Genghis: Birth of an Empire

by Conn Iggulden

  Temujin heaved back on the string, aiming at the lone warrior bearing down on Borte. He heard a sudden thunder and another Tartar was riding at him, sword already swinging to take off his head. There was no time to dodge, but Temujin dropped to his knees as he let go, struggling to adjust his aim. The arrow went skipping over the ground, wasted. Then something hit him hard enough to shake the world and he fell.

  Jelme stepped up to his father’s side as the two Tartars bore down on them.

  “Go left,” Arslan snapped at his son, even as he stepped to the right.

  The Tartars saw them move, but the father and son had left it to the very last moment and they could not adjust. Arslan’s blade tip found the neck of one man as Jelme cut the other, almost taking his head off. Both Tartars were dead in a heartbeat, their ponies hammering past without direction.

  The Tartar leader had not survived the first attack on the barricades, and there were barely a dozen left of the original force. With the hill backing onto the camp, there was no chance to ride through and away, so those that still lived shouted and wheeled, cutting at anything against them. Arslan saw two pulled out of their saddles and knifed as they writhed, screaming. It was a bloody business, but the main Tartar force had been destroyed. The few survivors lay low on the saddles as they galloped back the way they had come, shafts whistling after them.

  Arslan saw one coming back from the other side of the camp, and he readied himself to kill again, standing perfectly still in the pony’s path. In the last moment, he saw the kicking legs of a captive across the saddle and spoiled his own blow. His left hand snapped out to yank Borte free, but his fingers caught only an edge of cloth and then the man was past. Arslan saw Khasar was following the rider with an arrow on the string, and he shouted.

  “Hold, Khasar. Hold!”

  The order rang across a camp that was suddenly quiet after the roaring Tartars. Not more than six made it away and Arslan was already running for the ponies.

  “Mount up!” he roared. “They have one of the women. Mount!”

  He looked for Temujin as he ran, then saw a limp figure and skidded to a stop in horror. Temujin lay surrounded by dead men. A pony with a broken leg stood shivering next to him, its sides streaked with whitish sweat. Arslan ignored the animal, pushing it away as he knelt beside the young man he had rescued from the Wolves.

  There was a lot of blood and Arslan felt his heart contract in a painful spasm. He reached down and touched the flap of flesh that had been torn free from Temujin’s scalp. With a shout of joy, he saw it still bled into the pool that lay around his head. Arslan lifted Temujin free of the blood that covered half his face.

  “He is alive,” Arslan whispered.

  Temujin remained unconscious as Arslan carried him to a tent. His brothers galloped out after the raiders, sparing only a glance for the figure in Arslan’s arms. They were grim-faced and angry as they passed him, and Arslan did not pity any Tartars they caught that day.

  Arslan laid Temujin down in his mother’s ger, surrendering him to her. Temulun was crying bitterly in a corner, the sound almost painful. Hoelun looked up from her son as she reached for her needle and thread.

  “Comfort my daughter, Arslan,” she said, concentrating on her task.

  Arslan ducked his head in acknowledgment, going over to the little girl.

  “Would you like to be picked up?” he asked her.

  Temulun nodded through her tears and he jerked her into the air. She looked up at him and he forced himself to smile. The reaction to killing was setting in and he felt himself grow light-headed as his pounding heart beat too fast for stillness and quiet. Hoelun pushed the bone needle through the first piece of Temujin’s scalp and Arslan saw the little girl wince and her mouth open to resume crying.

  “It’s all right, little one, I’ll take you to Eluin. She has been looking for you,” he said. He did not want the girl to see the bodies outside but, equally, he could not stay in the ger and do nothing. He hoped Eluin was still alive.

  As he turned to leave, he heard Temujin give a shuddering gasp. When Arslan looked, he saw Temujin’s eyes were open and clear, watching Hoelun as she stitched with quick, neat hands.

  “Lie still,” Hoelun said, when her son tried to get up. “I need to do this well.”

