The green of the land was fading as they rode north, and one morning, Temujin woke to see snow falling. He was wrapped in blankets with Borte and they had slept heavily, worn out by the cold and the endless plains. Seeing the snow brought a little ice back to Temujin’s spirit, marking the end of a happy time, perhaps happier than he had ever known. He knew he was returning to hardship and fighting, to leading his brothers into a war with the Tartars. Borte sensed the new distance in him and retreated from it, so that they spent hours each day in weary silence, where before they had chattered like birds.
It was Arslan who saw the wanderers first in the distance, his voice snapping Temujin out of his reverie. Three men had gathered a small herd in the lee of a hill and pitched a grubby ger there against the winter cold. Ever since Sansar had taken their swords, Temujin had feared such a meeting. With Borte in his arms, he swore softly to himself. In the distance, the strangers mounted quickly, kicking their ponies into a gallop. Perhaps their intentions were peaceful, but the sight of three young women would excite them to violence. Temujin drew rein and lowered Borte to the ground. He removed his bow from its wrapping and fitted his best remaining string, pulling away the cap of his quiver. Arslan was ready, he saw. The swordsmith had cut the rope holding Makhda in the saddle, leaving her to sit on the frozen ground with her sister. As he mounted in her place, he and Temujin exchanged a glance.
“Do we wait?” Arslan called.
Temujin watched the galloping warriors and wished he had a sword. Three poor wanderers would not own a long blade between them and it would have been enough to make the outcome certain. As it was, he and Arslan could be left for the birds in just a few bloody moments. It was less of a risk to attack.
“No,” he shouted back over the wind. “We kill them.”
He heard the sisters moaning in fear behind as he kicked in his heels and readied his bow. Despite himself, there was an exhilaration in riding with only his knees, perfectly balanced to send death from his bow.
The distance between them seemed long as they raced along the plain, then suddenly they were close and the wind was roaring in their ears. Temujin listened to the sound of his pony’s hooves striking the ground, feeling the rhythm. There was a point in the galloping stride where all four hooves left the ground for just a heartbeat. Yesugei had taught him to loose on that instant, so that his aim was always perfect.
The men they faced had not suffered through years of such training. They misjudged the distance in their excitement and the first shafts whined overhead before Temujin and Arslan reached them. The hooves thundered and again and again there was that moment of freedom when the ponies flew. Temujin and Arslan loosed together, the shafts vanishing away.
The warrior Arslan had marked fell hard from the saddle, punched off it by an arrow through his chest. His mount whinnied wildly, kicking out and bucking. Temujin’s strike was as clean, and the second man spun free to thump unmoving onto the frozen ground. Temujin saw the third release his arrow as they passed by each other at full speed, aimed right at Temujin’s chest.
He threw himself sideways. The shaft passed above him, but he had fallen too far and could not pull himself up. He cried out in anger as his foot slipped from the stirrup and he found himself clinging almost under his pony’s heaving neck at full gallop. The ground sped by underneath him as he yanked cruelly on the reins, his full weight pulling the bit free of his pony’s mouth so that he dropped another foot. For a few moments he was dragged along the icy earth, then with a huge effort of will he opened his hand on the reins and fell, trying desperately to roll out of the way of the crushing hooves.
The pony raced on without him, the sound dwindling to the silence of snow. Temujin lay on his back, listening to his own shuddering breath and gathering his wits. Everything ached and his hands were shaking. He blinked groggily as he sat up, looking back to see what had become of Arslan.
The swordsmith had put his second shaft into the chest of the warrior’s pony, sending him tumbling over the ground. As Temujin watched, the stranger staggered to his feet, obviously dazed.
Arslan drew a knife from his deel and walked unhurriedly to finish the killing. Temujin tried to shout, but as he took a breath, his chest stabbed at him and he realized he had broken a rib in the fall. With an effort, he stood and filled his lungs.
“Hold, Arslan!” he called, wincing at the sharpness.
The swordsmith heard and stood still, watching the man he had brought down. Temujin pressed a hand into his ribs, hunching over the pain as he walked back.
The wanderer watched him come with resignation. His companions lay in heaps, their ponies cropping at the ground with their reins tangled and loose. His own mount lay dying on the frost. As Temujin came closer he saw the wanderer walk to the kicking animal and plunge a knife into its throat. The flailing legs grew limp and blood came out in a red flood, steaming.
The stranger was short and powerfully muscled, Temujin saw, with very dark, reddish skin and eyes set back under a heavy brow. He was bundled in many layers against the cold and wore a square hat that came to a point. With a sigh, he stepped away from his dead pony and beckoned to Arslan with his bloody knife.
“Come and kill me, then,” he said. “See what I have for you.”
Arslan did not respond, though he turned to Temujin.
“What do you see happening here?” Temujin shouted to the man, closing the distance between them. He took his hand away from his side as he spoke and tried to straighten, though every breath sent a jolt of pain through him. The man looked at him as if he were insane.
“I expect to be killed as you killed my friends,” he said. “Unless you are going to give me a pony and one of your women?”
Temujin chuckled, gazing over to where Borte sat with Eluin and Makhda. He thought he could hear the coughing even from far away.
