Ganbold. Warrior. Hunter.
He had been searching for close to three weeks. He went from the small villages that bordered the tribal territory to the larger cities beyond them. But with each step west, Ganbold struggled more to communicate, the tones of the many languages no longer making sense. It made the path to find the woman blurry. That is, until his ancestors guided him to a man who not only spoke his language but had seen a merchant hauling her off to a faraway city called Merv. Before he had left this man, Ganbold had him write the wordsmerchantandlight-haired womanin all the languages he knew on a parchment.
Armed with this parchment, his own intimidating stature, and a direction, Ganbold was able to track the merchant all the way to Merv. Ganbold knew not to attack him in the city. He needed to have him alone on the road, where no one would see Ganbold take the girl, and where she couldn’t get away and find someone else to hide her.
Now, just outside of Merv, Ganbold waited. He had stalked the merchant leading his donkey and cart to an isolated section of road that wouldn’t be disturbed. Ganbold got ahead of the merchant on a bend in the road. Ganbold thanked his ancestors, the fiercest ones, because only they would guide him. He would honor them by cutting a strip of her light hair from her head and wearing it like a pelt.
The clanging of the donkey’s bell and the whistling of the merchant came up the road before Ganbold saw him. He stood waiting, eager. He knew how to make himself even more terrifying, like the ancestors had. He was tall, the largest in his clan, his black hair pulled up high in a warrior braid, his moustache full, and his beard long. He bared his teeth.
Like Ganbold expected, the merchant froze when he saw him. The whistling and clanging stopped.
The merchant spoke words that Ganbold did not understand. He waved his hands in what Ganbold thought was a greeting. He said a few more words, then tried the only language Ganbold understood.
“You speak a dialect of the Issyk Kul. You are far from your home, friend,” the man said with a nervous cheer. “Are you seeking wares?”
“Woman,” Ganbold ground out “With you.” He pointed to the cart. “I want her.”
The merchant squirmed. “She is not with me.”
Irritation prickled. “Why not.”
“I—I—,” the man stuttered. “She was for the whorehouse. A man bought her outside the whorehouse.”
Anger flashed through his body. Into his hands. “What man?”
“I do not know his name,” the merchant said, his eyes big. “A Frenchman!” he said, like he just remembered. “Uh, he was tall.” He raised his hand to show his height. “And French. He had dark hair.”
“A Frenchman,” Ganbold snarled. He did not like the woman, but he was enraged that a Frenchman would dare to buy one of his people. “Where do they go?”
“East is all I know,” said the merchant. “Hey, you and me,” he pointed to Ganbold’s beard and then plucked at his own. “My mother was from the Issyk Kul. We are of the same lineage.”
“We are not of the same lineage,” Ganbold stated bluntly. “My kin don’t sell a woman to a foreigner. The ancestors—they do not approve.” Then he reached forward to take the man’s neck.
Ganbold liked a stronger match. But the merchant’s helpless gurgling as Ganbold dug in with angry hands was enough to pay his ancestors for their assistance, for now.
Ganbold. Warrior. Hunter.
ChapterFive
Michel tore after her, through the entrance of his yurt at the edge of town. He had completed arrangements with François and spent the next moments pursuing this unpredictable woman as she stormed back through the town to their lodging.
“Please stop for a minute,” he said as she whizzed back and forth. He held back a grin. He couldn’t help it. He knew she was upset, but the way she was taking charge had both alarmed and amused him.
She came around the iron stove at the center of the yurt to straighten the stools at the table, then set to work, noisily arranging a kettle of water on the fire. “I am your servant,” she snapped. “I only answer to orders.” Then she pointed to the stool at the table behind the stove. “Sit!” she demanded.
Michel, too perplexed to argue about exactlywhowas giving the orders, went to sit. Just as he did, she launched a cushion right under his ass. He threw his hands up, exasperated.
She had absolutely stunned him when she began screaming at him earlier. He had truly believed she didn’t understand his language outside of a few words. But she had left him gaping like an idiot, while François had just laughed and laughed.
Now, in the yurt, Michel watched as she dedicated herself to this role of servant, rushing around, straightening and organizing his things. She arranged their shoes just outside the door, dragged a stool from the front of the yurt to the back, balled up his sleeping roll, and tossed it to the other side. He put his elbow on the table and stretched out to lean his head on his hand.
“Slow down,” he teased. He knew how bad he must look to her. Especially considering some of the things he had said to her when he didn’t think she understood. “Listen.Listen,” he called as she zipped around. He wanted a conversation, but she wouldn’t stop, so he just talked. “You’re right, I gave Armin money to avoid a commotion,” he said, sitting up straight again. “I just acted on impulse.” He tracked her as she moved. “Youhadjust fallen on top of me. I thought I was helping you.” He paused, speaking solemnly. “I can see how some things I said could be insulting.” She slowed just long enough to give him an annoyed look.
“Ha, ‘could be insulting,’” she scoffed. She leaned down to pick up the bed at the corner. She jerked it away from the wall, and it groaned across the floor.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“The bed is on the wrong side.”