  Temujin subsided, his gaze finding Arslan at the door. “Tell me,” he ordered.

  “We broke the attack. They have Borte,” Arslan replied.

  As he spoke, Hoelun tugged at the thread and a whole section of Temujin’s scalp wrinkled. Arslan bounced Temulun in his arms, but she had quieted again and seemed content to play with a silver button on his deel.

  Hoelun used a cloth to dab blood out of her son’s eyes. The scalp wound was still bleeding heavily, but the stitching helped. She pushed the needle through another bit of flesh and felt Temujin tense.

  “I need to be up, Mother,” he murmured. “Are you nearly finished?”

  “Your brothers have gone after the last of them,” Arslan said quickly. “With such a wound, there is no point in following them, not yet. You have lost a lot of blood and there’s no point in risking a fall.”

  “She is my wife,” Temujin replied, his eyes growing cold. His mother bent forward as if to kiss him, instead biting off the end of the thread in his skin. He sat up as soon as she moved away, raising his fingers to the line of stitches.

  “Thank you,” he said. His eyes lost their hard focus then and Hoelun nodded as she rubbed at the dried blood on his cheek.

  Arslan heard Eluin’s voice outside the ger and stepped through the door to pass Temulun into her care. He returned, looking grim, as Temujin tried to stand. The young khan swayed, taking hold of the central spar of the ger to keep himself upright.

  “You cannot ride today,” Arslan told him. “All you could do is follow the tracks of your brothers. Let them find her.”

  “Would you?” Temujin demanded. He had closed his eyes against the dizziness, and Arslan’s heart swelled to see his determination. He sighed.

  “No, I would go after them. I will bring your pony and fetch my own.”

  He ducked out of the ger and Hoelun stood and took Temujin’s free hand in her own.

  “You will not want to hear what I have to say,” she murmured.

  Temujin opened his eyes, blinking against a fresh trail of blood.

  “Say whatever you have to,” he replied.

  “If your brothers cannot run them down before night, they will hurt her.”

  “They will rape her, Mother. I know. She is strong.”

  Hoelun shook her head. “You do not know. She will be ashamed.” She paused for a moment, wanting him to understand. “If they have hurt her, you will have to be very strong. You cannot expect her to be the same, with you or any man.”

  “I will kill them,” Temujin promised, rage kindling in him. “I will burn them and eat their flesh if they do.”

  “That will bring you peace, but it will not change anything for Borte,” Hoelun said.

  “What else can I do? She cannot kill them as I could, or force them to kill her, even. Nothing that happens is her fault.” He found himself crying and wiped angrily at bloody tears on his cheeks. “She trusted me.”

  “You cannot make this right, my son. Not if they escape your brothers. If you find her alive, you will have to be patient and kind.”

  “I know that! I love her; that is enough.”

  “It was,” Hoelun persisted. “It may not be enough any longer.”

  Temujin stood in the cold wind, his head throbbing. As Arslan brought the ponies, he looked around, smelling blood on the breeze. The camp was littered with broken bodies. Some still moved. One Tartar lay on his back as if dead, but his fingers plucked at two arrow shafts in his chest, twitching like pale spiders. Temujin drew a knife from his belt and staggered over to him. The man could only have been moments from death, but Temujin still knelt at his side and placed the point of his blade onto the pulsing throat. The touch of it stille
d the scrabbling fingers, and the Tartar turned his eyes mutely onto Temujin. As he met them, Temujin pushed slowly downwards, cutting the windpipe and breathing in a gust of bloody air.

  When he rose, Temujin was still unsteady. The sun seemed too bright and, without warning, he turned and vomited. He heard Hoelun speaking to him, but it was through a roaring sound that he could not clear. She and Arslan were arguing about him going out, and Temujin could see Arslan’s face frowning in doubt.

  “I will not fall,” Temujin said to both of them, taking hold of his saddle horn. “Help me up, here. I have to follow them.”

