Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  The two young men grinned as Temujin helped Bortai to her feet. Her husband motioned to them with one hand. Borchu nodded and rode on; Jelme dismounted and led his horse down to the river to drink. The Uriangkhai would stay near, ready to ride to them if he was needed.

  Temujin lifted her to her horse. “You've brought me luck, Bortai. Everything's changing for me.”

  She laughed softly. “Your alliance with the Kereits has something to do with that.”

  He mounted his own horse. “After we move camp,” he said, “I'll join my anda before autumn. It's time we renewed our bond.”

  Bortai was silent. Hoelun-eke had told her about Jamukha, praising him for his devotion to her son, but her eyes had grown colder when she mentioned him.

  “We always said we would ride together when we were men,” Temujin continued. “We should join our forces permanently. He asked me to do so before.”

  “And which of you would command?”

  “We're brothers—we'd both command.”

  She said nothing to that; it seemed as unlikely as wild stallions refusing to challenge each other for a herd of mares. She would not think of Jamukha now; autumn seemed far away.

  They rode towards the camp, circling the herd of horses; Jelme trailed them at a distance. To the south, a dark circle of yurts and carts rippled in the hot air. Summer stretched before her, with its long days that were endless, yet endurable, because she could go about her tasks anticipating the night. In her bed, time always stopped; there was only Temujin when her spirit soared to meet his, when no world existed outside their bodies and souls. There would always be Temujin. The days ahead were landmarks on a trail that through the years to come would wind from night to night, unchanging.

  41

  Hoelun awoke, then sat up. Her three youngest children were asleep in their beds, but Khokakhchin had left the yurt. She listened, but heard only silence; the wind that had followed the evening storm had died at last.

  Khokakhchin entered the tent. “Ujin,” the old woman whispered, “get dressed and come with me.”

  Hoelun pulled on her clothes, covered her hair with a scarf, then followed her servant outside. “What is it?”

  “I felt the ground tremble before, and thought another storm was coming, but the sky's clear.” Khokakhchin dropped to the ground. “I put my ear to the earth and heard rumbling.” She rested her head against the dirt. “I hear it still. It sounds as if an army's coming this way.”

  The old woman had a weasel's ears; she often heard sounds others could not. Hoelun knelt and pressed her ear to the ground. She heard it now, the low, barely audible sound of distant hooves.

  The Taychiuts, she thought; they're finally going to make an end of us. She looked up; the sky was dark, but growing greyer. Their enemies might reach the camp before sunrise.

  She jumped to her feet. “Wake Temujin! Sound the alert!” Khokakhchin hastened away, calling out as she moved towards Temujin's yurt. Hoelun ran back inside and shook Khachigun awake. “We must flee,” she said. “You children will take only your weapons and any provisions you can carry—we must get to the horses and escape.”

  Her son bolted from the bed and woke the other two children as Hoelun gathered what she could.

  The shouts outside woke Bortai. Temujin rolled from the bed, pulling on his shift and trousers. Khokakhchin's voice rose above the others. “An attack is coming! Make your escape!” Bortai grabbed her clothes as Temujin bounded towards the entrance and lifted the flap.

  Khokakhchin panted as she came inside. “Taychiuts are after us,” the old woman gasped. “The ground shakes with the sound of their steeds.”

  Temujin shouldered his bowcase and quiver. Bortai tightened the sash around her waist, handed her husband his spear and two skins of kumiss, then reached for her weapons.

  They hurried outside. Two men were riding towards the yurts south of Temujin's circle. In the distance, Bortai heard screams and the terrified shrieks of children, and glimpsed Hoelun-eke running towards the rope where Temujin's horses were tied.

  Borchu and Jelme rode towards them, each on one of Temujin's geldings, leading a third by the reins. “Come,” Jelme shouted as his horse skidded to a halt. “We can't find Sochigil Ujin, but your mother and the children will come with us. Khasar and Belgutei are with them.”

  Bortai's heart strained against her chest. The men could not make a stand here; their only hope was to get away and strike back later.

