MYTH-Interpretations: The Worlds of Robert Asprin (15 page)

I was still pondering this hypothesis when I noticed him for the first time. If he hadn't been outside the mainstream of normal foot traffic in a small park, and sitting, which placed him well below eye level, I would have seen him at once. Though unimposing physically, he still would have stood out in the crowd.

While most of the people I had seen or tried to talk to were civilians of one sort or another, this one was a warrior. What's more, his armor and weapons marked him as being from the Far East, while most of the crowd seemed to be of Western European origins.

Intrigued, I drifted closer for a better look.

The man raised his head as I approached and regarded me with eyes as hard and dark as obsidian. His face was round and weathered brown, with expression lines as deep as if they had been carved into wood with a chisel. His manner was neither hostile nor friendly, but rather held the detached watchfulness of a reptile contemplating whether I were small enough to eat. I was briefly reminded of an old photograph of Geronimo I had once seen.

I halted my advance and smiled in what I hoped was a friendly and, above all, harmless way. After a moment, he gave a silent grunt and returned his attention to his work.

My distress at not knowing why I had been condemned to Hell was upstaged by my fascination with the man and the chore he was addressing. His weapons were laid out before him on a blanket and he was checking them with the unhurried certainty of one who has performed the same task hundreds, if not thousands of times. With deft precision he checked the edge of the sword and knife, then began working his way through his quiver of arrows one by one, checking each for straightness, like a hustler checking a pool cue. Finally, I could contain my curiosity no longer.

"You're a Mongol, aren't you?"

That earned me a longer look.

I wondered briefly if he understood English, but then I noted that his carriage had shifted slightly. While still appearing relaxed, the man was now poised and ready to move fast, and his eyes were warier and more analytical than they had been a few moments before. He understood me all right, and for some reason, my words had raised his guard.

"What makes you ask that?"

His vice was resonant bass with a bit of a flat accent I couldn't identify.

"Your weapons," I answered with a casual shrug. "Your armor is Chinese, but your weapons are those of the Great Horde. Double-recurve laminated bow, the hooked sword, thrusting lance
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that's standard gear for a Mongol horseman, isn't it? The arrows are a dead giveaway. As far as I know, the Mongols were the only ones to use two different caliber arrows: light for flight, or heavier for close, armor-piercing work."

His head dipped slightly in the briefest of nods.

"You are knowledgeable in our ways," he said. "I am not familiar with your manner of dress. Are all men of your era so well versed on the weapons of their enemies?"

"No. Military history just happens to be a hobby of mine
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and we don't consider Mongols to be our enemies. No offense, but your descendants are no longer the world power they were in your time."

His eyes were distant for a few heartbeats, then his face split in a sudden grin, showing surprisingly white teeth. "So they tell me. Still, one can always hope for a rebirth of the old times, can't one?"

I returned his smile, but shook my head.

"Not much chance of that happening, I'm afraid. Everything today is firearms and missiles. Masses of men and machines are settling today's wars, not the skill of the individual warrior."

"It was much the same in our day," the Mongol shrugged carelessly. "Large numbers of troops won the day for the Horde often enough."

"Really?" I frowned. "I was under the impression that more often than not you were outnumbered. The Mongols I studied relied more on tactics based on psychological warfare and incredible mobility to take advantage of the myth of vast mobs of horsemen."

The dark eyes studied me again, all hint of laughter gone.

"Once more you are correct," the man acknowledged. "I would know the name of the man who is not easily deceived in this land of deceptions."

It took me a moment to realize what he meant.

"Who, me? My name is Will Hawker."

The man nodded, then turned his attention to his weapons once more, picking up his sword to test its edge again.

It seemed that he felt our conversation was at an end. I, however, was eager to prolong the discussion and cast about desperately for something to say.

"Does your sword have a name?"

That at least earned me another glance.

"Does your right thumb have a name?"

I had been expecting a yes-or-no answer, so his question caught me off guard.