  It took both of them to heave him into the saddle, but once there, Temujin felt a little more secure. He shook his head, wincing at the pain crashing behind his eyes.

  “Jelme?” he called. “Where are you?”

  Arslan’s son was spattered with drying blood, his sword still bare as he walked around corpses to reach them. Temujin watched him come, dimly aware that he had never seen Jelme angry before.

  “While we are gone, you must move the camp,” Temujin said, slurring his words. His head felt too large, lolling on his shoulders. He did not hear what Jelme said in reply.

  “Travel by night. Take them into the hills, but move south toward the Kerait. If Togrul has the men to match us, I will burn the Tartars from the face of the world. I will look for you when I have found my wife.”

  “Your will, my lord,” Jelme said. “But if you do not come back?” It had to be said, but Temujin winced again as the pain became overwhelming.

  “Then find that valley we talked about and raise sons and sheep,” he said at last.

  He had done his duty as khan. Jelme was a fine leader and those who looked to Temujin for leadership would be safe. He took a firm grip on the reins. He could not be far behind his brothers. All that was left was vengeance.

  CHAPTER 26

  AS THE SUN SANK in the west and bathed the plains in gold, Khasar and Kachiun came across the body of one of the men they were following. Wary of a trap, Kachiun remained in the saddle with his bow drawn back while Khasar approached, flipping the corpse over with the toe of his boot.

  The Tartar had a broken shaft protruding from his stomach where he’d snapped it off. His entire lower body was black with blood and his face was chalk white and stiff. His companions had taken his pony with them, its lighter hoof marks still visible in the turf. Khasar searched the body quickly, but if there had been anything of use, the Tartars had already taken it.

  The brothers rode as long as they could see tracks, but in the end, the growing gloom forced them to stop or risk losing the men they were chasing. Neither of them spoke as they mixed a draft of milk and blood tapped from a vein in Kachiun’s mare. They had both seen Temujin unconscious in Arslan’s arms, and they were desperate not to let the raiders get away.

  They slept uncomfortably and woke before dawn, moving on as soon as the first light revealed the tracks of the raiders once more. With just a glance at each other, they kicked their mounts into a gallop. They were both fit and hardened. They would not let them escape through weakness.

  Throughout the second day, the hoofprints grew fresher and easier to see. Kachiun was a better tracker than his brother, who never had the patience to learn the subtleties. It was Kachiun who leapt from the saddle to press his hand into the lumps of dung, looking for a trace of warmth. On the evening of the second day, he grinned as he dug his fingers into a dark ball.

  “Fresher than the last. We are gaining on them, brother,” he told Khasar.

  The Tartars had made little attempt to confuse their trail. They had tried to lose their pursuers at first, but the tracks of the second morning were almost straight, running fast toward some destination. If the Tartars knew they were still being followed, they no longer tried to throw them off.

  “I hope we catch them before they reach wherever they’re going,” Khasar said, gloomily. “If they’re heading for a large camp, we’ll lose them and Borte.”

  Kachiun mounted again, his face drawn into a grimace as his tired muscles protested.

  “They must have come from somewhere,” he said. “If they get to safety, one of us will go back and gather the others. Maybe even ride with Temujin to the Kerait and join forces. They will not escape us, Khasar. One way or the other we’ll hunt them down.”

  “If Temujin is alive,” Khasar muttered.

  Kachiun shook his head. “He is. The Wolves themselves couldn’t stop him. You think a wound from the Tartars will?”

  “It did for our father,” Khasar said.

  “That is still a debt to be paid,” Kachiun replied savagely.

  As the brothers slept on the third night, both were stiff and tired from the hard riding. The mixture of blood and milk could sustain them indefinitely, but they had no remounts, and the mare was showing signs of soreness, much as they were themselves. Both men had taken bruising impacts in the raid, and Kachiun’s ankle was swollen and painful to the touch. He did not speak of it to his brother, but he could not hide his limping gait whenever they dismounted. They slept soundly and Kachiun woke with a start when a cold blade touched his throat.

