Temujin ate in silence. Hoelun nodded at her husband; it had taken some courage for him to speak as he had to the Khan.
“The Ong-Khan owes his throne to me,” Temujin muttered at last. “Nilkha would still be in hiding if I hadn't driven the Naimans from their lands.” He rested his hands on his thighs. “Kiratai, you and Bughatai will ride to the Senggum, and tell him that I must fatten my horses. Leave at dawn, and take the gifts with you. Feast with him, but ride to me quickly if he says nothing about coming to celebrate with me. The rest of us will return to my camp.” He glanced at Munglik. “If it turns out you were wrong, Munglik-echige, you'll feel my wrath.”
“I knew that when I spoke,” the older man said.
“That's why I believe you.”
“My son once took advice,” Hoelun said very softly to the Khan. “But of course you are rarely mistaken.”
“Mother, if I were plagued with everyone's advice, nothing would be decided. Better that others think hard before offering me counsel.”
“Yes—but don't make them too frightened to give it when it's needed.” She got up to take away the platters.
The men drank for a while, then threw lots to decide who would stand guard first. Two left the tent while the others rolled out blankets. “You may have my bed, Temujin,” Shigi Khutukhu said.
Temujin smiled. “Very well.”
Hoelun followed her son to the boy's bed. Temujin shook off her hands as she tried to help him off with his coat. “I'm not a child,” he said.
“Humour your old mother.” She felt weary, as she often did at the end of the day. A slight pain caught her below the ribs as she knelt to pull off his boots; she tucked the blanket around him, ignoring his scowls. “I have a favour to ask of you, Temujin.” He grunted. “I wish to ride back with you tomorrow.”
“So I must delay while you pack and ready a cart.”
“I need no cart. I'll go on horseback, and the ride will do me good.”
“And leave me without my wife?” Munglik said from their bed. “This tent will be empty without you.” It was like him to say that, instead of talking of the ewes that would be birthing soon, or the sewing that needed to be done.
“I won't be gone long.” She stood up and looked down at her son. “I want to visit Bortai and my grandchildren. You might bring us together more often. Your old mother may not have many more years to enjoy their company.”
Temujin poked his hand above the blanket and made the sign against misfortune. “Don't talk of such things. You're hardy.” Once, he would have told her that she scarcely looked older than Bortai, but that had not been true for some time. “I'm too tired to argue with you. If your husband will let you go, I'll take you.”
“She may go,” Munglik muttered.
Hoelun went to the bed, took off her robe and boots, and got in next to her husband. Her arms slipped around him; he nestled against her. His love for her was an evening fire, warming her.
“First you tell me I'm to be married after all,” Jochi said, “and now you say I may have to wait.” Bortai frowned at her son. He had been out with the young horses, and had ridden to the ordu only that evening. He had barely greeted his grandmother before pestering Temujin about the betrothal.
“You'll be married,” Temujin said, “one way or another, either to the Senggum's daughter or someone else.”
“Thinking his daughter's too good for me.” Jochi grabbed at the meat. “If she's ever under my tent, a few beatings will show the girl her place.”
Chagadai looked at his older brother. “The Kereit agreed to betroth his daughter to the Khan's eldest son, so perhaps he meant that I—”
The Khan glowered at them and lifted a hand. Bortai drank from her goblet. Jochi was nineteen; he looked much like Chilger, with the same massive, big-boned build, small dark eyes, and a mouth that twisted as her Merkit captor's had whenever he was angry. He stared past her at Yisui and Yisugen, who were seated to the left of Khadagan. Jochi had been eyeing the sisters too intently whenever he was near them; he should have been married some time ago.
“I'll see,” Temujin said, “that all my sons have wives worthy of them.”
Ogedei grinned up at his father. “Then you must find me one like Mother.” The Khan's face softened as he looked at his third son; Ogedei lifted his goblet and drank. At fourteen, the broad-shouldered boy drank as much as some men, but drink made him more amiable; drinking fired Jochi's temper.
Hoelun-eke murmured a few words to her son. Bortai had placed her on Temujin's left. Age had come to Hoelun suddenly; her face was weather-worn and marked with fine lines. Only her golden-brown eyes were the same.