"My
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No. It doesn't."

"Neither does my sword. My weapons are to me as your thumb is to you
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a part of my body. They require no more thought to use than does your thumb. The custom of naming a weapon as if it were an independent being has always been a puzzle to me."

His level, matter-of-fact tone made me feel chastised to a point where I felt it necessary to defend my question.

"I always felt it was a way of expressing respect for one's weapons. The people I knew who named their weapons usually claimed to love a named weapon with the same passion they did a brother or a lover."

"That is what I've been told," the Mongol said with a shrug. "I have simply never agreed with it. To me a weapon is a tool to be used, not loved. If one becomes emotionally attached to a weapon
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He broke off suddenly, his attention captured by something nearby in the park.

I followed his gaze, and saw a bush that moved
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first with a tentative tremor, then flipping back along with a portion of the ground it was rooted in to reveal a dark hole beneath. Before I could speak, a small figure in dark, loose-fitting pajamas popped out carrying a rifle. He scanned the park and the passers-by on the street, his eyes pausing briefly on me, then moving on to my companion. His head dipped in a brief nod of acknowledgement or recognition, then he turned and gestured at someone in the hole.

Four more men, dressed and armed like their point man, emerged from the hole. The last two had their weapons slung and were carrying a sixth man on a litter between them. The borne man was still, though whether dead or unconscious I couldn't tell. The point man replaced the bush to hide the hole once more, and the band moved off silently in single file, carrying their fallen comrade with them.

"Those look like Viet Cong!" I exclaimed, finding my voice at last.

"That's right," the Mongol said calmly, turning his attention to his weapons once more. "Some of them have been included in our honored ranks here in Hell. You'll get used to seeing them. Hell is riddled with their tunnels and spider holes, so there's no telling where they'll pop up next."

He seemed unimpressed by their unexpected intrusion into our area, so I decided to try to match his manner and return to our conversation. "Tell me, we've been discussing weapons here. Why is it that you still have sword, lance, and bow when they have more modern weapons? Those are AR-15s they were carrying, weren't they?"

"I am used to these weapons," he said. "Besides, you would be surprised at how well these old tools work against more modern devices. The sword is still one of the best close-combat weapons ever devised, if one has the time to train with it
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and I've had lots of time."

"I notice the Cong didn't seem particularly anxious to fight with you."

The Mongol's lips twisted into a flat smile. "There is an unspoken truce between us. While they respect my weapons, sometimes a name is more power than the keenest sword. They know me
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or at least their ancestors did."

Something in his voice sent a chill down my spine, though I couldn't put a finger on it.

"Speaking of names," I said as casually as I could, "I've shared mine with you, but you haven't yet told me yours."

He seemed to hesitate for a moment before answering.

"I am called Temujin by some."

The name struck me like a blow. As I said earlier, military history is a hobby of mine. While the name might be unknown to many of my age and era, it was more than familiar to me. The person I was talking to was none other than
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"Genghis Khan."

I was almost unaware of saying the name aloud, my awestruck words matching my thoughts. I would have been glad for the opportunity to chat with any member of the Mongol hordes, but it had never occurred to me that I would ever have the chance to talk to the Great Khan himself! Maybe Hell wouldn't be such a bad place after all.

"You know the name
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and the title," the man said in a flat tone that was as much an accusation as a statement. "I would know your thoughts regarding your discovery."

I realized with a start that his sword was now between us, held in a loose guard position. I had seen experienced fencers in similar stances so I was not fooled by the apparent casualness of his position. The Mongol could attack me without even a split-second delay to prepare
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only his sword was real and there was more at stake here than tournament points! Taking care not to move my hands, I groped for the proper words.

"Um, amazement
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curiosity, admiration
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"No anger?" the Mongol interrupted. "No desire to attack me or at least raise an alarm?"

"Why should I want to do that?"

The Khan's lips flattened into a humorless grin.

