Arslan dismounted and touched his head to Genghis’ foot in the stirrup.
‘You honour me, lord, but I need very little. With your permission, I will take my wife and just a small herd of breeding goats and horses. Together, we will find a quiet place by a stream and there remain. There are no thieves in the hills any longer and if by chance there are, my bow and sword still speak for me.’ He smiled at the man he had seen grow from a boy to a conqueror of nations. ‘Perhaps I will build a small forge and make one last sword to be buried with me. I hear the sounds of the hammer in my mind even now and I am at peace.’
Genghis found tears in his eyes as he viewed the man who had been like a second father to him. He too dismounted and embraced Arslan briefly, causing the shouting children around them to fall silent.
‘It is a good dream, old man.’
The lands around the Orkhon river were a deeper green than could be found anywhere else. The river itself was wide and clear. It had to be to support two hundred thousand men and women, with twice that number of horses when Khasar and Tsubodai arrived within a day of each other. Under the khan’s ruling hand, the nation had grown and there were always children squalling somewhere. Since his return from the Chin capital, Genghis had made a near permanent camp at the river, rejecting the plain of Avraga. It was true that Avraga would always be sacred as the place he had forged a nation, but it was a dry, flat land. In comparison, a nearby waterfall beat the waters of the Orkhon into white spray and the horses and sheep could drink their fill. Genghis had swum many times in its deep pools, regaining his strength.
Khasar had come in first and embraced his brothers: Genghis, Kachiun, even Temuge, who was no warrior, but ran the camps and settled disputes between families. Khasar brought Ogedai with him. The boy was barely thirteen years old, but stood muscular and long-limbed, with the promise of his father’s height. In the sharp planes of Ogedai’s face, the brothers could see an echo of the boy who had once kept them alive when they were banished and alone, just a few scraps of food away from starvation and death. Khasar gripped the back of Ogedai’s neck as he sent him forward to see his father, showing his pride.
‘He is a good hand with a bow and sword, brother,’ Khasar said, tilting a skin of black airag and directing a line of the spirit down his throat.
Genghis heard the delighted cry of his wife Borte from the family ger and knew his son would be surrounded by women in just a few moments.
‘You have grown, Ogedai,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I will want to hear all about your travels tonight.’ He watched as Ogedai bowed formally, the boy’s face hiding any emotion. Three years was a long time to be away, but Genghis was pleased with the stripling warrior who had returned to him. Ogedai had the same yellow eyes and Genghis approved of his stillness and calm. He did not test it by embracing him, not with so many warriors watching who would perhaps follow Ogedai in a charge one day.
‘Are you old enough to drink, boy?’ Genghis asked, hefting a skin in his hands. When his son nodded, he tossed it over and Ogedai took it cleanly, overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of his people all around. As his mother came forward and embraced him, he remained stiff, trying to show his father that he was not a little boy to melt into her arms. Borte hardly seemed to notice and held his face in both hands, weeping at his safe return.
‘Let him stand, Borte,’ Genghis muttered at her shoulder. ‘He is old enough to fight and ride with me.’ His wife ignored him and Genghis sighed to himself, his mood mellow.
Genghis felt his chest tighten as he saw Tsubodai trotting through the crowded plain towards him, Jochi at his side. Both men dismounted and Genghis saw that Jochi walked with the springy step of a natural warrior. He had grown an inch taller than the khan, though his dark eyes still reminded Genghis that some other man may have fathered him. He had not known how he would react to Jochi, but on instinct Genghis spoke directly to Tsubodai, ignoring him.
‘Have you carried them all before you, general?’ he said.
Tsubodai responded with a chuckle.
‘I have seen many strange things, my lord khan. I would have gone further if you had not called us back. Is it war, then?’
A shadow crossed Genghis’ face, but he shook his head.
‘Later, Tsubodai, later. I’ll have dogs for you to whip, but Arslan is stepping down as my general and when Jelme comes in, we will feast his life.’
Tsubodai showed sadness as he heard the news.
‘I owe him a great deal, lord. My poet is a fine man. May I offer his service?’
