Endgame Novella #2 (13 page)

Charming her will be worth it.

Enduring more days and weeks in this exile will be worth it.

Anything will be worth it, if it means proving himself to his mother. He understands now that he can never stop proving himself, can never get lazy, can never relax, even for a second. That's the gift she's given
him
. That's how she's made him strong. She has ensured his endless dedication to serve his line, to prove his worth. To make her proud.

The polecat's neck fits perfectly in Baitsakhan's small palm. He squeezes—
gently
, he reminds himself. It wouldn't do to sever the spine. Not yet, at least. Baitsakhan presses the polecat against the hard-packed dirt, trying his best to hold the squealing animal still. It squeaks and wriggles, but that is no matter. It cannot escape. It's utterly under his control. When Baitsakhan unsheathes his dagger and, with a sure hand, brings the blade down on its tail, it can do nothing but scream.

Its screams sound almost human.

Baitsakhan finds this interesting.

Also interesting is the blood spilling from the creature, splashes of bright red against the dirt. The raw meat of the wound. The rotten-sweet smell of it. The way the keening noise trails off, turns to a whimper, then a hiss, then nothing. Baitsakhan notes all of this carefully.

Most of all, he notes the look in the polecat's eyes. Pain and terror. The same look the dog gave him when he sliced out its entrails. The same look his baby sister gave him when he pressed the sizzling cattle brand to her foot, hand over her mouth so she couldn't scream. It should, perhaps, amaze him that pain is such a powerful leveler, that it brings all creatures, large or small, to the same hellish ground.

But nothing amazes Baitsakhan.

Amazement
is a word without meaning for him, like
sorrow
, like
love
.

But
pain
? That, he understands.

Also
joy
.

Joy is what happens when he causes pain in others.

The polecat's blood flows and flows. If he liked, Baitsakhan could release his grip: the creature is too weak to escape. Or he could tighten his grip, a few millimeters, choke the air from its lungs, crush its throat, put the animal out of its misery. It would be merciful.

But it would not be joyful.

Time passes, and the cat does not die. Good. The wound is not fatal—there will be time for more. Baitsakhan carves the polecat carefully, like his father dissects their evening meal. First the paws, then the flank, then, when he finally grows bored, the tender belly, letting the steaming innards drop to the ground with a soft plop. He waits impatiently for the creature to expire. Then he reaches into his box for another one.

It is his sixth birthday.

This is his present to himself.

One year later, the Trials begin.

The Donghu hold the Trials every six years. Those Donghu children, ages six to eight—fortunate enough to be born within the right window, to have the chance to serve their people—are brought to an arena 100 kilometers south of Ulaanbaatar. This is the law of the land, and those who violate it are severely punished. For three days and three nights, more than 100 children pit their skill and strength against each other, whether they want to or not.

Baitsakhan has been waiting for his Trials ever since he was a toddler. The children are pitted against one another in feats of strength and ferocity. They are not trained in fighting methods—or, at least, they're not meant to be. They are simply handed weapons and set against each other in the arena. No rules, no adult interference, only the young Donghu, pitted against each other like animals, fist to fist, knife to knife, two by two, until one emerges supreme.

That one, strongest and fittest, will be the Player of his generation.

Baitsakhan has spent his entire life in the barren depths of the steppe, and he has wide eyes for this strange village, with its closed-in spaces, its sturdy buildings digging their roots into the earth, its people. Such teeming hordes of people, the smell of them, the filth of them, clogging the air. Baitsakhan feels wrong here, like a caged animal. His people are migrants, following their crops and their herd, carrying their possessions and even their homes with them when they go, reveling in harsh nature and open sky.

His home is nowhere and everywhere. His home is gray sky and ashen ground, warrens of dark caves eating through cliffs, dunes of sand undulating into infinity.

Such emptiness offers so many wonderful places to hide. Baitsakhan can be alone whenever he needs, to do whatever he needs, safe from prying eyes.