  It was pitch dark under the stars as his eyes jerked open. He tried to roll away, but relief flooded him on hearing a voice he knew.

  “Arslan could show you a thing or two about tracking, Kachiun,” Temujin said by his ear. “It is almost dawn; are you ready for another day?”

  Kachiun sprang to his feet and embraced Temujin and then Arslan, surprising the older man. “We cannot be far behind them,” he said.

  A few paces away, Khasar had stopped snoring and turned over. Kachiun strode to him and booted him in the ribs.

  “Up, Khasar, we have visitors.”

  They heard Khasar scramble to his feet and the creak of a bow being drawn. Though he slept like the dead, there was nothing wrong with his reflexes.

  “I am with you, my brother,” Temujin said softly into the darkness. The bow creaked again as Khasar eased the string back.

  “How is your head?” Khasar asked.

  “It aches, but the stitches hold,” Temujin replied. He glanced toward the east and saw the wolf dawn, the first gray light before the sun rose. He held a skin of black airag out to them.

  “Drink quickly and be ready to ride,” he said. “We have been too long on the chase already.”

  His voice held a quiet pain they all understood. Borte had spent three nights with the raiding party. They did not speak of it. The airag warmed their empty stomachs and gave them a rush of energy they sorely needed. Milk and blood would follow later in the day. It would be enough.

  The three brothers and Arslan were dusty and tired by the time they caught a glimpse of their prey. The trail had wound up through a range of hills, and the broken ground had slowed their headlong pace. Temujin had not spoken a word to any of them, his gaze constantly on the horizon as he searched for the last of the Tartars.

  The sun was low on the horizon when they reached a crest and saw the ragged group at the far end of the valley. All four of them slid out of the saddles and pulled their ponies down with them, so that they would not be easy to see. Temujin lay with his arm over the neck of his mount, pressing it into the grass.

  “It will be tonight, then,” he said. “We’ll take them when they make camp.”

  “I have three arrows,” Kachiun said. “All that were left in the quiver when I rode out.”

  Temujin turned to his younger brother, his face like stone. “If you can, I want them down but not dead. I do not want it to be quick, for these.”

  “You make it harder, Temujin,” Arslan said, peering at the small group in the far distance. “Better to spring an attack and kill as many as we can. They too have bows and swords, remember.”

  Temujin ignored the older man, holding Kachiun’s eyes. “If you can,” he repeated. “If Borte is alive, I want her to see them die, perhaps with her own knife.”

  “I understand,” Kachiun murmured, remembering
when they had killed Bekter. Temujin had worn the same expression, though it was made worse by the ugly line of stitches seaming his forehead. Kachiun was not able to hold the fierce gaze, and he too looked over the valley. The Tartars had reached the end and passed into thick trees.

  “Time to move,” Temujin said, rising. “We must close the gap before they make camp for the night. I do not want to lose them in the dark.” He did not look to see if they followed as he forced his pony to gallop once more. He knew they would.

  Borte lay on her side on a damp layer of old leaves and pine needles. Her hands and feet had been expertly tied by the Tartar tribesmen as they made their camp in the woods. She watched them fearfully as they used a hatchet to hack out the dry wood from a dead tree and built a small fire. They were all starving and the stunned despair of the first few nights was only just beginning to fade. She listened to their guttural voices and tried not to be afraid. It was hard. They had ridden into Temujin’s camp with every expectation of a successful raid. Instead, they had been smashed and broken, losing brothers and friends and almost their own lives. Two of them in particular were still seething at the shame of their retreat. It was those two who had come for her on the first night, taking out their frustration and anger in the only way they had left. Borte shuddered as she lay there, feeling again their rough hands on her. The youngest of them was little more than a boy, but he had been the cruellest and smacked his closed fist across her face until she was dazed and bleeding. Then he had raped her with the others.