Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  Ogin recited the message back to him, then said, “Do you wish me to ask for a reply?”

  “No reply he could give would make any difference. We'll ride for the Tangnu Mountains. Follow when you have delivered the message.”

  Ogin made his way down the trail. When he was gone, Jamukha led the others down the slope, refusing to think of how few of his men were following him.

  During the night, the Naimans who had fled up the mountain searched for an escape. The order had been passed; they were to get away however they could, yet there was no word about making a stand elsewhere. The Naimans, deprived of direction, still reeling after the ferocity of the Mongols, could think only of flight. Their panic and despair drove them down the rocky slopes and treacherous trails. The darkness they had hoped would be their protection led many to their deaths when they fell into unseen chasms. As the Tayang came down the mountain with his guard, all that was visible below the cliffs were dark, unmoving forms stacked like logs. The way was silent; the moans and cries had ceased by then.

  Gurbesu did not flee. A few of the women with her ran away with what they could carry; the others wept, but stayed. The soldiers guarding her refused to leave her even after she told them they were free to go.

  Now that the battle was lost, it took little courage to face the will of God. She had done what she could for her people, and had failed them; she would share their fate.

  The Mongol camp-fires flickered on the plain until dawn. By then, the Naimans who had not escaped were taking up their positions below. To her surprise, Gurbesu saw the banners and tugh of her husband and his guard. The Tayang might have found his courage, or perhaps the men with him had refused to retreat.

  The Mongols attacked when the sun was just above the horizon. When Gurbesu saw the Tayang's guard pull back and mass together against the onslaught, she knew that Bai must have been wounded. The Mongols closed in around them, slashing with their swords, lifting men from their saddles with lances. A cloud of arrows whistled towards the ledge where her pavilion stood, then fell on the Naimans below.

  Mongol archers rode towards the trail that led up to the ridge. Several guards fell, impaled by arrows; the other Naimans answered with a volley. Gurbesu readied her bow and took aim; her arrow struck one of the enemy in the eye. A sharp pain lanced through her shoulder; an arrow jutted from her just below the blade. The other women shrieked; as the Mongols came on, climbing over the bodies of dead comrades, the screams deafened her. She sank to the ground as darkness swallowed her.

  Gurbesu came to herself only long enough to know she was being carried, then fainted again. She awoke to find one of her women sucking at her wound; the arrow was gone. When the wound was cauterized with a piece of hot metal, the pain made her faint once more.

  After her spirit returned to her, she saw that she was inside a small field tent. A woman, the oldest of the servants who had been with her, sat at her side, weeping.

  “My Queen,” the woman said, “I thought we would lose you. You were carried here three days ago.”

  Gurbesu closed her eyes for a moment. “My husband,” she whispered.

  “But I told you before. The enemy claimed his life. Koksegu Sabrak and Khori Subechi refused to leave his side even when he was dying—they and all their men fought on until the last man was dead.”

  “And Guchlug?”

  “I don't know, my Queen. I heard the Mongols guarding us say he had escaped. We're in the Mongol camp—those still alive among our people have surrendered, and the Mongols are hunting the ones who fled. They spared those who were left of our guard, and carried off the Tayang's other women. I—” The woman's voice broke; she was crying again.

  At last Gurbesu said, “What is to become of me?”

  “The Mongol Khan set a guard around you, and told me to see that you lived.” The servant touched her hand. “It seems he means to claim you for himself.”

  A day later, Gurbesu was summoned to the Khan's tent. An escort of Mongols came for her, put her on a white horse, and rode with her through the camp. Two carts passed her, carrying bodies to the mountain for burial; defeated Naiman soldiers, confined in roped enclosures, knelt as she rode by. Her robe was soiled, the rip where the arrow had struck was still unmended, and only a scarf covered her hair; she could not look much like a queen.

  Genghis Khan's standard stood in front of a large yurt to the north of the encampment. Through the doorway, she heard the murmur of voices and the sound of lutes. The guards stepped back as she went inside, followed by her servant.

