smells like a tincture of sweat and sap. Osul looks up at her captor. It is a tall man encased in rusted chainmail, white cape resting on his shoulders, bearing a crimson cross. He yells something out in a foreign tongue and three other soldiers emerge from the trees.
She remembers a marking like the one on that cape. It was a seal on one of Perun's scrolls. It belonged to the Khan of a great western nation, a kingdom called England.
II.
The soldier leads Osul by her newly shorn hair. She yells and spits and slaps the man, but he pays her no mind, the blows seemingly struck on a body forged from iron. They and the three others make their way through tall pines and narrow rills and finally break the fault line into the valley. Horses and cattle swarm the camp, loosed from their pens. Sheep and goats wander bleating and stamping. Bodies litter the ground, slumped in awkward positions, bleeding from deep gashes to stomachs and heads. Osul refuses to recognize the bodies by name, for she feels bile rising hot in her throat. One man lays sprawled on an overturned oxcart, his head severed at his feet.
Red, red, everywhere is red— the blood, the entrails, the cross flying high on that barbarian flag. Osul looks wildly around for her brothers, but cannot locate any of them. Women run screaming from their yurts, cut and slashed by the enemy's sword. One of the foreign soldiers drags a woman by her hair and throws her to the ground. He rips the fabric of her tunic, exposing her breasts. Osul squeezes her eyes shut, still clutched tightly under her captor's arm.
Roughly, she is flung to the ground. She opens her eyes and finds herself kneeling in a line of children. To her left sits Petar, staring wild-eyed at the scene before them.
"Petar! Petar!" she cries, throwing her arms around the boy.
Yet, Petar does not move, does not blink. He stares like a ghost, like one already departed from these horrors.
"Where are my brothers?!" Osul demands, shaking him by the shoulders.
"Everyone is dead," says Petar.
"Where is Lech and Toqta and Perun! Where is my father!"
Petar finally looks at her, his face smeared in dirt and blood, stained with tears. "Lech and Perun are dead."
"No!" cries Osul, doubling over. "No! No!" She must find them; she must find Toqta to warn him. She tries to get to her feet, but is pushed roughly down by her captor. He flings his foreign words at her, fanged words as if struck by a serpent. She tries to rise again, but is kicked heavily in the gut. She sputters, coughing wildly, trying to suck air back into her lungs. Again, he lands another blow, this time on the side of her head. Trees, mud and sky whirl madly in her vision; hooves thunder past. Osul has one thought before blackness takes her: Toqta had been with Nogai's hunting party; they left at first light this morning. Her brother may still be alive.
III.
When Osul wakes, she finds herself lying in the back of an armory wagon. She can hear men speaking, laughing, horses clopping. The cart jangles along, causing her head to throb painfully. Straining her ear, she tries and fails to discern any of the speech for the tongue is foreign. Osul sucks in a sharp breath: memory surges, bringing a metallic taste— though it could be blood on her tongue.
"Osul," says a small voice.
She looks around and finds Petar with his arms drawn around his knees.
"Where are we going?" she asks.
"I don't know," says Petar, blinking tears away, "You can see through there." He points to a rip in the cover.
Osul fingers the tear and peers through. She can see only the rump of a horse and oblique darkness. "Which direction did the sun set?"
Petar considers this, then points behind them.
"So, we are heading East," she decides, "But, that makes no sense. These warriors are from the West."
Shrugging, Petar picks at the stitching of his caftan.
"Perhaps they mean to sell us on the slave market in Constantinople," says Osul, "that must be it."
"Why did you cut your hair?" Petar asks, strangely.
She had quite forgotten about her shorn locks. It seemed a lifetime ago, kneeling by the Danube, tossing her dark hair to the water. She couldn't imagine that peace ever having existed.
"Where is Zvi?" she asks.
Petar hangs his head. She will not make him say it. The boy begins to shake— not for the cold, for it is quite stuffy in the wagon. Osul slides over to her friend and slings an arm over his shoulders.
"This is terrible. Oh, it is so terrible!" cries Petar.
Osul shushes him. "Don't worry. I will protect you."
Petar looks up at her with those dumb, shining dark eyes; after a moment, however, the spark dies. "You're just a girl," he says.
Suddenly, their wagon lurches to a stop. A few calls echo down the line. Why have they stopped? Perhaps Toqta and the hunting party are staging an ambush. Perhaps they will be rescued!