Genghis grinned.
‘For the swordsmith general, I have a dozen poets and storytellers fighting like cats for the honour, but your man may as well join them.’
Genghis could feel Jochi’s mother watching him as he spoke. Borte would be looking for some public acceptance of her first-born son before she too welcomed him home. As silence fell, Genghis turned at last to Jochi. It was hard not to bristle under that flat, black stare. It had been a long time in the camps since any man dared to meet the eyes of the khan in such a way and Genghis felt his heart thump faster, as if he faced an enemy.
‘I am pleased to see you well and strong, father,’ Jochi said, his voice deeper than Genghis had expected. ‘When I left, you were still weak from the assassin’s poison.’
Genghis saw Tsubodai’s hand twitch, as if he wanted to raise it to Jochi in warning. The general had sharper wits than Jochi, it seemed. The young warrior stood proudly before him as if he were not a rape-born whelp, barely welcome in the gers of his family.
Genghis struggled with his temper, very aware of the silent presence of his wife.
‘It seems I am a difficult man to kill,’ he said softly. ‘You are welcome in my camp, Jochi.’
His son remained still, though for Genghis to grant him guest rights like any common warrior was a subtle barb. He had not said the words to Tsubodai or Khasar; they were not needed between friends.
‘You honour me, my lord khan,’ Jochi said, bowing his head so that his father could not see his furious eyes.
Genghis nodded, weighing the young man as Jochi took his mother’s hands gently in his own and bowed, his face pale and strained. Borte’s eyes filled with tears of joy, but there was more restraint between mother and son than there had been with Ogedai. In such an atmosphere, she could not embrace the tall young warrior. Before Genghis could speak again, Jochi turned to his younger brother and all the stiffness left him in a rush.
‘I see you, little man,’ Jochi said.
Ogedai grinned and came forward to punch Jochi on the shoulder, prompting a brief wrestling match that ended with his head jammed into Jochi’s armpit. Genghis watched irritably, wanting to say something else that would prick Jochi’s easy manner. Instead, Jochi walked Ogedai away over his muffled protests at having his head rubbed. The khan had not actually dismissed his son, and Genghis opened his mouth to have him brought back.
‘Your son has learned well, lord,’ Tsubodai said before he could speak. ‘He has commanded a thousand in battles against the warriors of Russia and the men respect him.’
Genghis scowled, knowing the moment had somehow escaped him.
‘You have not raised him too fast?’ he said.
A weaker man might have agreed, but Tsubodai shook his head immediately, loyal to the young man he had fostered for three years.
‘He learned quickly what it means to command, lord, to have every man look to you alone for strength. My poet has many verses about Jochi and the men speak well of the khan’s son. He can lead. I have no greater praise.’
Genghis glanced over to where Jochi was laughing with Ogedai. Together, they looked younger, more like the boys who had grown in his ger. He nodded grudgingly, but when he spoke again, Tsubodai’s hopes fell.
‘Bad blood may come to the surface at any time, general. In a charge, or a battle, he could turn. Be careful not to risk your life on that one.’
Tsubodai could not contradict the khan without givin
g insult, though he burned to speak against the unfairness. In the end, his struggle remained internal and he bowed his head.
‘Jelme and Chagatai are only three days away,’ Genghis said, his expression lightening. ‘You will see a son of mine then, Tsubodai, and know why I am proud of him. We will light the land with lamps and eat and drink enough so that men will talk of it for years.’
‘As you say, lord,’ Tsubodai replied, hiding his distress. Over three years, he had seen Jochi grow into a fine man, one capable of leading armies. Tsubodai had seen no weaknesses in him and he knew he was a good judge of men. As he followed the khan’s gaze to his oldest son, Tsubodai grieved for the hurt Jochi must feel. No man should ever be rejected by his father. If Jochi had every other general at his feet and the scorn of Genghis, he would feel only the scorn. As Genghis turned away with Khasar and Kachiun, Tsubodai shook his head slightly before he reasserted the cold face and joined the other men in preparing for the feast. Jelme and Chagatai were coming and Tsubodai did not look forward to seeing Genghis praise his second son over the first.