  She would not kneel to him. Gurbesu bowed from the waist, then raised her head. Several men sat on a platform in the back of the tent, on the western side of a wooden chair covered with felt. With a shock, she saw that Ta-ta-tonga was among them, sitting to the right of the Khan, as he had when consulting the Tayang. On the eastern side of the tent, four of the Tayang's concubines, their brown faces still bearing the pale traces of tears, plucked at their lutes.

  “I greet you, Khatun of the Naimans,” a soft voice said. Gurbesu forced her attention back to the Khan. He wore a breastplate, but no helmet; dark reddish braids, coiled behind his ears, hung down from under his head-band.

  “Sit with me,” the Khan continued. The pale eyes peering at her made her uneasy. “I've heard of the lovely Gurbesu who caused the sons of Inancha Bilge to divide their realm.”

  “That they fought wasn't my doing,” she replied.

  “I have also heard that Queen Gurbesu scorns my people.”

  She glanced at Ta-ta-tonga; the Uighur gazed back at her. The Keeper of the Seal, who had served two Tayangs, was already ingratiating himself with his new master; he must have told the Khan what had been said in the Naiman court.

  The Khan's hands moved; he was holding the Uighur's seal. “Yet I've also been told,” Genghis Khan continued, “that Queen Gurbesu advised her husband not to fight.”

  “That is true,” she said.

  “Yet you followed him to the battle.”

  “I hoped to inspire him,” she said, “since he was determined to fight. I told myself that my earlier advice might have been mistaken, that he was, after all, only fighting Mongols.”

  He laughed. “He should have listened to you.” He motioned to her; she went to him and seated herself at his left as her servant sat with the lute-players. “Your Uighur adviser has been telling me many things, but I have more questions for him.” The Khan held out the seal. “What is this for? You clung to it as though it were your master's tugh.”

  “It is the Tayang's seal,” Ta-ta-tonga said. “When he gave his orders, they were marked with that seal.”

  “But how can orders be marked?” the Khan asked. “Isn't it enough for a trusted messenger to recite them?”

  “Those who hear them have to know they're truly his orders. When my master required something, or gave a command, his orders were written down, and then marked with this seal. A man hearing them, and seeing this mark upon them, could have no doubt about their source. And when orders are written, one who can read will know what they are even if a messenger's memory fails him.”

  The Khan's eyes widened. “And you can set down my words the same way?”

  “Indeed,” Ta-ta-tonga replied. “The sounds of your speech and mine are much the same, and each sign stands for a sound. Together, they make words—a man can read them and hear the speaker through them. He can also record what needs to be kept and what memory can sometimes alter—the numbers of his herds, the tales of his ancestors.”

  The Khan stroked his short beard. “Such a thing would be useful to me. My words will live, and those who hear them can know they are truly mine.” Ignorant as he might be, he had grasped that quickly. “Jochi and Chagadai!” he called out; two young men sitting among the others straightened. “You and your brothers will learn these signs from this man. I want you to know what they say and how to set them down.”

  The rough-hewn young men scowled, clearly dismayed. Gurbesu tried to imagine
them poring over the Uighur script. The Khan glanced at her; she sensed that he knew what she was thinking.

  “The Naiman army is defeated,” he said. “Your ulus is no more, and those who live will become part of mine. But what is useful to me of your ways I shall also take for myself. What this man has done for his Naiman masters, he will now do for me.”

  Gurbesu rested one arm against her knee. The Khan was not what she had expected, a conqueror who would only ravage what he had taken; he would not destroy all that her people had been.

  The Khan withdrew from her and rested at her side. Gurbesu had expected no more than this forceful joining, the Mongol claiming his prize. Perhaps more would come later, as it had with Inancha. Bai Bukha had been no more than a body to endure in the night, one that spent itself too quickly, but this man was not like Bai.