Osul moves to the peephole once more. A soldier walks unhurriedly by, mere inches from her eye. Then, the cover is flung open and they are met by the man who had captured Osul.
"Come about now," says the soldier.
When the two young prisoners make no move or signs of understanding, the soldier steps onto the cart and pulls Petar by the foot. Petar lets loose a piercing yell, grabbing onto Osul's sleeves.
"Please, please! Don't let them take me!" Petar screams, "Osul Khan!"
Osul lunges at the soldier, sinking her teeth into his arm. He yelps and flings her out of the wagon like a savage animal. Osul lands hard on the ground, her vision swimming. She lumbers to her feet and launches herself onto the soldier's expansive back. Staggering, he reaches blindly to pull the girl off, but she has wrapped her legs—strong from riding—around his hips. She constricts her arms about his neck until he is gagging. He shakes her viciously, but Petar jumps at him and claws at his face. Both Osul and the soldier fall to the ground.
"Kill him!" shouts Petar, "Kill him!"
The man is choking in her arms, flailing wildly. She can feel the breath draining, blood pumping furiously, heart hammering through his iron chest. She is killing him. And Osul does not feel fear or remorse but power: terrible, awesome power.
And then she is being ripped from her prey. Two other soldiers bare down on Osul, one already restraining Petar. Osul is crushed beneath the two men, her face pushed deeply into the mud so that it fills her mouth and her nostrils. She cannot breathe. I will drown in mud, she thinks. Her body settles; she ceases struggling.
"He cannot draw breath, William!"
"He nearly killed the Earl of Surrey!"
"William, I beg you! He's just a boy."
"Aye, Henry." The soldier known as William releases Osul, chuckling as she turns her face and spits out a raw mixture of dirt and horse shit. "That should learn him well."
"Sit up," says Henry, stooping down onto his haunches.
Spitting and coughing, Osul slowly pushes herself from the ground. She wipes her mouth across her sleeve, tongue black with filth, and stares murderously at this Henry.
"My dear, if you had succeeded in killing John de Warenne, I'd be serving your head to my King."
Osul keeps her stare hard, blindly running a hand along her belt for a familiar hilt.
"Searching for your blade, perchance?" winks Henry, "Of course, you can't understand a word I say, can you?"
The Earl of Surrey begins to stir. He groans and cups the tender flesh of his bruised neck.
"You do have spirit. I'll give you that," smiles Henry, "Come, you and your friend must be very hungry." He stands and extends a hand down to Osul.
Slapping his hand away, Osul cautiously stands and reaches out for Petar. Henry waves at the arresting soldier and Petar slips from his grasp.
"What do they want, Osul?" asks Petar.
"I don't know. But, that one," she nods in Henry's direction, "is in charge. Avoid crossing him and we shall live another day."
Henry regards the two boys curiously. The shorter one already bares signs of approaching manhood, sporting a deeper voice and a dusting of black fuzz above his upper lip. He is a skinny boy, but still broad in shoulder. He would make a good laborer.
But, the other. Even streaked with dirt, his face sits like a winter moon, pale and savage and beautiful. He stands a few hands taller than his friend, but he is more slender— his strange grace almost womanly. Henry can tell the young man had recently lost his cheeks, for he holds his strong jaw and high cheekbones like a bird of prey. And those eyes. Definitely not Mongol for their shape and color, yet like no shade Henry had ever seen before. That pale, naked stare pierces one utterly. Perhaps, thinks Henry of Almain, we have captured a changeling.
"Your language is very beautiful," says Henry, though he hears the words like devilish incantations. If one is ever to be cursed, it will be in this slavic dialect of the Mongolians.
Osul breaks her conversation with Petar and walks fiercely toward Henry.
"Listen to me, Henray of England," begins Osul.
He looks surprised to hear two recognizable words: "Yes, that is my name, Henry of—"
Osul cuts him off, caring little if he understands: "I do not care what Khan you serve. I do not care about your England. To me, you are djinns who fly into swine and make them run off cliffs. You slaughtered my tribe. You killed Zvi. You killed Lech. You killed Perun."
Osul's voice breaks on each name. She advances toe-to-toe with the soldier, her breath hot on his face: "I would kill a thousand of your Earl Surreys! A thousand of your Henries and Williams! I detest your Khan and his House!" She spits at the Englishman's boots. "I am Osul Khan of the Blue Horde, daughter of Genghis Khan. Soon, you will fear me as your ancestors feared mine."