  Temujin looked up at his two friends, hesitating. “We have my nine horses,” he murmured. “Mother and Temulun will ride on one.” He reached for Bortai; she pulled away.

  “Go,” she said. “You'll need one horse as a spare, when the others tire.” She pushed him towards Borchu. “Go! You're the one they want—if they get you, we're all lost. Searching for captives will delay them. I'll find my way to you later.”

  “Your wife speaks wisely.” Jelme leaned down and grabbed Temujin's collar. “Come!”

  Temujin glanced at her one last time, then mounted his horse. “Guard her, Khokakhchin-eke,” he said. “Get her to a safe place.” He pulled his standard from the ground, threw it to Borchu, then rode away.

  Bortai leaned against the old woman, watching riders stream across the plain. The Arulats had been grazing their horses away from the camp; she would find no mount nearby on which to escape. Cattle roamed over the grass; bleating sheep milled around in the wide spaces between the tents. A few people were riding towards the Burgi cliff to the east while others galloped after Temujin's standard.

  “We'll fight,” Bortai whispered. “If we can hold them off for even a little while—”

  “A few women and children can't fight an army,” Khokakhchin muttered. “Trust me, young Ujin—I'll see that you're safe.”

  Khokakhchin found an old speckled ox and hastily hitched the animal to a covered cart. A few women were fleeing on foot along the river-bank; Bortai ran towards Sochigil's yurt, calling her name.

  “We can't look for her now,” Khokakhchin shouted after her. “Hurry!” Bortai raced back to the cart. Temujin had been too generous with his followers; there would have been horses for her and Khokakhchin if he had kept more for himself.

  “Get in,” the old woman said. Bortai climbed into the cart; newly sheared wool lay under its arched leather covering. Khokakhchin settled herself on the seat in front. “Cover yourself, Ujin, and lie still—don't make a sound, whatever happens.”

  Bortai slipped off her quiver and bowcase, covered them, then burrowed under the wool. The cart rattled and shook as the ox pulled it forward. “I'm going to make for the Tungelig River,” Khokakhchin continued. “If we can get to the woods, we'll hide there.”

  The cart creaked and its boards bounced under Bortai. Temujin had told her of how he had hidden in a wagon of wool before slipping away from the Taychiuts. She prayed that he would be safe.

  They went on until she could hear only the creaking of the cart. Through a gap in the wool, she saw a gleam of light at the back of the cart; the sun was rising. Then she heard a low, rolling sound that might have been thunder or horses' hooves. Her mouth was dry; she waited, expecting to hear the drumbeat of a naccara, but no war-drum sounded. The enemy had meant to swoop down on the camp and surprise Temujin.

  The sound of the horses grew louder; soldiers were riding towards them. She burrowed deeper. The wool covered her ears, muffling the shouts of the men.

  “Stop!” a man called out. Bortai lay very still as the cart creaked to a halt. “Where are you going?” She had heard the accents of his dialect before, from the mouths of those who belonged to northern tribes.

  “I've just come from the yurt of the chief Temujin,” Khokakhchin replied. “I beg you to let me go on my way.”

  “And what were you doing there?”

  “Shearing his sheep. I'm one of his servants, and now I'm going to my yurt with the wool to make felt. Please let me pass—surely you can leave an old woman her bit of wool.”

  “
Is his yurt far from here?” another man asked.

  “Just go that way. It isn't far. I didn't see the young Bahadur myself, so I don't know if he's there now, but you'll reach his camp soon. I was shearing the sheep, you see, so I couldn't tell—”

  “Leave her,” one man said angrily. Bortai kept still, certain the men were peering past Khokakhchin at the wool. The wool made her face itch; she clenched her teeth.

  “On your way,” a man said. The cart began to roll; the rumbling of horses' hooves faded. Bortai waited until she was sure the enemy was gone, then crawled forward and rested her hands on the seat.

  “It was a small party,” Khokakhchin murmured, “about thirty men. The other wings rode on towards the camp. There must be nearly three hundred of them.” She paused. “They aren't Taychiuts. Merkits are after your husband.”