CHAPTER FOUR
Something wrenched Jelme from a deep sleep. In complete darkness, he sat up, listening intently. The smoke hole in his ger was covered and his eyes could not adjust to the lack of light. At his side, a Chin woman stirred and he reached out to touch her face.
‘Be quiet,’ he whispered. He knew the sounds of the camp: the whickering of ponies, the laughter or weeping in the night that eased him into sleep. He knew the sounds of his people and the slightest change in them. Like a wild dog, some part of him never fully slept. He was too much of an old hand to dismiss the prickling sense of danger as a bad dream. In silence, he threw back his furs and stood bare-chested, wearing just an old pair of leggings.
It was low and distant, but the sound of a scout’s horn was unmistakable. As the note died away, Jelme grabbed for a sword hanging from the central pole. He pulled on soft boots, threw a heavy coat over his shoulders and ducked out into the night.
The camp was already waking around him, warriors mounting with murmurs and clicks to their animals. They were barely a day’s ride from Genghis and Jelme had no idea who could be mad enough to risk the legs of precious horses in the dark. One marmot hole in the wrong place and a foreleg could snap. Jelme could not imagine an enemy on the empty plains, not one who would dare to attack him. Still, he would make ready. He would not be surprised in his own camp.
Chagatai came running across the black grass, his stumbling gait showing the quantity of airag he had put away that evening. The young man winced as lamps were lit around Jelme’s ger, but the general had no sympathy. A warrior should always be ready to ride and he ignored the sallow features of Genghis’ son.
‘Take a hundred men, Chagatai,’ he snapped, his strain showing. ‘Scout around for an enemy, anything. Someone is out tonight.’
The young prince moved away quickly, already whistling for his sub-officers. Jelme drew men in, organising them without hesitation. The scouts had given him time and he did not waste it. Ranks coalesced in the blackness and the night was suddenly noisy as every man, woman and child prepared weapons or stowed supplies and bound up carts. Heavily armed guards ran in pairs through the camp, looking for attackers or thieves.
Jelme sat at the centre of the storm, sensing the swirl of movement all around him. There were no cries of alarm, not yet, though he heard the distant scout’s horn sound once more. In the flickering, hissing light of mutton-fat lamps, his servants brought his favourite gelding and he took the full quiver handed up to him.
By the time Jelme trotted out into the darkness, his army was alert and ready. The first five thousand warriors rode with him, a force of blooded men, well practised in battle. No one liked to fight in the dark and if they had to charge, men and horses would be killed. Jelme clenched his jaw against the cold, feeling it for the first time since he had woken.
Genghis galloped in the darkness, blind drunk and so light he felt the stirrups served a purpose in preventing him from floating away. As tradition demanded, he had begun each skin of airag by flicking a few drops for the spirits that guarded his people. He had spat more over the feast fires, so that the flash sent him reeling in sweet smoke. Despite all that, a fair amount had reached his throat and he had lost count of the skins he had thrown down.
The feast had begun two days before. Genghis had welcomed his returning sons and generals formally, honouring them all before the people. Even Jochi’s constant glower had softened as great platters of meat from the hunt were served. Khasar and Ogedai too had fallen on the best cuts with a cry of pleasure. They had eaten many strange things in the years away, but no one in Koryo or Chin lands could have brought a platter of green earth mutton to the groaning tables. That meat had been buried the previous winter and brought out whole for the return of the generals. Khasar’s eyes had filled with tears, though he claimed it was the bitterness of the rotted meat rather than nostalgia for the rare delicacy. No one believed him, but it did not matter.
The feast had built to a climax of noise and debauchery. The strongest warriors prowled through the gers, looking for women. Those of the people were safe, but Chin slaves or captured Russian women were fair game. Their cries were loud in the night, almost drowned by the drums and horns around the fires.
