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.
Borte made a small sound in her throat, an animal sound of fear that she could not control. She told herself to be strong, but as the young one stood up from the fire and walked over to her, she felt her bladder give way in a sudden hot rush, steaming in the cold air. Though it was growing dark, he saw it and showed his teeth.
“I thought about you all day when we were riding,” he told her, crouching at her side.
She began to shiver and hated herself for the signs of weakness. Temujin had told her she was a wolf, as he was; that she could endure anything. She did not cry out as the young Tartar took her by a foot and dragged her behind him to the men around the fire. Instead, she tried to think of her childhood and running amongst the gers. Even then, the memories were all of her father hitting her, or her mother’s indifference to her misery. The only memory that stayed was the day Temujin had come for her at last, so tall and handsome in his furs that the Olkhun’ut could not even look at him.
The Tartars around the fire watched with interest as the youngest untied her feet. She could see the lust in their eyes and she gathered herself to fight them again. It would not stop them, but it was all she had left and she would not give them that last piece of her pride. As soon as her legs were free, she kicked out, her bare foot thumping uselessly into the young Tartar’s chest. He slapped it away with a grim chuckle.
“You are all dead men,” she snapped. “He will kill you all.”
The youngest was flushed and excited and he did not respond as he yanked at her deel and exposed her breasts to the evening cold. She struggled wildly and he nodded to one of the others to help him hold her down. The one who rose was thick-bodied and stank. She had smelled his foul breath close to her face the night before, and the memory made her gag, her empty stomach heaving uselessly. She kicked out with all her strength and the young one cursed.
“Take her legs, Aelic,” he ordered, pulling at his furs to expose himself.
The older man reached down to do as he was told, and then they all heard the crunch of footsteps on the leaves.
Four men strode out from between the trees. Three carried swords ready in their hands and the fourth had a bow drawn right back to his ear.
The Tartars reacted quickly, leaping up and grabbing their weapons. Borte was dropped back onto the wet ground and scrambled to her knees. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she saw Temujin and his brothers, with the swordsmith Arslan in their midst. They ran forward on light feet, perfectly balanced for the first strikes.
The Tartars roared in alarm, but the newcomers were silent as they darted in. Temujin swayed aside from a sweeping blade, then used his hilt to punch a man from his feet. He kicked down hard as he went over his enemy, feeling the nose bone snap under his heel. The next was rising from Borte and Temujin did not dare look at her as the man threw himself forward, armed only with a knife. Temujin let him come in, shifting just a little so that the blow was lost in his deel. He punched out hard with his left hand, rocking the Tartar backwards, then ripped his sword across the man’s thighs, shoving him onto his back as he yelled in pain. The knife fell in the leaves as Temujin turned away panting, looking for another target. It came to rest by Borte and she picked it up in her bound hands.
The young Tartar lay howling on the ground, his limbs flailing as he tried to rise. Temujin had moved away to attack a third with Kachiun, and the Tartar did not see Borte at first as she crept toward him on her knees. When his gaze fell on her, he shook his head, desperately. He raised his fists, but Borte jammed a knee onto his right arm and struggled to bring the blade down. His free hand found her throat and his strength was still frightening. She felt her vision blur as he squeezed desperately, but she would not be denied. Her head was shoved up high by his locked arm as she found his pulsing throat under her fingers. She could have pushed the knife in there, but she eased her hand higher, holding his straining head still as best she could. He struggled, but blood was pouring from his legs and she could feel him growing weaker as she grew strong.
She found his eyes and dug her nails into them, listening to him scream. The knife point scraped along his face, laying his cheek open before she was able to press her full weight down. Suddenly there was no resistance, as she found the eye socket and shoved. The arm at her throat fell away limply and she slumped, gasping. She could still smell the men on her skin, and she mouthed wordless rage as she twisted the blade in the socket, digging deeper.
“He is dead,” Arslan said at her side, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from the touch as if it had scalded her, and when she looked up, the older man’s eyes were full of sorrow. “You are safe now.”
Borte did not speak, though her eyes filled with tears. In a rush, the sounds of the camp came back to her from where she had lost herself. The rest of the Tartars were crying out in agony and fear all around. It was no more than she would have wanted.
Borte sat back on her haunches, looking dazedly at the blood that covered her hands. She let the knife fall once more and looked into the far distance.
