The man reached for the sword on his hip and spoke words to the boy. The boy said something back to him.
The man shouted at Ganbold and held out his sword.
Ganbold.
Ganbold had a sword, but he preferred to use his hands. He moved to lunge, baring teeth.
“You scared us,” the boy said, his voice high with fright. “We are going to rejoin our company.”
Ganbold stopped short, hands still outstretched. The words were not perfect for his language, but they were close. He understood. “You speak my language,” Ganbold began. “How?”
The boy shrugged. “I am a translator. I’m good with languages.”
The older man next to him spoke words to the boy. He indicated toward Ganbold.
The boy nodded. “He says to tell you that there are more of us just down the road.”
“More Frenchmen?” Ganbold asked.
The boy hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “Twelve. A merchant convoy returning to France. We don’t want trouble.”
Twelve Frenchmen would be easy for Ganbold to kill with his strength and the spirits of the land and sky on his side. But he wanted information first. “I want to find a Frenchman and a woman,” Ganbold said. “Hair like yours, tribal like me.”
The boy glanced at the man beside him. They exchanged words. Then the boy spoke to Ganbold. “No,” he said. “They are not with our group.”
Ganbold felt anger in his chest. He crouched to lunge.
“I know them,” the boy shouted, holding his hand out as both he and the man stepped back.
Ganbold paused, waiting for the boy to continue.
“I-I traveled with them.”
Ganbold took a step toward the boy. The man stepped back, holding out his blade. It shook. The boy stayed.
“Where are they?” Ganbold snarled, his words infused with his hatred.
The boy glanced at the other man again, then back to Ganbold. “What will you give me if I tell you?”
Ganbold grinned. “I don’t kill you.”
“And him?” the boy asked.
Ganbold just kept grinning.
The boy swallowed. “Bukhara,” he said. “They are in Bukhara. They will travel to Samarkand within the week.” The boy turned and said something to the man. The man smiled and dropped his guard. He nodded at Ganbold.
Ganbold had all he needed, so he leapt at the man, snatching forward. He ripped the sword out of his hand, grabbed his arm, and put his other hand to his throat. Ganbold squeezed, holding his grip tight just for a moment longer to watch the man’s eyes blaze in a panic, his free arm flailing. Then he applied enough pressure to stop his breathing. The man collapsed, and Ganbold went down with him, holding him in the dirt. Ganbold didn’t know what he heard break first, the man’s neck or his arm, but in moments, Ganbold was breaking bones like brittle twigs.
When he knew the man was dead, Ganbold remembered the boy. He looked over and saw him, wide-eyed, staring back. Ganbold moved toward him.
“You-you said you wouldn’t kill me,” the boy yelled.
“You come with me now,” Ganbold said, thanking the ancestors for this gift of someone who could speak the languages that Ganbold could not.
“Where are we going?”
“First, to your group of Frenchmen.”