"Forgive me if I'm wrong, but you seem to be of European stock. My people were the scourge of your ancestors, and as their leader, I am one of your greatest folk villains. You would not be the first in these lands who felt it meet to attempt to make Hell a little less pleasant for an old enemy."

"I can't speak for the others here," I said, raising my hands to shoulder height, palms forward, "but you have nothing to fear from me. Even if I could attack you successfully, which I doubt, I wouldn't. You see, I've never really thought of you as a villain. While it is true that you and your troops were ferocious and brutal, your culture and era required a certain amount of viciousness for survival. What's more, even in my era it was difficult to distinguish how much of the documented brutality of the Mongol hordes was accurate, and how much was exaggeration on the part of either your enemies' chroniclers or your own propaganda machine. No, I have been more fascinated by the more admirable side of your reported personality."

"And exactly what is it about me that you feel is admirable?" he pressed.

"Well, first of all, there's the basic success story that would be the envy of any businessman of my time: a boy without family or village in his early teens being actively hunted by his enemies, and in less than three decades building an empire that ruled over a third of the known world. Your abilities as a military leader and tactician are acknowledged by even your staunchest critics, but most of them choose to overlook your other contributions. You not only united the tribes into a massive army, the horde, but you also gave them a written language and a governing set of laws on the Yassa. Your arrow-riders formed a communications network far ahead of its time
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in fact, it lasted longer and performed better than the Pony Express of a much later period. As far as I have been able to discover, you were the one who introduced the concept of paper money to the world, and you insisted on religious tolerance to a degree that makes the European and Middle East indulgence in holy wars look like ignorant barbarism. No, I have no difficulty admiring you, and I am frankly grateful for the chance to speak with you in person."

Apparently my sincerity was convincing, for the Khan sheath his sword with a dry laugh.

"It is comforting to know that my efforts have not gone totally unnoticed in your lands," he said, "but beware, Will Hawker. Beware of being as blind with your admiration as others are with their hate and fear. While some of the things I did may have had a beneficial long-term effect on mankind, many of them were instituted from motives as base and greedy as the worst in history."

"Could you give me an example?" I said. "I have often wished I could learn the motives and thoughts behind some of your policies
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good or bad."

"Well
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you mentioned our Mongolian scrip—paper money, I think you called it. That was nothing more than bloodless, systematized looting. When we were occupying a new area, we would insist that taxes and tributes be paid in gold, jewels, or other valuables. For our own debts, we would pay with paper notes. The trick was that when it was time to collect taxes again, we would not accept our own paper in return, but instead insisted on another round of valuables. Within a few years, all the hard wealth, such as gold, was in our coffers and all the people had to exchange was paper."

I found myself smiling. "Actually, your concept has been followed with frightening accuracy. In my era, all nations have their citizens exchanging paper while the government holds the actual wealth—be it in gold, silver, or crown jewels. I just never thought of it as organized looting before."

The Khan joined me in my laughter.

"So I've been told. If nothing else, I fear that particular contribution of mine to civilization has guaranteed me a place in you Hell."

A random thought brought my laughter to a slow halt.

"That raises an interesting point," I said. "What are you doing in Hell?"

Though he also stopped laughing, the Khan's eyes still smiled at me with mischievous humor.

"You have to ask? Me? The bloodiest butcher of history? If anyone, surely I've earned a place here."

"No, I meant
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well, Hell is primarily a Christian concept. How is it that you have been drawn to an afterlife outside your own religion?"

That earned me a shrug. "There have been several theories posed by the various philosophers here to explain my presence. Some feel that the religious tolerance of mine you referred to earned me a place in the eyes of the Christian God, and subsequently resulted in my assignment here. Others feel that my presence is actually a stage prop for the Europeans here
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that their Hell would not be complete without their arch-enemy lurking in the background. The presence of the Viet Cong here seems to support their theory. Then again, it may be that part of my own afterlife punishment is to exist surrounded by Europeans rather than my own countrymen."