“That can wait until after we have eaten,” he said. “I grant you guest rights.”
The man’s face creased in amazement. “Guest rights?”
“Why not? It’s your horse we’ll be eating.”
When they rode out the following morning, the sisters were mounted on the ponies and they had another warrior for the raids against the Tartars. The newcomer did not trust Temujin at all, but with luck, his doubt and confusion would last long enough to reach the camp in the snows. If it did not, he would be given a quick death.
The wind tore viciously at them, snow stinging as it was hurled into their eyes and against any exposed skin. Eluin sat on her knees in the snow, wailing at the side of her sister’s body. Makhda had not had an easy death. The constant cold had worsened the thickness in her lungs. For the previous moon, every morning had begun with Eluin thumping at her back and chest until great red clots of blood and phlegm were torn loose enough for her to spit. When she was too weak, Eluin had used her fingers to clear her sister’s mouth and throat, while Makhda watched in terror and choked, desperate for another sip of the frozen air. Her skin had grown waxlike, and on the last day, they could hear her straining, as if she breathed through a whistling reed. Temujin had marveled at her endurance and more than once considered giving her a quick end with a knife across her throat. Arslan had pressed him to do it, but Makhda shook her head wearily every time he offered, right to the end.
They had been traveling for almost three months away from the Olkhun’ut when she slumped in the saddle, leaning to the side against the ropes, so that Eluin could not pull her upright. Arslan had lowered her down then and Eluin had begun to sob, the sound almost lost in the face of the howling wind.
“We must go on,” Borte told Eluin, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Your sister is gone from here now.”
Eluin nodded, red-eyed and silent. She arranged her sister’s body with the hands crossed on her chest. The snow would cover her, perhaps before the wild animals found another meal, in their own struggle to survive.
Still weeping, Eluin allowed Arslan to lift her into the saddle. She looked back at the tiny fi
gure for a long time before distance hid her from sight. Temujin saw Arslan had given her a spare shirt that she wore under her deel. They were all cold despite the layers and the furs. Exhaustion was close, but Temujin knew his camp could not be far away. The Pole Star had risen as they traveled north, and he judged that they had come into Tartar lands. At least the snow hid them from their enemies, as well as it hid them from his brothers and Jelme.
As they rested the ponies and trudged through the snow on frozen feet, Borte walked with Temujin, their arms entwined in each other’s wide sleeves, so that at least one part of them felt warm.
“You will have to find a shaman to marry us,” Borte said without looking at him.
They walked with their heads bowed against the wind and snow crusted on their eyebrows like winter demons. He grunted assent and she felt his grip tighten briefly on her arm.
“My blood has not come this month,” she said.
He nodded vaguely, putting one foot in front of the other. The horses were skeletal without good grass and they too would be falling soon. Surely it was time to ride them again for a few hours? His legs ached and his broken rib still pained him with every jerk of the reins.
He drew up short in the snow and turned to her.
“You are pregnant?” he said incredulously.
Borte leaned forward and rubbed her nose against his.
“Perhaps. There has been so little food, and sometimes the blood doesn’t come because of that. I think I am, though.” She saw him surface from his walking trance and a smile come to his eyes.
“It will be a strong son to have had his beginnings on such a journey,” he said. The wind roared in a great gust as he spoke, so that they had to turn away. They could not see the sun, but the day was fading and he shouted to Arslan to look for shelter.
As Arslan began to scout around them for somewhere out of the wind, Temujin caught a glimpse of movement through the sheets of snow. He felt a prickle of danger at his neck and gave a low whistle for Arslan to come back. The wanderer looked quizzically at him and drew his knife in silence, staring into the snow.
The three of them waited in tense silence for Arslan to return while the snow whipped and flailed around them. They were almost blind in its midst, but again Temujin thought he saw the shape of a mounted man, a shadow. Borte asked him a question, but he did not hear it as he shook ice from the wrappings around his bow and attached the horsehide string to one end. With a grunt of effort, he realized the string had grown damp despite the oilcloth. He managed to fit the loop over the nocked end, but it creaked ominously and he thought it could easily snap on the first pull. Where was Arslan? He could hear the rumble of horses galloping nearby, the sound echoing in the whiteness until he could not be sure which way they were coming. With an arrow on the string, he spun, listening. They were closer. He heard the wanderer give a hiss of breath through his teeth, readying himself for an attack. Temujin noted how the man held his ground, and he gave thanks that there was one more with courage to stand at his side. Temujin raised the creaking bow. He saw dark shapes and heard shouting voices, and for a heartbeat, he imagined the Tartars coming for his head.
“Here!” he heard a voice. “They are here!”
Temujin almost dropped the bow in relief as he recognized Kachiun and knew he was back amongst his people. He stood numbly as Kachiun leapt from his saddle into the snow and thumped into him, embracing his brother.
“It has been a good winter, Temujin,” Kachiun said, hammering him excitedly on the back with his gloved hand. “Come and see.”