Temujin offered meat to his wives, then to Khojin. The little girl had her father's eyes and Tolui's fierce look; there was little of her mother Doghon in her. “I don't want to get married,” Khojin said.
Khadagan laughed. “You have to get married someday. Anyway, this would only be a betrothal—you wouldn't go to your husband's camp for several years.”
“Your aunt Temulun used to say she didn't want to marry,” Hoelun said, “and she's happy with her husband.”
Khojin snuggled close to Khadagan. If the Khan's envoys to Nilkha returned without the Senggum, he would know that the Ong-Khan's son had meant to strike at him. Bortai knew that Temujin would not let that pass; he would act. She thought bitterly of how she had warned him about Toghril.
She got up and helped the servants clear away the platters. Alakha trotted after her; she pushed the little girl back towards Khadagan. Yisugen and Yisui rose and bowed to the Khan, then moved towards the doorway. Khadagan left with the Khan's two daughters; Tolui and Ogedei scrambled to their side of the tent to play knuckle-bone dice.
Hoelun rested her head on her son's shoulder. “You'll visit us again,” Temujin murmured, “when Jochi is married.”
“I'll be here to welcome his bride.” Hoelun turned to her oldest grandson. “Take care you're as good a husband to her as mine has been to me.” Bortai wondered if Hoelun-eke was thinking of Munglik or Yesugei. A man shouted beyond the doorway; a sentry answered him. Bortai moved towards the entrance, thinking that perhaps Kiratai and Bughatai had returned.
Jurchedei called out his name; Bortai asked him to enter. The Urugud chief came through the doorway, followed by two strangers whose clothes were caked with dirt. “I greet you, Temujin,” Jurchedei said hastily. “These two herders came here from the camp of Altan's son Sheren and beg to speak to you.” The two strangers knelt and pressed their heads against the carpet. “They say it's urgent, and will speak to no one else.”
“Get up,” Temujin said to the two men.
“Koko Mongke Tengri still watches over our Khan,” the older one said breathlessly. “I am Badai, and this is Kishlik. We're servants in Sheren's camp. He swore his oath to you, so it seemed to us that our duty's to you as much as to him.”
Temujin waved a hand impatiently. “Your message.”
“The Kereits held a war kuriltai,” Badai said. “They meant to keep it secret, but I was outside Sheren's tent when he rode in and spoke of it to his wife. I heard him say that the Senggum's trap had failed to close around his prey, but that another trap had been set. They mean to ride here by dawn, surround your camp, and take you.”
Jurchedei cursed. The Khan slowly got to his feet. “My envoys must be Nilkha's prisoners—or worse. The Senggum would have put me under the ground but for Munglik-echige.”
“If Sheren was at that kuriltai,” Jurchedei muttered, “then Altan must have been there, and I suspect Khuchar wasn't far away.”
“The Kereits are coming for you, my Khan,” Kishlik said. “I beg you to save yourself.”
“Nilkha wouldn't be acting without his father's consent,” Temujin said softly. “May I live to see Toghril's limbs cut from his body and his bones scattered to the four winds. Jurchedei, rouse the camp, and send riders to those near us. Every man is to be in his saddle to ride east with me - leave everything except what we need t
o fight.”
The three men hurried from the tent. Bortai's sons were collecting their weapons. “I'll ride with you, Father,” Tolui said.
“No. Stay with your mother.” He gazed steadily at Bortai. “I entrust my mother, my wives, and my youngest children to you. Save yourselves however you can.” He strode towards the doorway and was gone.
77
Beyond Lake Buyur, near the place called the Red Willows, where stunted trees grew among the sand-strewn grasslands, the Kereits caught sight of the retreating Mongol rearguard. When night began to fall, the Mongols took up battle order, and the Kereit warriors knew the enemy had decided to fight. The sun had set when Jamukha made his way back through the lines to consult with Toghril and his generals.
What a fool the Senggum had been, with his attempt to lure Temujin into a trap; Nilkha had succeeded only in alerting his enemy. Jamukha felt as though the reins were slipping from his hands. Toghril had embarked on this campaign reluctantly, while Nilkha was so fired with rage against Temujin that he was likely to do something rash.