He thanks the gods, now, that he doesn't live in a place like this, where foul people would always be watching.

Baitsakhan stands under the dome of the arena with his twin cousins, Bat and Bold, and their younger brother Esan, listening to them chatter about who will triumph. Within a week, one of the children here will prove himself superior to the rest, and this child will be named the next Player of the Donghu people. Baitsakhan does not join his cousins in their idle speculation; he has no need.

He gets what he wants; he takes what he wants. That has always been his way.

And he wants this.

To be the Player is to be powerful, and the more powerful he is, the more of the Earth's sorry creatures he will be able to hurt.

The Player who Plays Endgame will ensure the death of billions. It is a beautiful gift that the gods have promised their chosen people. That someday they will have the chance to purge the Earth of its inferior bloodlines. For millennia, the Donghu have waited patiently for the sacred promise to be met, for the time to come. For millennia, generations of Donghu Players have waited at the ready, preparing for
genocide. Perhaps each of them thought:
I am worthy; the gift will come to me.
But none could have been as worthy as Baitsakhan.

As soon as he learned of Endgame, the Player, the promise of apocalypse, he knew: this was to be his fate.

The Player will eradicate his competition one by one, hunt the other Players to the end of the Earth, destroy them and their lines along with them. He will be walking death, visiting torment and devastation upon the world.

He has to be Baitsakhan.

The Trials begin, and Baitsakhan shows the judges what he can do. Every child enters the arena with the weapon of his choosing. Baitsakhan favors the curved saber. He likes the feel of metal cutting through flesh. He's taught himself how to fight, practicing with his cousins and watching the men of his camp come to blows after too much drink. Some fathers violate tradition and give their sons and daughters instruction on weaponry and battle. But Temür, a shepherd's son, chooses the halberd, and is obviously self-taught as well. His feet are clumsy and his blows uncertain. Baitsakhan knocks him out easily with an elbow to the head. Qarajin, an older girl who sleeps in the
ger
beside his, wields a straight blade. Baitsakhan takes his time with her, enjoying the noises she makes when his saber flicks against her skin. She is a bloodied mess by the time she rests her knife on the ground and bows before him, ceding defeat. Buka, Hulagu, Oghul-qaimish, Bat, and Bold, one by one, the children fall before him or back away in fear. Some he knows; some are strangers to him, brought hundreds of kilometers across the Gobi to compete, as the law demands. Many are strong and skilled, but all of them are, in their secret hearts, afraid of pain. Pain doesn't scare Baitsakhan; pain is his dearest friend.

His final competitor is an unexpected one: his cousin Esan, the youngest boy at the Trials. Barely six years old, he is only days past the qualifying age, and he has always seemed a useless boy. He is the kind adults like, bright-eyed and eager, with enough mischief in him
to earn the respect of his peers.
That Esan will go far,
Baitsakhan has heard his parents say, with clansman pride.

Baitsakhan despises him.

Esan grins, an insouciant smile that betrays how little he cares about this, how little he needs it. He has cut his way through the competition on a lark, and his smile says,
Let us fight, cousin; then let us walk away friends.

Baitsakhan bares his teeth.

He raises the saber, slashes at Esan. The younger boy dodges out of the way, then whirls around, swipes his own saber at Baitsakhan, nearly draws blood. He is fast. Baitsakhan will have to be faster. They dance around each other, blades sweeping out wide arcs in the dry summer air, clanging together as they dodge and parry. Baitsakhan moves on instinct, enjoying the feel of the saber—it's like he was born with it in his hand, born knowing what to do with its deadly blade. The Donghu watch from the sidelines, shouting gleefully when Baitsakhan first draws blood, and again when Esan's blade slices Baitsakhan's cheek. He glories in the sharp pain of it—even his own pain is a precious jewel, to be polished to a shine. This is what the fearful creatures around him fail to understand, and this is why he will always triumph.