  Bortai tensed. Yesugei's old enemies must have decided to strike at his son before Temujin's strength grew. The Taychiuts had spared her husband before; she had held a faint hope that they might let him live if they caught him. The Merkits had no reason to show mercy.

  “Get back,” the old servant said. “We're not safe yet.”

  Bortai lay down. The cart bounced over a bump with a loud creak; the vehicle groaned under her, jostling her against the boards over and over until her body seemed a mass of bruises. They must be nearing the woods that bordered the small river. The cart rocked, pitching her to one side; she heard a sharp crack. The wagon shook and shuddered to a stop.

  The axle, she thought, terrified. Khokakhchin cursed and lashed at the ox, then leaned towards her. “Don't move, child,” the old woman said. “Some are riding back to us.”

  Bortai threw herself down and waited. The ground shook as the riders came closer. “Old woman!” a man shouted. A horse whinnied; she could hear them crowding around the cart. “There's no one in the camp but a few women and children—where are the rest?”

  “I don't know,” Khokakhchin said. “When I left, everything was quiet. I—”

  “You know more than you told us.” The man's voice was much louder now. “Someone warned them—we saw trails leading away from the camp. You aren't taking wool to your yurt—you're running away.”

  “I know nothing about this. All I have is the wool I sheared. Let me go.”

  “She can't carry it far with a broken axle,” another voice said from the back of the cart. “There may be more than wool in this cart.”

  “There's nothing,” Khokakhchin cried.

  “I'll see for myself,” the second man said. Bortai huddled under the wool. The cart shook as someone crawled inside. Hands slapped at the wool; fingers suddenly grabbed her around the calf. She kicked, then was dragged from the back of the cart by her legs. A pair of small dark eyes peered at her; Bortai's hand darted towards the man's broad face. He knocked her arm aside and dumped her on the ground.

  “So this is what the old woman was hiding,” the man said. He was large, with wide shoulders and a wrestler's massive build, but his moustache was the thin faint one of a young man. Bortai scrambled to her feet. Their horses were all around her; a few men leaned forward for a better look. “Now there's a prize,” the young man went on. “The old bitch was hiding a beauty.”

  Bortai swayed dizzily. Khokakhchin struggled as another man dragged her around the cart. On two of the horses, captives lay on their stomachs across saddles; thick braids hung down from under one woman's scarf. The captive woman turned her head; Bortai gazed into Sochigil's dark, fearful eyes.

  Khokakhchin freed herself and stumbled to Bortai's side. “She's just a foolish girl,” the servant said. “Pretty she may be, but she's a lazy child, and feeble-minded. She came to shear wool with me, and even then left most of the work to me—you don't need the burden of her.”

  “You talk too much.” A man prodded Khokakhchin with his spear. “You lied before, and you're lying now.”

  “Does she speak the truth?” The man who had Sochigil slung across his horse was speaking. “Do you know who that woman is?” He took out his knife and pressed it against Sochigil's throat. “Speak!”

  Sochigil yelped as the knife pricked her. “She's Bortai—Temujin's wife. Old Woman Khokakhchin serves his mother. It's the truth—don't hurt me.”

  Bortai threw her arms around the old servant. They were lost; Temujin would expect her to do what she could to stay alive. “She speaks the truth,” she said. “I am Bortai Ujin.” She shot a baleful glance at the other woman. “She would know—she was Yesugei Bahadur's second wife.”

  The young man who had dragged her from the cart roared with laughter. “Temujin's wife!” he shouted, slapping his thigh. “I've found his wife! We have our revenge on that Mongol bastard already!” Bortai drew herself up; the longer he stood here gloating, the more distance her husband would put between himself and these creatures. “My brother will dance with joy when he learns what we've found!” His big hand fell on her shoulder. “Do you know who I am, woman?”

  Bortai opened her mouth; her voice was locked in her throat. “How could I know?” she managed to say at last. “You're a stranger to me. Are you so famous that even I should know who you are?”