“Temujin,” she heard Arslan call. “Come and tend her.” She saw the swordsmith pick up the knife and toss it into the trees. She did not understand why he would waste a good blade, and she raised her head to ask him.
Temujin strode across the camp, scattering the small fire without noticing or caring. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms. She struggle
d then, bursting into sobs as she tried to get away from him.
“Be still!” he ordered, as she raised her fists to hammer at his face. The first blows made him duck his head and hold her tighter. “It is over, Borte. Be still!”
The fight went out of her in an instant and she sagged in his embrace, weeping.
“I have you now,” he whispered. “You are safe and it is over.” He repeated the words in a mumble, his emotions whirling painfully. He was relieved to find her alive, but still there was a red core to him that wanted to hurt the men who had taken her. He glanced to where his brothers were tying the Tartars. Two of them were yelling like children, with Kachiun’s arrows in their legs and arms. A third would probably die from where Arslan had opened his gut, but the others would live long enough.
“Build up the fire,” Temujin said to his brothers. “I want them to feel the heat and know what is coming.”
Khasar and Kachiun set about gathering the embers he had kicked apart, dragging an old log onto the rest. Flames soon licked around the dry wood, catching quickly.
Arslan watched as husband and wife stood together. Borte’s face was blank, almost as if she had fainted. The swordsmith shook his head.
“Let us kill them and go back to the others,” Arslan said. “There is no honor in what you are planning.”
Temujin turned to him, his eyes wild.
“Leave if you want to,” he snapped. “This is a blood debt.”
Arslan stood very still.
“I will take no part in it,” he said at last.
Temujin nodded. Khasar and Kachiun had come to stand by his side. All three brothers looked at the swordsmith and he felt cold. There was no pity in any of their eyes. Behind them, the Tartars moaned in terror and the fire crackled as it grew.
Temujin stood bare-chested, sweat gleaming on his skin. His brothers had piled wood on the fire until it was an inferno and they could not approach the roaring yellow heat.
“I give these lives to the sky and earth, scattering their souls in fire,” Temujin said, raising his head to the cold stars. His mouth and chest were bloody in a great black streak that reached down to his waist. He held the last Tartar by the throat. The man was weak from his wounds, but he still struggled feebly, his legs scratching marks in the ground. Temujin did not seem to feel the weight. He stood so close to the fire that the fine hair on his arms had vanished, but he was lost in the trance of death and felt no pain.
Kachiun and Khasar watched in grim silence from a few paces farther back. They too had been marked with the blood of the Tartars and tasted flesh burnt in the flames. Three bodies lay naked to one side of the fire, two of them with black holes in their chests and enough blood to wash away grief and anger. They had not cut the man Borte had killed. The fire was only for the living.
Unaware of them all, Temujin began to chant words he had not heard since old Chagatai had whispered them on a frozen night long before. The shaman’s chant spoke of loss and revenge, of winter, ice, and blood. He did not have to struggle to recall the words; they were ready on his tongue as if he had always known them.
The last Tartar moaned in terror, his hands clawing at Temujin’s arm and scratching the skin with broken nails. Temujin looked down at him.
“Come closer, Borte,” he said, holding the man’s gaze.
Borte stepped into the firelight, the shadows of the flames playing on her skin. Her eyes caught the flickering light, so that she seemed to have flames within her.
Temujin looked up at his wife and drew his knife again from his belt, already slick with dark life. In a sharp jerk, he opened a gash in the Tartar’s chest, ripping the weapon back and forth to slice through muscle. The Tartar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Shining organs pulsed as Temujin reached in, gripping and sawing. Between two fingers, he pulled out a piece of streaming flesh from the heart. He pressed it onto the tip of his blade and held it into the flames, so that his own skin blistered as the meat sizzled and spat. He grunted at the pain, aware of it but uncaring. He let the Tartar fall onto the crisping leaves, his eyes still open. Without a word, Temujin pulled the seared flesh from the blade and held it out to Borte, watching as she held it to her lips.
It was still almost raw and she chewed hard to swallow it, feeling hot blood dribble over her lips. She had not known what to expect. This was the oldest magic: the eating of souls. She felt the meat slide down her throat and with it came a sense of great lightness, and of strength. Her lips slid back to show her teeth and Temujin seemed to slump as if something had gone out of him. Before, he had been a worker of dark incantations, a bringer of retribution. In an instant, he was no more than a tired man, worn out by grief and pain.
Borte raised her hand to her husband’s face, touching his cheek and leaving a smear of blood there.
