“It’s called Olkhon Island,” Vigor explained. “Local rumors say that Genghis Khan’s mother came from there. Which may very well be true.”
Gray considered this. If we’re looking for where Genghis Khan came from, you can’t get much earlier than his mother’s womb.
Vigor continued, “Other legends claim Genghis is indeed buried on that island. Not that we should put a whole lot of weight on that rumor. The same can be said of countless other places across Asia. But this particular story mentions that Genghis was buried with a great weapon, one that could destroy the world.”
Rachel nodded. “This legend may be the source of the commonly held belief by the Mongols that if Genghis’s tomb is ever found and opened, the world will end.”
Gray felt their excitement seeping into his blood.
“From a real-world practicality,” Vigor said, “archaeologists have found many Mongol weapons and relics on that island. There are even historical records of Mongol warriors of Genghis’s time coming to that island. Though what they were doing there, no one knew.”
“The island is also the center for a unique form of shamanism,” Rachel said. “The local Buryat tribesmen, who descend from ancient Mongols, practice a religion that merges Buddhism with naturalistic animism. They believe a great conqueror of the universe resides on the island. Shamans still protect many of that ruler’s sacred sites and believe trampling them would invite ruin upon the world.”
Similar to the Genghis story . . .
“Last,” Vigor said, “some travelers to that island report fits of energy. Those are their words.”
Rachel nodded. “Maybe these folks are attuned or hypersensitive to whatever energy is emanating from St. Thomas’s cross. Some even claim to have visited a cave that opened a door to other worlds.”
Gray remembered Dr. Shaw’s statements about dark energy and the multiverse. He also wondered if these other worlds could be related to the visions of St. Thomas.
“Then let’s check it out,” Gray said. “I already have Sigma command arranging our transportation.”
“But what about Monk and the others?” Rachel asked.
Gray frowned. He doubted they could spare the time to wait for them. His group could easily lose half a day while Monk and the others returned from the mountains.
“We’ll move on,” Gray decided. “Update them when we can.”
Still, worry nagged him.
What was going on with Monk’s team?
23
November 19, 6:20 P.M. ULAT
Khentii Mountains, Mongolia
Batukhan sat astride his horse, both mount and rider in traditional leather armor. He also wore a Mongol war helmet that was crowned with steel and draped with a mask made of real wolfskin to hide his features.
It was important to remain anonymous, especially now when murder was involved.
The bowstring near his ear still vibrated, singing a chorus of blood. He had watched his arrow pierce the back of the woman standing at the cliff’s edge above, enjoyed seeing her sink to her knees in shock. He smiled under his mask, his heart thundering in his ears.
“Excellent shot,” Arslan said, sitting on a stallion to the side. Similarly attired in leather, the man also wore a helmet, but the ruin of his face was bared for all to see. Sutures knit his skin together, laddering across his cheek and brow. It was a sight both gruesome and fearsome.
“I saved Sanjar for you,” Batukhan said.
With only two targets visible along the cliff’s edge, he had chosen the woman. He found the kill as exciting as sex, the penetration equally satisfying. He had left Sanjar standing, knowing Arslan would want that prize for himself later, to exact personal vengeance.
Now the cliff’s edge was empty, their quarry likely terrified and hiding. But there was nowhere to go.
Batukhan cast his gaze across the dozen mounted men spread across the dark forested slope that led toward the shelf of rock above. They were the best and most loyal of the clan.
Twelve warriors against three men and two women.
Make that one woman now.
Ideally he would spare the last woman’s life, so his men could celebrate afterward as the forces of Genghis Khan had in the past. It was their birthright and heritage, and a well-deserved reward after spilling blood this night.
They could always kill her afterward.
With a kick of his heels, he trotted his horse before his men, sitting tall in his saddle, knowing he cast a striking figure. He spoke a few words to each, showing respect, getting it back, like any good commander, readying his troops.
Once he’d made his rounds, he returned to Arslan’s side and pointed up toward the plateau. Surrounded by ice-encrusted walls, his quarry was trapped. The only way down was through this forest—that, or leaping headlong off the cliff to the rocks below. There was nowhere else to go. It would be a slaughterhouse, with their victims’ screams echoing across the mountaintops, possibly to Genghis Khan’s own tomb, where he imagined the great man relishing the blood and horror to come.
Batukhan yelled, knowing there was no further need for stealth.
The first arrow had already flown, drawing blood.
“Yavyaa!” he bellowed, a traditional call to battle. “Yavyaa!”
6:33 P.M.
As the thunder of hooves echoed up from below, Duncan crouched with Sanjar. They hid in a cluster of boulders near the snow line.
Jada remained on the far side of the steep rockslide, near the shore of the lake, out of immediate harm’s way. He had left her with his pistol and quickly showed her how to use it. She guarded over the injured Khaidu, who still lived but needed medical care soon.
After securing them, Duncan and Sanjar had joined Monk on the opposite side of the rock pile. They quickly prepared for battle, recognizing what was coming, knowing that the arrow had been sent to terrorize them, to draw first blood—a common tactic of Mongol fighters, or so Sanjar had informed them.
Sanjar urged Duncan to hurry once he heard the yell echo up from below, a battle cry to charge. “Tie it to Heru’s jess. That piece of leather hanging from his claw.”
Duncan held the damp headband in his hand and passed the dangling cord through it and secured it with a fast knot. Sanjar kept the hooded falcon close to his body, while Duncan finished.
“Let him go,” Duncan said.
Sanjar tugged the hood off and sent the bird flying from his wrist. Duncan ducked from the initial heavy flaps and studied the laptop at his knees, the screen’s glow lowered to its dimmest setting. On the monitor, he watched the falcon take flight, gaining a bird’s-eye view of the forest below, the feed coming from the tiny video camera attached to the headband. It worked even better in the air than underwater.