Chapter 212: The Bout
The steppe rider hit the packed earth chest-first, and the crowd reacted at once. The shouts and voices mixed together through the barracks thunderously.
The rider pushed himself up carefully. One foot, then the other. He made certain his balance was under him before he trusted it. When he finally stood straight, his posture remained solid. Only slower.
"Eight horses, Tegash." a man called from the eastern side of the ring. "You owe me eight horses. I told you all afternoon Einar would put him into the ground once he got the grip."
"Tomorrow," the man beside him answered.
"Today or never."
"Tomorrow. I said tomorrow."
From the northern side, one of the norsemen tried his Mongolian. The back half of the sentence collapsed under his accent.
"Einar throw like... like when big thing falls and keeps falling. Every time."
He demonstrated with both hands, forcing them downward in stages to explain what the words could not.
A steppe rider a few places over kept his eyes on the ring, studying rather than spectating.
"Did you see the rotation? The hip drove all the way through from the base. He barely used the arm at all. The force came up from the ground."
"Who goes next?!" someone shouted from the western side.
Then somebody noticed Batu.
The reaction began at the edge of the crowd. One man straightened, then the man beside him saw why and did the same. The recognition moved around the ring section by section, the noise thinning as more men understood what the others had already seen.
By the time it reached the far side, the training ground had changed completely. The roar of a betting crowd faded into something quieter, more restrained.
Men straightened without thinking. A few shifted their feet toward formation before they caught themselves.
"As you were," Batu said before anyone finished adjusting.
The tension broke immediately. Men eased back into place. The ring held.
Batu looked at Einar.
"My turn."
The training ground erupted again, louder this time.
"He’s serious," a steppe rider near the front muttered. He sounded like he was still trying to force the decision into something sensible.
"Someone should warn him," another voice called, thoroughly entertained by a problem that belonged to somebody else. "The last three men Einar dropped are probably still trying to remember what happened."
From the northern cluster came the norseman again, his sentence structure collapsing completely under urgency.
"Khan fight? Khan against Einar? This real happening now?"
Near the eastern side, betting had already resumed.
"Three horses on Einar," one man shouted. "Any takers. Three horses."
"I’ll take two on the Khan."
The reply came immediately.
"On the Khan? Why?"
"Because I watched him at the Naadam. Five wins. One against the Chagataid champion, and that man wasn’t some farm wrestler."
"That man was half Einar’s size in every way that matters."
"Oi, every way? Are you checking his groin too?"
"Fuck off."
Across the center of the circle, Einar studied Batu.
In a year around the camp, he had learned enough Mongolian to make himself understood.
"I don’t hold back. Same for all."
Batu met his eyes.
"Good. That’s what I need."
The crowd answered with a compressed sound somewhere between laughter and concern. Men understood enough to know the exchange mattered. Most were not entirely certain why.
Both men stepped into the opening Devekh.
Batu performed the ritual with precision. Arms spread wide. Forward sweep. Lowering motion. Rise. He moved around the perimeter with focus.
Einar carried the form differently. The motions had been repeated so many times they no longer required thought. When he spread his arms, the full breadth of them became obvious again. The span was enormous.
They returned to the center.
Einar raised his hands to shoulder level and waited.
That was how he always began. Everyone who had watched him fight knew the stance. He preferred opponents to enter his reach first. Once the grip connected, the match usually ended soon after.
Batu did not come straight at him.
Instead he circled left, probing the edge of Einar’s reach and watching how the larger man answered. Einar turned patiently to follow. No wasted movement, no urgency. He moved like a man who had never needed to chase anyone in his life.
Batu shifted right.
Einar shifted with him.
They covered most of the circle that way before the crowd finally began speaking again.
"He’s reading him," the man who had mentioned the Naadam said. "Look at him. He’s reading the reach."
Then Batu probed the left side.
He stepped in just far enough to force contact.
His hand touched Einar’s left forearm.
Immediately Einar’s hand closed around Batu’s sleeve.
The grip came fast, and the effect of it was obvious at once. Einar’s hand moved Batu’s entire arm when it tightened. There was no strain behind it, the strength simply existed.
Batu disengaged before the grip could settle and stepped back.
Both men had learned something from the exchange.
On the second pass, Einar advanced.
His left hand searched for the grip while the right moved into place for control. As his chest drove forward, the pressure arrived before full contact did. That alone said enough about the difference in size between them.
Batu adjusted instead of resisting.
He redirected the force, moved with it, and protected his balance rather than trying to stop Einar head-on. Neither man secured a stable grip.
But the crowd could still read the flow of the match.
It looked familiar.
A smaller fighter giving ground slowly, managing pressure instead of reversing it. Waiting while the larger man narrowed the space.
Everyone there had seen Einar do this before.
"When that grip happens, it’s over," somebody said.
"He’s running out of room."
Then Batu moved to his right side.
Not much.
Just enough.
The movement looked natural, the kind of small mistake a lighter wrestler made after absorbing too much pressure for too long. His right hip drifted a fraction off-center. The right side of his torso exposed itself slightly more than the left.
A minor window to act.
Exactly the sort an experienced wrestler would recognize and attack without hesitation.
Einar’s left hand moved for it at once.
The grip closed hard around Batu’s right side, fully committed.
Then the forward pressure came.
That was the real engine behind Einar’s throws. The grip locked the opponent into place, but the advancing bodyweight made the stance work. His feet drove forward. His center followed. He had finished matches this way throughout the Naadam.
This time Batu dropped.
Down.
He lowered himself nearly a full head and directly into Einar’s pressure, moving with the force instead of fighting it. His right hip slipped inside and underneath Einar’s advancing position. The window lasted only a moment, but Batu had seen this before. Twice during the Naadam he had found throws from almost the same position.
Both hands pulled sharply across his own chest, guiding Einar’s committed momentum farther along the path it had already taken.
Suddenly the forward drive had nothing beneath it.
Einar was thrown across Batu’s extended hip.
His knee struck the packed earth with a heavy crack that carried across the entire ring.
The circle exploded.
"He’s down! Einar’s down!"
"I saw the stance! Did you see the hip?"
From the northern side, the norseman shouted in complete disregard for grammar.
"Einar on ground. Batu Khan throw Einar."
A stunned pause followed.
"Einar."
"Pay me," said the man who had taken the wager on Batu. "You can pay me now. I’ll stand right here and wait."
"How?" asked the man who had bet against him.
The word came out flat and honestly confused.
"I watched him hit the ground. I saw it happen."
"I told you," the Naadam spectator said, unable to hide his satisfaction. "Five wins at the Naadam. I told every one of you."
Einar pushed himself back to his feet with calmness. No sign of frustration. He took the time the recovery required, then stood fully upright again.
His expression had not changed at all.
Both men performed the closing Devekh.
Einar spread his arms to their full width once more and completed the form. Batu mirrored the closing motions opposite him, sweep and rise together, his body still carrying the heat of exertion.
"He threw Einar," a man from the western arc said quietly, as though the training ground itself needed confirmation. "He actually threw Einar."
Batu turned and walked toward the edge of the circle.
As he passed Suuqai, he tapped the man once on the shoulder with the back of his hand and kept going.