They are two whirling animals, fierce and wild. Esan's foot lashes out, makes contact with the back of Baitsakhan's knees, knocks him hard to the ground. When Esan crouches to take his advantage, Baitsakhan swipes his feet from under him. Then they are rolling on the ground, Baitsakhan's grip tight on Esan's wrist, forcing his saber into the dirt, Esan driving a fist into Baitsakhan's gut and yanking his hair out of his scalp, the Donghu judges leaning in, trying fruitlessly to track the movements of the two young boys who now seem one impossible beast. And then—

Baitsakhan spots his opening. His knife flashes, blade meeting flesh.

He has killed enough animals to know how to deal a fatal blow, and how to avoid it. He knows exactly how hard to bear down if he wants
to draw enough blood to win, but only enough. If he wants to spare Esan his life, he can do so.

Or he can slice through Esan's jugular and spill the boy's life force from his veins.

Baitsakhan must decide in a heartbeat—but really, the decision was made for him, the day he was born. Baitsakhan is who he is.

There can be only one choice.

He strikes.

The tangle of limbs goes still. Blood pools. Baitsakhan rises to his feet.

Esan does not.

Esan never will again.

In the stands, a woman's keening cry. This, Baitsakhan knows without looking up, will be Esan's mother. He knows other things too: that it is not intended for children to die in the Trials, but it is not unprecedented. Accidents happen.

No one will know the truth.

That the feel of the blade tearing open Esan's throat is something Baitsakhan will revisit in his dreams.

That killing this boy is the purest joy he's ever known, better than slaughtering cows and dogs, better than the bloody corpses that populate his dreams. He is already eager to do it again.

That he has found his true calling.

He reveals none of this. Instead he fakes sorrow. He is good at faking, and getting better every day. He apologizes to his aunt, and nods sadly when she acknowledges that it was a noble death, and that Baitsakhan will make an excellent Player. He allows his father to clap a hard hand on his shoulder, and pretends not to enjoy the extra helpings of dessert they give him every night that week. They are so eager to reassure him:
Life is a battle, and sometimes there are casualties.

These are lessons every Donghu learns in time. Life on the steppe is hard, and death is a part of that life. Death served in battle, in the pursuit of glory, is a great honor. Few are forced to learn so young,
and Baitsakhan allows his people to believe that their comfort has meaning for him.

Soon his training will begin. He has six years to learn how to Play and how to win—six years to learn how best to hurt and maim and kill. Until then, he will bide his time. He will seem sorry.

If he were capable of astonishment, he would be astonished at how easy it is. These creatures, like cows, just wanting to be led. He leads them to whatever conclusions he needs them to draw.

Only his mother seems to understand the truth. He may not understand emotion, but it proves useful to recognize it in others, and so he has studied. He sees the fear in her eyes when she looks at him, the caution in her movements, like she knows he is dangerous.

“Your aunt will always love Esan,” she tells him one afternoon, while they are taking their tea. “She will survive his loss, but she will never forget it.”

“I know that,” Baitsakhan says, cramming another poppy-seed bun into his mouth. His aunt's pain is an ongoing pleasure. He has become a very solicitous nephew, stopping by her ger with meats and sweets nearly every evening. He likes to simply watch her face, her nearly imperceptible flinch whenever he says Esan's name.

“Yes,” his mother says, in a strange voice. “I thought you did.”

She rises from the table then, and begins tidying up the ger. Their home, like all the homes of their tribe, is a simple wood structure covered in felt—like a tent, it can be assembled and disassembled with ease, loaded onto the camels, and carried with them wherever they go. Inside, his mother has created a riot of opulence and color. The soft, polished red of the wooden supporting poles gives the interior a warm glow. The ground and gently curving walls are layered with a rainbow of tapestries. The ger sometimes feels like a living creature. It makes Baitsakhan feel dead inside, as if it long ago sucked out all his color and breath.