Khan ran a hand through his dark beard. No men to fight, no wealth to steal, no city to destroy. Just an old woman in a chair.

“If no one can dwell in the high mountains, then how can you?”

“I told you, we are the spirits who ride the wind. We have no desire to leave the mountains,” Kirati continued, “so we are not a threat to you and there is nothing here that you would want. There is no way through the mountains to the land of the Sultan of Delphi far to the south.” She pointed at the highest mountain. “The great Chomolunga guards the way. You must go around the mountains with your army if you wish to conquer there.”

“I will conquer that land and many others. But as far as riches hidden in these mountains, your words are not what I have been told,” Khan said. “I have heard there is great wealth hidden here.”

“You hear this from those who wander.” It was not a question, nor did Kirati wait for a reply. “As I said, they who told you this were once our people and lived here also. They choose a different path and now must wander the world. They will never have a home. I am afraid, Great Khan, that they lied to you in order to have you wreak their vengeance on us for past angers and to keep you from destroying them.”

“Maybe you are the one who lies.”

Kirati sighed and seemed to grow older. “There is great wealth. But not in the manner you think of wealth.” She tapped the side of her head. “Our wealth is here. You cannot use it.”

“If I cannot use it, then I will destroy it.” Khan stood and turned for his horse.

“Great Khan!” Kirati’s voice had changed timbre, a vibration of power in it. “Listen to me.”

Khan turned. The old woman got off her chair and walked to the Mongol leader, hands out from her side. When she was close enough to touch him, she spoke in a low, powerful voice. “I will tell you who has more wealth-in the way you view such a thing-than you could imagine.

“We do have enemies and they are very rich and very powerful; worthy adversaries even for you. Far to the west. Past the kingdom of the Persians and the Greeks. South of the Russians, across the Volga River. They hide in secret places among the peoples there, but if threatened they will come out of their holes. They rule in the shadows, pulling strings that make others jump. They are like you-they enjoy war, and they enjoy wealth-but unlike you, they get others to do it for them.”

“Whom do you speak of?”

“Search for those called the Priory.”

“The pope in Rome? I have heard of him.”

“Not the pope. He too is just a lackey for the Priory.”

“How will I find these people who hide in the shadows?”

“They will find you if you threaten the world they have built to protect them.”

The old woman reached forward, and to the shock of the Mongol warriors watching, her hand went into Khan’s chest as if it were made of nothing but air. Her other hand reached up to his head, the tips of the fingers passing through his helmet, into his head. Several warriors cried out in alarm, but Khan signaled for them to be still with a slow gesture of his right hand, his entire being focused on the old woman before him.

Kirati smiled. Her eyes pierced into Khan’s as she spoke in a low voice, the power in it growing stronger, echoing inside Khan’s head, beating in rhythm with his heart. “Our spirits are joined now. You will leave here and go no further into the mountains. It is dangerous and there is nothing here that you want. What you want is the Priory. They are your enemy. Your people’s enemy. The enemy of all. Destroy them. If not you, then your son. And your son’s son. As long as the Mongols ride. The Priory are the enemy of your people.”

Khan slowly nodded. “The Priory. I will leave here. I will ride west with my army.”

Kirati stepped back, her hands coming out of Khan’s body. She seemed to diminish in size as she sat back down. Khan staggered, almost fell, then regained his balance. He shook his head, a quizzical expression on his face for a moment. His thick eyebrows knit together as he stared at Kirati.

“Go back to your people, old woman. Tell them I will spare them. But they must stay here, in the high country, and never come down to the plains.”

The old woman inclined her head. “We will do as you say, Great Khan.”

Khan turned away from Kirati. He ordered his warriors to kill the rest of the hostages, and the ground flowed with their blood, which then seeped into the ice that covered the lake. The woman’s expression did not change during the butchery.

Then, without another look at her, Khan led his troops back the way they’d come. As the last warrior disappeared down the trail, Kirati raised her arms to the sky and her figure slowly faded from view until only the dead and the abandoned village were left.

The Banks of the Volga River

1241 A .D.

Rows of bloody and dented armor and weapons lined the road that led to the magnificent silken tent. The golden cloth marked the headquarters of Bhatu Khan, grandson of the Great Genghis Khan. The booty had been gathered from the dead who littered the field after the battle at Legnica two days ago, where the Golden Horde had overwhelmed a combined force of Silesians, Poles, and Teutonic knights in a devastating victory. In one dark day, the cream of Eastern European military might had been smashed. It was the latest in a string of victories moving the Mongol forces further west, out of Asia and into Europe, a bloody tide that sent shivers of fear ahead of it to lands that knew of Asia only through rumors. Marco

Polo, the first European to visit the Mongol court, would not even be born for another thirteen years, and the vast-ness of Asia was a great mystery.

Five years earlier, in 1236, Bhatu Khan had begun to lead the massive force given him by his grandfather westward, killing millions in the process and leaving a massive swath of destruction across Russia into Europe. Bhatu had crushed the northern Russian armies in the winter of 1237-1238; history would record this action as the only successful winter military campaign against Russia ever, something Napoleon and Hitler would fail to do. In 1240, his army had razed Kiev, massacring every inhabitant. That had scared the other Eastern European empires that lay in the Golden Horde’s path, and a massive army had been raised, old hatreds put aside, all in an effort to stop the Mongols. That army now lay dead on the fields of Legnica or prisoner in the Khan’s camp.

The way into Europe lay open to the forces of Bhatu Khan and the Golden Horde. It had been his father’s dying command for him to attack to the west, something internal rebellions and other enemies closer to the first Khan had delayed Genghis from doing before his untimely death. What else the Great Khan on his deathbed had passed on to Bhatu remained locked inside the mind of the leader of the Golden Horde. Before heading west, Bhatu had sent scouts and spies ahead, learning much of the lands there. He knew far more about them than they did about him.

Bhatu was eating a meal laid out on top of a large wooden box. Inside were a trio of Teutonic princes slowly suffocating to death. Their pleas and moans were music to his ears as he would slide his gold plate over the one tiny airhole, leaving it in place for various lengths of time. As far as Bhatu was concerned, he was showing the princes honor, for Mongols believed that the blood of noblemen captured in battle should not be shed. Suffocation was a sign of respect, although it is doubtful the men inside appreciated the subtlety.

The curtain to the tent twitched open and Bhatu’s chief adviser slipped in. “A lone emissary from the west has crossed the river and asks for an audience with the Great Bhatu Khan.”

“With no guards?”

“No, Khan.”