  A few men chuckled. The young man scowled and raised an arm; she shrank back. “My name is Chilger,” he bellowed, “and my comrades call me Boko, the Athlete.” He flexed his arms. “My older brother is Yeke Chiledu. Do you know what your husband's father did to my brother?” He showed his teeth. “He stole his bride, only a few days after she and Chiledu were wed. He chased my brother from her side and took her away from him.”

  Bortai sagged against Khokakhchin. Hoelun-eke had never talked of her first husband. The men were laughing again; she buried her face in Khokakhchin's coat.

  “She'll ride with me,” the man called Chilger-boko said. “I have more right than any to claim her.”

  “Take her with you,” an older man said. “The chiefs will decide whether you keep her. We've delayed long enough.”

  The young man dragged her away from Khokakhchin, lashed her wrists together, and forced her on to his horse.

  42

  “I'm hungry,” Temulun said.

  “Hush.” Hoelun patted her daughter's hand. Below them, on the thickly forested slope, the men rested against their horses, exhausted by the climb.

  Fewer than twenty of Temujin's men had followed him to Mount Burkhan Khaldun; the others had scattered. Hoelun wondered how many of the people left behind had escaped; those who made for the cliff or the wooded regions might have a chance. Hoelun doubted that the Taychiuts would search for them; they would be too impatient to track her son.

  Temujin moved among his men, trying to rally them. He had led them through the marsh and thickets surrounding the mountain and along a deer trail through the thick, nearly impassable forest. They had been forced to lead their horses through the marsh on foot, mud sucking at their boots as they moved over the shifting, treacherous ground, mosquitoes swarming around them; Borchu had nearly lost his horse in a mire. Going up the eastern slope had been nearly as hard, and they had to hack their way through the underbrush to make a path for the horses.

  But her son's choice of a refuge was sound. The dank, muddy ground of the marsh had flowed over their tracks. Even if their pursuers made it to the foot of Burkhan Khaldun, trees would block their way. Temujin had sent three men below on foot to cover part of the trail they had used.

  “Mother,” Temulun whispered, “how long will we stay here?”

  “I don't know.”

  Temujin climbed towards them, trailed by Temuge and Khachigun. Hoelun's sons settled on the ground around her. Temujin would be thinking of Bortai, but he had needed the spare horse when his mount flagged, in order to ride ahead and find a way through the marsh.

  A shadowy shape moved up the slope towards them. “The trail's covered.” Hoelun recognized Jelme's voice. “Saw fires beyond the marsh, and climbed into a tree to take a look.” Jelme caught his breath. “The enemy's camped below.”

&
nbsp; “How many men?” Temujin asked.

  “Nearly three hundred, and they aren't Taychiuts. I've seen the standards before, when my father and I camped in the north. They belong to the Merkit chiefs Dayir Usun, Khagatai Darmala, and Toghtoga Beki. It's Merkits who are after our heads.”

  Hoelun covered her face. Yesugei had brought this upon his son.

  “We must move higher,” she heard Temujin say, “before it gets any darker. They'll try to reach us in the morning, and we have to be ready for them.” Leaves rustled under his feet as he descended to his men.

  The captives, freed from their bonds, sat together surrounded by guards as other soldiers lit fires. Bortai leaned against Khokakhchin as Sochigil-eke wept. The Merkits sent ahead of the men bringing the captives had ridden hard along Temujin's trail, but had not overtaken him. They had followed his trail to the marsh, but had found no tracks through the thickets. Her husband must be on the mountain, but attacking him would be perilous. Temujin would be on higher ground, and many Merkits might fall before he was captured. Perhaps they would give up and settle for the prisoners they had.

  Twenty women and several children sat with Bortai and her two companions. She ached from the ride. It was strange to feel that this was all a dream, that she would wake soon and find herself in her tent, Temujin at her side.

  “My son abandoned me,” Sochigil said, wiping her face. “Temujin must have forced him to that—he wouldn't have left me if—”

  “As long as the men escape,” Bortai said, “we can hope for rescue later.”