CHAPTER 23
TEMUJIN AND THE OTHERS MOUNTED for the last mile, though their ponies were dropping in exhaustion. The camp they came to was set against the dark face of an ancient landslip, sheltered from the worst of the wind by an overhang above and the hill at their back. Two dozen gers clustered there like lichen, with wild dogs and tethered ponies in every available spot out of the wind. Despite aching for rest and hot food, Temujin could not help glancing around at the bustling place hidden away in the snow. He could see Jelme kept the camp on a war footing. Warriors on their way to a long watch strode by with their heads down against the wind. There were far more men than women and children, Temujin noticed, seeing the camp with the fresh eyes of a stranger. That was a blessing when they were ready to ride and fight at a moment’s notice, but it could not go on forever. Men followed their leaders to war, but they wanted a home to return to, with a woman’s touch in the dark and children round the feet like puppies.
Those who had known hunger and fear as wanderers might be satisfied with the fledgling tribe in the snow, though even then they were as wary of each other as wild dogs. Temujin repressed his impatience. The wanderers would learn to see a brother where once had stood an enemy. They would learn the sky father knew only one people and saw no tribes. It would come in time, he promised himself.
As he walked through the camp, he became more alert, shrugging off his weariness as the details caught his interest. He saw watchers high on the cliff above his head, bundled against the wind. He did not envy them and he thought they would see little in the constant snow. Still, it showed Jelme’s thoroughness and Temujin was pleased. The camp had a sense of urgency in every movement, rather than the usual winter lethargy that affected the tribes. He felt the suppressed excitement as soon as he was amongst them.
There were new faces there, men and women who looked at him as if he were a stranger. He imagined they saw his ragged group as another wanderer family brought into the fold. Temujin looked at Borte to see how she was taking her first sight of his little tribe in the north. She too was pale with tiredness, but she rode close to his side and her sharp eyes took it all in. He could not tell if she approved. They passed a ger where Arslan had built a brick forge months before, and Temujin saw the glow from its flame, a tongue of light on the snow. There were men and women in there for the warmth, and he heard laughter as he trotted by. He turned to the swordsmith to see if he had noticed, but Arslan was oblivious. His gaze searched ceaselessly among the tribe, looking for his son.
Jelme came out to meet them as soon as he heard Kachiun shout. Khasar too came skidding from a different ger, beaming in delight at the sight of the small party who had been gone half a year. As they dismounted, grinning boys ran to take their ponies without having to be summoned. Temujin cuffed at one, making him duck. He was pleased with Jelme’s stewardship of the tribe. They had not grown fat and slow in his absence.
Arslan’s pride in his son was obvious and Temujin saw Jelme nod to his father. To Temujin’s surprise, Jelme went down on one knee and reached out for Temujin’s hand.
“No, Jelme, stand up,” Temujin said, half irritably. “I want to get out of the wind.”
Jelme remained where he was, though he raised his head.
“Let the new men see, my lord khan. They do not know you yet.”
Temujin understood and his appreciation of Jelme went up a degree. Some of the wanderer families would have known Jelme as the closest thing to a khan for the months Temujin had been away. It was important to show them the true leader had returned. He did not argue again, and allowed Jelme to place his hand on his head before lifting him up and embracing him.
“Did you find a shaman amongst these new arrivals?” Temujin asked.
Jelme winced at the question as he rose. “There is one, though he stole the supply of airag and bargains his ration for more whenever he can.”
“Keep him sober for a few days, then,” Temujin said. “As long as he can dedicate my marriage to the sky father and earth mother, I’ll keep him drunk for a month afterwards.”
He looked around him once more, seeing how many faces had stopped in the snow and wind to watch the scene. As he caught the eyes of those he knew, they bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Jelme’s gaze fell on Borte and Eluin and he bowed low at the waist.
“We are honored to have you with us, daughters of the Olkhun’ut,” he said.
Borte did not k
now what to make of the confident stranger. She dipped her head jerkily in return, flushing as she looked away. Nothing in her life had prepared her to be treated with respect, and for a moment, she had to blink back tears.
Released from the formalities of his welcome, Jelme was finally free to take his father’s arm and embrace him.
“I have bled the Tartars,” he told Arslan, struggling not to seem too proud. His father chuckled and slapped his son on the back. Perhaps in time, he too would become comfortable with the easy manner Temujin encouraged amongst his men.
“I am home,” Temujin said, under his breath and unheard by the others. It was little more than a raiding camp on frozen ground, with barely enough food or shelter for any of them, but there was no question. He had brought Borte home.
“Take me to my mother, Jelme,” he said, shivering in the wind. “She will be hungry for news of the Olkhun’ut.” He caught a glimpse of Borte’s nervousness at his words and sought to reassure her.
“She will welcome you, Borte, as if you were her own daughter.”
As Jelme began to lead the way, Temujin saw the raider he had taken under his wing standing uncomfortably on the outskirts of their little group. His mind swam with a hundred things to remember, but he could not leave the man standing amongst strangers.
“Kachiun? This is Barakh, a fine warrior. He needs work with the bow and he has never used a sword. He is brave and strong, however. See what you can make of him.” He frowned to himself as he spoke, remembering yet another debt.
Genghis: Birth of an Empire Page 28