“It is enough,” she said over the crackle of flame. “You can sleep now.”
He nodded wearily, stepping away from the flames at last to join his brothers. Arslan stood farther back, his expression dark. He had not joined in the bloodletting, or eaten the slivers of flesh cut from live men. He had not felt the rush of life that came with it, nor the exhaustion that followed. He did not look at the mutilated bodies of the Tartars as he settled himself on the ground and drew his arms into the deel. He knew his dreams would be terrible.
CHAPTER 27
TOGRUL OF THE KERAIT was roused from sleep by the hand of his first wife, shaking him roughly.
“Up, lazy!” she said, her hard voice splitting apart a happy dream with its usual force.
Togrul groaned as he opened his eyes. Six daughters she had given him and not a single son. He regarded her irritably as he rubbed his face.
“Why do you disturb me, woman? I was dreaming of when you were young and attractive.”
Her response was to poke him hard in the ribs.
“This new man you summoned has arrived with his ragged followers. They look no better than dirty wanderers, from what I can see. Will you stay all day in your fat slumber while they inspect your gers?”
Togrul frowned, stifling a yawn as he scratched himself. He swung his legs onto the cold floor and looked around.
“I do not see food to give me strength,” he said, frowning. “Must I go out to them on an empty stomach?”
“That stomach is never empty,” she retorted. “It is not fitting to keep them waiting while you force another sheep down your throat.”
“Woman, tell me again why I keep you on,” he said, standing. “I have forgotten.”
She snorted as he dressed, moving surprisingly quickly for such a large man. As he splashed water on his face, she pressed a warm pouch of mutton and bread into his hands, thick with grease. He smiled at last on seeing it, taking half in a great bite and belching softly as he chewed. Sitting down once more, he worked on finishing it as his wife tied his boots. He loved her very much.
“You look like a sheepherder,” she told him, as he moved toward the door. “If they ask where the real khan of the Kerait is hiding, tell them you ate him.”
“Woman, you are the light of my heart,” he said, dipping his head to pass out into the dawn light. He chuckled as she threw something that clattered against the closing door.
His mood changed as he saw the warriors who had come into the gers of the Kerait. They had dismounted and were surrounded by his foolish families, already looking irritated by the close press of the crowd. Togrul blew air from his lips, wishing he had brought another of the pouches with him. His stomach growled and he thought the newcomers would welcome a feast in their honor. His wife could hardly complain about that.
The crowd of Kerait children parted and he saw his bondsmen were there before him. He looked around for Wen Chao, but the Chin ambassador had not yet stirred from his sleep. As Togrul approached the group, his heart sank at the small number of them. Where was the horde Wen had promised?
Many of the newcomers stared around them with fascination and nervousness. In the center, Togrul saw five
men standing by thin ponies, their faces hard and strained. He beamed at them as he came forward, his bondsmen falling in behind.
“I grant you guest rights in my home,” he said. “Which one of you is Temujin of the Wolves? I have heard much about you.”
The tallest stepped forward, bowing his head stiffly, as if the gesture were unfamiliar.
“No longer of the Wolves, my lord. I owe no loyalty to the tribe of my father. These are my only people now.”
Temujin had never seen a man quite as fat as Togrul before. He tried to keep the surprise from his face as Togrul greeted his brothers, as well as Jelme and Arslan. The khan could not have been more than thirty and his grip was strong, but flesh cloaked him, so that his deel strained under a wide belt. His face was round, with thick rolls of fat over his collar. Even stranger was the fact that he wore a robe very similar to the one Wen had worn on his visit. Togrul’s hair was tied back in the manner of the Chin, and Temujin did not know what to make of such a man. He looked like no khan he had ever seen, and only the familiar features and reddish skin marked him as one of their own people.
Temujin exchanged a glance with Kachiun as Togrul finished his welcome and placed heavy hands on his belly.
“The beast has woken, my friends. You must be hungry after your journey, yes?”
He clapped his hands together and called for food to be brought. Temujin watched as the crowd moved away to the gers, no doubt looking for enough food to ease the khan’s appetite. They seemed long familiar with the task.
“I do not see more than thirty warriors with you,” Togrul said, counting under his breath. “Wen Chao told me there could be as many as a hundred.”
“I will find more,” Temujin told him, instantly defensive.
Togrul raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It is true, then, that you welcome wanderers in your camp? Do they not steal?”
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