  He traced the scar on her shoulder lightly. “I was told you were wise,” he said, “and this wound also shows your bravery.”

  “I am not wise,” she murmured. “Had I been wise, I would have found a way to keep my husband from ruin. I'm not brave, either. It takes no courage to face a death one longs for.”

  “And do you still long for that?”

  “I must accept what has to be. My first husband was a brave man and a good Tayang, but he was an old man when I became his wife. I hoped to guide his son, and find some of his father's greatness in him, but God willed otherwise. Now I must be the woman of a man who seems to have a little of Inancha's courage. Perhaps I can take some consolation in that.”

  He chuckled. “A stinking Mongol, fit only to be a slave in a Naiman camp. Isn't that what you said?”

  “Not quite. I said that the Mongols were fit only to milk our cows and ewes, and that much only if they could be taught to clean their hands.”

  “And now see where you are.” He was silent for a moment. “I would have spared the men who fought to the death for the Tayang. He was dying—there was no need for them to die as well.”

  She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed down at him. “They were loyal,” she said, “whatever they thought of the one they served, and they weren't the sort of men who could surrender. By dying, they showed my husband how greatly he had failed those who were better men than he was. Perhaps God intended that to be his torment.”

  “And for me to be yours. The beautiful Gurbesu must now be an evil-smelling Mongol's wife.”

  “Then it is good their Khan claimed me. The Mongol Khan might have been worthy of more than milking our cattle. We might even have given him the honour of sitting by the doorway with the servants.” She drew her brows together. “You defeated only the son. You would never have won against Inancha in his prime.”

  He pulled her down to him. Inancha might have been like him in his youth. It was easier to think of him that way, as Inancha Bilge's heir, not her people's conqueror.

  87

  Khulan waited by her shelter as her father climbed the hill. Dayir Usun's long white moustaches drooped; his old face was weary and resigned. Further down the hill, the soldiers had cut down trees to build barricades. The Merkits who followed her father had fled to this forest in summer. Now the air was growing cold, and the larches would soon drop their needles. They could not hide here much longer. The enemy was certain to ride here soon, and could easily overwhelm the weakened Merkit forces.

  Dayir Usun sat down by her fire, then reached over and touched her hand. Once, he had stroked her mother's hand that way. Khulan's mother had died that spring, and they had grieved for her, but in her frail state, she could never have endured the hard summer and autumn.

  “What did the messenger tell you?” Khulan asked.

  “Toghtoga Beki and his sons have gone west to join what's left of the Naiman army.” Dayir Usun stared at the banked fire. “They'll make a stand with Guchlug if the enemy pursues them.”

  Khulan was silent. Her father might decide to go to them. They would have to run again, far from their own lands this time, to the Altais and the desert beyond.

  “They won't add many to the Naiman forces,” her father continued. “Most of Toghtoga's people surrendered, or were captured. The man said the families of Toghtoga and his sons were taken after the battle.”

  “Are you going to join him?” she asked.

  “No.” He sighed. “Khulan, I'm tired of fighting. I've had enough both of war and of Toghtoga. But surrendering to the Mongols also has its risks. Temujin will remember that I was one of those who raided his camp long ago and stole his first wife from him.”

  “He may be grateful to have your oath,” she said, “since you'd save him the trouble of sending his men against us.”

  “I must offer him more than that.” His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “Starvation hasn't harmed your looks.” That was as close to a compliment as her father ever came. It had surprised him to have such a beautiful daughter when both he and his wife were so old at her birth. “It's said Temujin appreciates beauty greatly. You could be my gift to him, and perhaps he'll be moved enough by you to spare our people.”

  Her fingers clawed at the ground. “I can't be much of a prize,” she whispered. “Our hard life has surely marked me.”

  “It hasn't marked you at all, child. I have little left except for you, and if I'm to go to Genghis Khan and beg for mercy, I can't go empty-handed.”

  “Have you told your men you mean to surrender?”

  “They're telling me it may be wise to do so.”