He dismounted near a fire; the Ong-Khan beckoned to him. “Our enemy waits,” Jamukha said. “How are we to use our forces? The men await your signals.”
“I have a question for you,” Toghril said. “Who, in your opinion, are Temujin's best warriors, the ones likely to inflict the most damage?”
Jamukha ground his teeth. The old man was still so hesitant that he could not decide how to order his own army. “The Uruguds and the Mangguds,” he replied, and cursed their leaders silently; he had seen how they fought when Khuyhildar and Jurchedei were still with him. “They keep close together when they surround an enemy, and when they retreat, their line doesn't break. Their lances are their most deadly weapons—their boys are set to training with them as soon as they can ride, even when the lads must still be tied to their saddles.”
“Then I'll put the Jirgens against them,” Toghril said, “and behind them, the Tuman-Tubegens—they're the fiercest lancers and best archers we have. The Olon-Dongkhaits can follow with the royal guard, and I'll bring up the main army in the rear.”
“I can think of no better plan,” Jamukha murmured. “Temujin is sure to throw the Mangguds and Uruguds at us first. If we push them back and break through their line, victory will be within our grasp.”
“I am thinking,” the Ong-Khan said, “that perhaps you should lead the army, Younger Brother. You know more about the way they'll fight than I.”
The other generals peered across the flames at Jamukha. He knew what they were thinking, that their Khan had grown so faint-hearted he was willing to give command to one who had failed against Temujin before. They would obey, but uneasily, and blame him if the battle was lost.
“I cannot accept such an honour,” Jamukha said. “My sword is yours, Toghril-echige, but you and your Noyans must lead us.”
The other generals looked relieved. They spoke for a while, laying out the plan of battle, but Jamukha already tasted defeat. The Ong-Khan's heart was not in this battle; only Nilkha's nagging had brought him this far. If Toghril won, his own weakness would keep him from pressing his advantage; if he lost, he would be quick to blame both his son and Jamukha for making him fight. Jamukha turned things over in his mind, trying to see what he might gain.
He left the Kereits at last and rode back to his men. Whatever the outcome, some of the Ong-Khan's men would waver in their loyalty and think of seeking a stronger leader. If Temujin's losses were heavy, some of his followers might leave him for Jamukha.
By the time he reached his headquarters, Jamukha had made his decision. He drew five of his most trusted comrades aside from the others. “The Ong-Khan will fail us,” he murmured. “He asked me to tell him of Temujin's strengths, and tried to give me command of his armies. He's already lost this battle in his heart.”
“What do you wish to do?” one man asked.
“If the Ong-Khan is weakened further, it will be easier for us to push him aside and use Nilkha for as long as we need to. As things are, Temujin's so outnumbered that he still might lose—unless he's given some help.”
The other men frowned. “You're going to help him?” Ogin said.
“He must know I'm here—he'll have seen my tugh. Let him think I haven't forgotten our old ties. They say that Temujin is one who can forgive an old friend who helps him in times of trouble. Winning his gratitude now may give me a way to use him later.”
“That may be so,” another man said.
“Ogin, you'll be my messenger.” Jamukha pulled the younger man closer to him. “You'll make your way secretly to Temujin's camp, and there you'll tell my anda of Toghril's limits, of how he can't even keep his own army in line. I'll give you the Ong-Khan's plan of attack to carry to him, and you will tell him to be cautious and not to fear. We'll see what use he makes of this.”
Ogin nodded. “Recite the message you want me to give him.”
78
Khojin sat on the hillside, gazing out at the high grass beyond the forest. Tolui and the other boys were grazing the horses below. At least two of them were always on guard, ready to call out if they saw anyone approach.
Bortai-eke had ordered everyone in their camp to scatter. Most of the people had gone north, towards the Onon, but the Khatun had led another group east, across a patch of desert, then past the salt marshes of Lake Buyur. The army's trail led towards the Khalkha; the Khatun had turned from it finally and moved north-east. Most of those who had followed Bortai were now camped by a river, to wait for any word of their soldiers and to watch for signs of pursuit. The Khatun had pressed on with Khojin's grandmother, the Khan's other wives, his youngest children, and the five boys who were their only remaining servants.