Poems had begun that would take a full day to finish. Some were sung in the ancient style of two tones from the same throat. Others were spoken aloud, competing in the chaos for any who would listen. The fires around Genghis grew more crowded as the first night wore into dawn.
Khasar had not slept even then, Genghis thought, looking for his brother’s shadow in the dark. As the second day came to an end, Genghis had seen how the poets kept back their ballads for Arslan, waiting on the general’s son. It had been then that Genghis refilled Arslan’s cup with his own hand.
‘Chagatai and Jelme are just a short ride from here, Arslan,’ he had said over the twang and screech of wind and string. ‘Will you come with me to meet our sons?’
Arslan had smiled drunkenly, nodding.
‘I will take the poets to them to hear the tales of you, old man,’ Genghis told him, slurring his words. It was a grand idea and, with a warm feeling, he summoned his council of generals to him. Tsubodai and Jochi called for horses as Khasar and Ogedai came staggering up. Ogedai had looked a little green and Genghis had ignored the sour smell of vomit around his son.
It was Kachiun who had brought the khan’s grey mare, a fine animal.
‘This is madness, brother!’ Kachiun called to him cheerfully. ‘Who rides fast at night? Someone will go down.’
Genghis gestured at the darkness and then his companions.
‘We are not afraid!’ he had declared, the drunken men around him cheering the sentiment. ‘I have my family and my generals. I have the swordsmith Arslan and Tsubodai the Valiant. Let the ground fear us if we fall. We will crack it open with our hard heads! Are you ready?’
‘I will match you, brother,’ Kachiun had replied, catching the wild mood. Both men trotted to the head of their small column. It grew by the moment as others joined them. The shaman, Kokchu, was there, one of the few who seemed sober. Genghis had looked for his last brother, Temuge, and saw him on foot, shaking his round head in disapproval. It did not matter, Genghis thought. The useless bastard never could ride.
He had looked around him, at his family, checking to see they all had full skins of airag and rice wine. It would not do to run short. A dozen poets had joined them, their faces bright with excitement. One had already begun declaiming lines and Genghis was tempted to kick him off his pony and leave him behind.
There was a little starlight and he could see his sons, brothers and generals. He chuckled for an instant at the idea of some poor thief stepping out in front of this group of cut-throats.
‘I will give a white mare to any man who beats me into the camp of Jelme and my son Chagatai.’ He had paused a heartbeat to let this sink in and catch the wild g
rins of the men.
‘Ride hard, if you have the heart!’ he had roared then, thumping in his heels and jerking his mare into a gallop through the camp. The others were almost as quick, yelling as they raced in pursuit. Perhaps two thousand had followed the khan into the deep darkness, all those who had been within reach of their horses as the khan leapt up. Not one faltered, though the ground was hard and to fall was to throw a life and not know if it would come down.
Riding at full speed over rushing black ground helped to clear Genghis’ head a little, though an ache had come to throb behind his left eye. There was a river somewhere near, he recalled. The thought of dipping his head into the freezing water was very tempting.
His light mood tore into shreds as he sensed a flanking movement in the darkness. For a single heartbeat, he wondered if he had risked his life, without banners, drums or anything else that marked him out as khan. Then he kicked his mount forward and yelled madly. It had to be Jelme’s men forming horns on either side of him. He rode like a maniac towards the centre of the line, where he knew he would find his general.
Khasar and Kachiun were close behind and then Genghis saw Jochi come past, riding flat on the saddle and yipping to his mount as he went, urging the animal on.
Together the spear point of the ragged column plunged towards Jelme’s lines, taking their lead from the khan. Two fell as their horses struck unseen obstacles. More crashed into the sprawling men and ponies in the darkness, unable to stop. Another three broke legs and were thrown. Some of the men bounced to their feet laughing and unhurt while others would not rise again. Genghis knew none of it, so intent was he on the menace of Jelme’s men and catching his own errant son.
Jochi did not call out a warning to Jelme’s lines, so Genghis could not. If his son chose to ride right down the throats of nervous men with drawn bows, Genghis could only swallow the sudden chill tugging at his drunkenness. He could only ride.
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