  Don't do this, she wanted to say. Surrender, but don't offer me to him. It was useless to have such thoughts, but then her thoughts had always been unlike those of the people she knew. Any other girl would resign herself to this, and be grateful to avoid a worse fate.

  Khulan hated war. Whenever her father had sacrificed to his tugh before leading his men into battle, she never shared the wild anticipation of others; she thought only of how many would die. When her brothers sat around exchanging war stories, she imagined the widows and orphans who were weeping for those they had lost. All her life, Dayir had fought the Mongols, and it had brought him only defeat and more death. Three of her brothers had fallen, along with countless others, yet even that had not brought her father to seek peace.

  Others would mock her thoughts if she revealed them. Those who fell had to be avenged; old offences had to be punished. Pity was wasted on enemies who would show little mercy to their foes.

  Now, finally, her father wanted peace, and would buy it with her, as he had tried to purchase victory with his sons and men. She had prayed for an end to the fighting, never thinking she might have to be the price.

  She leaned against him. “If I must go with you,” she said, “then I'll go willingly.” He could force her to go anyway; she would not plague him with tears and pleas. Khulan thought of all the deaths the Mongol Khan had brought to her people and to so many others. She might become the woman of a man whose greatest skill was in warfare, the thing she hated most.

  Khulan and her father left the wooded hills with only five soldiers and two spare horses. A day's ride took them to land where the trees were more sparse; they camped for the night, then rode on.

  Steppe covered with yellow and brown grass stretched before them. They had not gone far when they saw that some of the grass had been nibbled short; the tracks of horses ran to the east and west. Khulan longed to turn back for the safety of the forest.

  When the sun was high, they spotted a group of Mongols in the distance. The men were soon galloping towards them, lances out; Dayir Usun ordered a halt, then raised his hands as the soldiers approached. “We come in peace,” he shouted.

  The strangers surrounded them and reined in their horses. There were ten of them; nine swiftly took out their bows, keeping their arrows trained on the group. The man nearest Dayir Usun lowered his lance. “Who are you,” he asked, “and from where do you come?”

  “I am Dayir Usun, chief of the Uwas-Merkits. I've come out of hiding to make my submission to Genghis Khan.”

  The
stranger's brown eyes widened. They were large eyes, and made his strong-boned face look even more attractive. He was a young man, perhaps no more than twenty, with coppery skin and a short dark moustache. “I greet you, Dayir Usun,” he said. “Our Khan will welcome your surrender.”

  “My people have suffered greatly, and can no longer stand against you.” Dayir Usun held out his hands, palms up. “I'm ready to offer my oath to Genghis Khan, and my daughter, whom I've always treasured, as a gift to him. Her name is Khulan, and if the Khan finds her pleasing, I'll ask nothing more than that my people be spared when they submit to him.”

  Khulan adjusted the scarf that hid the lower part of her face as the young man glanced at her. The way he sat in his saddle made him seem tall. He smiled briefly; the smile lighted his handsome face. At a gesture from him, the other Mongols lowered their bows.

  “You don't ride with much protection,” he said as he turned back to Dayir. “Many of our men are roaming this region, ready to kill any Merkits they find. My name is Nayaga, and I'm a captain of one hundred. My camp is close by—you may stop there.”

  Dayir Usun nodded. “Perhaps when our horses have rested, you'll tell us where we can find your Khan.”

  Nayaga frowned. “I advise you not to travel on alone. It's your good fortune that I found you—others are impatient to taste Merkit blood. Better for you to stay with me until I can lead you safely to the Khan.”

  “I am grateful,” Dayir Usun said.

  Khulan looked away from Nayaga as they followed him. She had often hoped to see such a man among her suitors. There had been several who had tried to bargain with her father for her, all of them hard-eyed men with loud voices, heavy-set bodies, and leathery faces. None of them had possessed Nayaga's warm, open gaze, or sat as gracefully as he did when riding.