His newest son climbed on Genghis Khan as if he were a tree, planting his baby feet in his face as he strived to lay his belly on the Khan’s head. The Great Immortal, watching the Red Baron die in front of American Jack for the millionth time, hardly noticed. The sight of that sickly, emasculated corpse revived him like jumping in the freezing depths of Lake Baikal. His arch nemesis had more bone than meat. Genghis heard of the phrase “death warmed over,” but had never seen it until now.
He laughed every time he saw Jack search frantically for a heartbeat. The Great Khan thought Jack stupid for recording the Baron’s pale chest as it stopped rising. Now they couldn’t even pretend he still lived. That damn Baron imposter led his assassination teams astray countless times. Only the layers of scars, the X branded into his chest, and Subodei’s Millennial Wands convinced him. This was definitely the same guy who spent months on the Alps.
His enemy died. Jebe finally finished the Red Baron. His long nightmare was over. Genghis Khan had not felt this alive since he massacred his first city.
Then Hulagu flew in as if his clothes were on fire, yelling incoherently.
“Really, grandson, we do have doors.”
“Have can you leave your windows open?” Hulagu demanded angrily. “You must weld them shut. He could have come in just as easily and gutted you like a fish.”
“That’s it! No more fermented milk for you.”
His grandson studied him for a long moment. “You don’t know.” It didn’t sound like a question, so Genghis didn’t answer. Hulagu closed his eyes to search his wand for a memory. “The Baron somehow destroyed Moqali’s entire force in Kiev. He even killed a million refugees. All of Europe has declared independence and the Stans are being overrun.”
“What the hell are you talking about? The Red Baron died on the Alps.”
Hulagu looked ready to cry. “No, grandpa. That’s just what he wanted you to think. When I got the video from Kiev, I searched for the latest dispatches from the Alps, and there aren’t any. Not even any messengers or survivors. We haven’t heard from anyone on the Alps in a month.”
“That’s not possible!” Genghis screamed. “I just paid a thousand gold tons!”
Hulagu projected a 3D movie that started with a dark sky that gradually filled with growing dots. Genghis squinted to discern just what he was watching against the white ceiling. When one of the dots did that famous scream, the Great Khan jerked back like a horse kicked his forehead -- that actually happened once. Unknowingly, he started mumbling to himself, not unlike Hulagu when he flew in. When the warrior fell into the ditch, he continued recording, so they saw and heard it all: the incredible explosion, the blinding light, the pressure wave that knocked over entire huts. Hulagu opened another stick to project a second wand peeking over the rim. Tens of thousands of quads in the air, blasted hundreds of thousands of deaf, blind, and stunned Mongols on the ground. They acted more like cattle than warriors. The Khan was speechless, but his grandson was not.
“A veteran recorded this as he peed just before dawn. Falling into the sanitation trench saved his life. It took him a week to find someone who believed him. He arrived deaf and yelled so loudly that everyone thought he was crazy. So he pulled wands and almost got burned alive before he projected this video. They sent it here by the fastest couriers. The guy who transferred me a copy looked ready to vomit. I’ve sent marathoners to the Alps and to Kiev, but it’ll take a few weeks to travel there and back. In the meantime, we must assume the worst.”
“But he only had a thousand quads on the Alps!” Genghis protested, still in denial. “I just gave Jebe ten thousand marathoners! And we destroyed the reinforcements that American Jack brought him.”
Hulagu shrugged. He didn’t have any answers. Only lots of questions. “We need to do something about Europe. I couldn’t take those reports seriously until now. But if we lost Jebe’s airmen, after he stripped Europe of talent, then we could lose the entire region.”
“We’re not gonna lose Europe,” the Khan insisted. “Not after the price we paid.”
“If the Baron destroyed Moqali’s armada, then we’ve already lost Europe.”
The Great Immortal hugged his baby son, who giggled while playing with his beard. “Send our best men to assassinate the Red Baron and everyone he loves.”
Finally, Hulagu smiled.
Every passing week felt like a century. After three hundred years of success, Genghis Khan had never known so much bad news. He got more terrible reports than sleep, despite sucking wands like tits.
First came confirmation of the massacre on the Alps. They found over one hundred thousand Mongol corpses half buried in snow. How could not one person escape?
Kiev was even worse. The Russians threw three million naked corpses into a ravine, that had almost as many birds as bodies. The shrieking of a million birds was something Genghis would never forget.
Local news reports gave them their best information. The Baron somehow destroyed over a million quads with just fifty thousand marathoners. Genghis forced himself to watch every video. It felt like plucking out his own teeth. What seemed unanimous was that their side got destroyed, while the Baron suffered insignificant losses. Again.
Then came reports of everyone in Europe who looked Mongolian being killed on sight. Men shaved their beards and cut their hair to avoid getting shot.
Governors in northern India, Tibet, western Mongolia, and the Stans sent forces west -- only to be crushed by the Baron leading a huge international team.
Genghis Khan couldn’t believe it -- he lost Europe. Not taking Japan or Taiwan was one thing, but to lose an entire continent? And the more his government put the best face on recent events, the more credibility it lost with Mongols. What he needed was a victory. A big victory. Even a symbolic one like the Baron’s head on a spike. Oh, yeah, that’d help enormously.
It seemed like just several months ago that Tamerlane took his best marathoners to Spain. Wait! That was just several months ago.
He understood that many people hated him, but he had never hated anyone like he hated the Red Baron. And nothing would satisfy him until he could spit on the Baron’s corpse.