The ride had been a hard one, much of it through sparse grasslands covered by sand carried by the wind from the desert to the south. They were now in a spur of mountains that ran west from the Khingan range. Their first days in the foothills had given them little rest; they had found a small stream, then torn down tree limbs to make shelters. But they had milk from their mares, and the boys had brought down an antelope.
Khojin knew that she should be afraid. If her father's enemies defeated him, she and the others might have to hide for a long time. Yet she did not feel frightened. Her father would win, and then he would find them.
She thought of how he walked to his tents, tall and proud, his men swooping around him like hawks. Nothing could defeat him; he was the Khan. Whenever she thought of Koko Mongke Tengri watching over them from above, she imagined her father's eyes. He would sweep down on his enemies like one of Tengri's storms, his sword flashing as Heaven's lightning did.
She got up, moved through the forest until she came to the stream, filled Bortai-eke's wooden bucket, then climbed up the hill towards the shelters. In a hollow dug in the ground, a small fire burned, and a tripod with a pot hanging from it sat over the flames; Khadagan-eke had made the tripod from long green tree limbs lashed together.
Yisui was feeding the fire with pine needles and bits of dead wood. The others had to be out foraging, but Bortai-eke often let Yisui tend the fire, make antelope tendons into thread, and watch Alakha while the rest of them looked for food. Yisui was pregnant, although she did not look it yet, and Bortai wanted her to rest.
“Where's Alakha?” Khojin asked as she set down the bucket.
“With the others. She was getting restless. Bortai hopes to tire her out so she'll sleep later.” Khojin sat down. “You mustn't be afraid,” Yisui went on. “You aren't afraid, are you? Even your father didn't go out of his way to kill little girls, and I doubt his enemies would.”
Yisui, Khojin thought, sounded different when she talked to her by herself. She had only been alone with her father's young wife a few times, and felt uneasy in her presence.
“I hid from your father in a forest like this,” Yisui continued. She had said that before. My people once lived in these lands, she had told Khojin; your father killed all of the men. His men f
ound me, and he made me his wife. Yisui always said such things with a strange smile and eyes as hard and black as kara stones.
“Your father killed my first husband,” Yisui said.
“I know.”
“He ordered his men to cut off his head in front of me and Yisugen, at a feast celebrating his victory.”
“He was an enemy,” Khojin said.
“Oh yes. He had to kill my people. After all, if he hadn't, he would have been trapped between them and the Kereits now, and wouldn't have lasted long.”
“You sound as if you hate Father.”
“You're wrong, child. I love your father. He went to so much trouble to find me and reunite me with my sister. I love him because if I allowed myself to hate him, that hatred would sear me and never touch him.”
Khojin did not know what she was talking about; any woman would be lucky to be the Khan's wife. One reason she had not cared about being betrothed was that she was certain her husband could never be as fine a man. Well, she wasn't betrothed now, and that had something to do with this war. In a way, her father was fighting for her.
“I pray that he's alive,” Yisui said, “and that he finds us soon. I had to forget a great deal to love him, and being here reminds me of things I'd rather not recall.”
“He'll be safe,” Khojin said.
Yisui smiled her odd smile. “And if he's fallen?”
“Then my brothers will fight, and if our enemies come here, I'll shoot them and take their heads. I'll put them in piles and sing and dance around them.” Khojin moved closer to the fire. “I hope he kills them all.”
Yisui crawled out of the shelter she shared with her sister. Bortai helped the younger woman to her feet. “I'm sorry,” Bortai said. “The child's buried near us, under a pine. I can show you the grave.”
Yisui shook her head. She had not cried after losing the baby, although Yisugen had.
“I lost two children myself,” Bortai went on. “You're young, Yisui—there will be others. I know that doesn't make this easier to bear, but it's true.” Soon they would have to leave this place, return to the people waiting south of the mountains, and hope they had news of Temujin. From there, she could go west to an Onggirat camp, and hope her father's people would give her refuge for the winter. She did not dare to think further ahead than that.
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