He was mad, she told herself. Bughu’s shaming of him and his own fear of battle had driven him mad. “I ought to do my duty,” she whispered, “by going to the Bahadur now and telling him that you’re deserting us. Bughu would be happy to see you punished for your cowardice and your head lying on the ground.”
“I must go, old woman. The spirits tear at me. Perhaps they’ll show me what to do, how to—” His chest heaved. He turned away and mounted his horse. “Farewell.”
“The Bahadur will send men after you, you cursed boy.” She shook her fist. “Or you’ll die out there all alone, without shelter, without—” But he was already riding away.
The men grazing the horses would not miss him for a while. Two or three days might pass before Dobon found out that his son had not ridden there. His trail could be followed, but by then everyone would be preparing for war, and Yesugei would not change his plans to search for Jali-gulug.
She had once sensed power in him. Maybe his madness had touched her, making her see what was not there. She tucked her hands into her sleeves and walked back to Hoelun’s tent.
The men sharpened and oiled their curved lances and knives, polished their lacquered leather breastplates, fletched arrows, and selected the horses they would use in the campaign. On the day before they were to ride out, another sheep was sacrificed, and Bughu predicted victory. Yesugei took off his belt, hung it around his shoulders, and poured out some kumiss as an offering to his sulde, the protective spirit that lived in his nine-tailed standard.
No one spoke of Jali-gulug’s desertion. Yesugei had gone into a rage when Daritai suggested going after the coward. Even Dobon seemed content to regard his son as dead. They would have their war, and then Jali-gulug, if he still lived, would be punished.
The men rode out on a day when the blue sky was so clear that it hurt Khokakhchin’s eyes to look toward Heaven. The nine horse tails of Yesugei’s tugh, carried by Nekun-taisi, danced in the wind. Women and boys on horseback galloped after the men, shouting their farewells. Hoelun was astride one white horse, calling out to her husband.
Khokakhchin gazed after the men, her fingers around Khachigun’s small hand, thinking of the times she had sent her husband Bujur off to war. If Yesugei had his victory, they would have the better grazing land they needed for their herds. There would be loot in Ghunan’s camp, riches given to his people by the rulers of Khitai so that the Tatars would not attack the villages outside Khitai’s Great Wall. Yesugei would win the respect of other chiefs and clan leaders and a measure of vengeance for all the Mongols who had died fighting the Tatars; he might even be raised on the felt and proclaimed Khan.
But eventually the Tatars would find a way to strike back at him. The fighting would go on, Khokakhchin thought; there would never be an end to it. She tried to shake off the darker spirits that had entered her thoughts. She had suffered among the Tatars; Yesugei would be avenging her.
Temujin was riding back to her, his brother Khasar on the saddle in front of him. Temujin sat his horse well for one so young. “Khokakhchin,” he shouted, “I want to go to war. When will I ride with Father?”
“When you’re older,” she said.
“Father told me he’d bring me a Tatar sword.” His horse danced under him. “I wish I could ride into battle now.”
“Don’t be so impatient.” She let go of Khachigun; he sat down and stretched his arms toward his brothers. “You’ll have your chance. There will always be wars, Temujin.”
Khokakhchin sat with Hoelun near a cart, making rope from horsehair and wool. She had been beating wool with Hoelun for most of the morning, while Sochigil and the children looked after their sheep. Hoelun was making a shirt from a hide for Khasar. Esugei was working near them, separating the softer wool from the coarser fleece in the cart. Most of the sheep had been sheared, and they had less of the coarser wool they needed for making felt this summer than last.
The oldest men and the boys under fourteen were still in the camp; all of the others, except the few left to guard the grazing horses, had gone to fight the Tatars. By now, Khokakhchin thought, the Mongols would have met the enemy in battle. Maybe Yesugei was already celebrating a victory.
“Hoelun.” Esugei was looking east; she let the wool drop from her hands and stood up slowly. “Someone’s riding here.” She narrowed her eyes. “It’s my husband.”
Khokakhchin set down her rope and looked up, shading her eyes. The tiny black form was so small against the horizon that it was a few more moments before she recognized Daritai. His mount was raising dust, pounding the dirt into clouds that hid his horse’s legs. He would not have been riding like that, without a spare horse and risking death to his mount, to tell them of victory.
Hoelun got to her feet, still holding her hide. As Daritai came closer, Khokakhchin saw more riders appear behind him.
By the time Daritai was clearly visible, Hoelun had sounded the warning. The women and boys with the sheep quickly herded them back to the camp; others were saddling the horses in the pen near Yesugei’s circle. Daritai’s chest heaved as he galloped toward them; his face was caked with dirt and dust. His horse gleamed with sweat; specks of foam flew from the animal’s mouth. Khokakhchin wondered that he had not ridden the horse to death already.
“Yesugei sent me,” Daritai shouted. “Take what you can carry! Leave everything else behind! Head for the foothills and make a stand there—the enemy’s after us!”
More of the men retreating with Daritai soon reached the camp. By the time the sun was setting, people were fleeing in carts, wagons, and on horseback toward the foothills and the wooded mountain ridge in the northwest. They took food, weapons, skins for water and jugs of kumiss, and little else. The sheep and cattle were driven off, to fend for themselves until they could be rounded up once more. Most of the yurts were left behind, along with much of the new wool, the newly dressed skins, and most of the household goods.
Khokakhchin rode in an ox-drawn cart with Belgutei, Khasar, and Khachigun sitting behind her. Hoelun and Sochigil had ridden ahead on two horses, carrying Temujin and Bekter in the saddles with them; there had not been enough horses for them all. Khokakhchin lashed at the ox, willing it to move at a quicker pace.
Night was upon them, and the Golden Stake, the star at the center of Heaven, was high in the sky when they reached the foothills. They rode on until they came to the lower slopes of the mountain ridge, then unhitched the horses and oxen. The wagons and carts would become barricades; they might have a chance against the Tatars on higher ground.
Hoelun was rallying the women, riding from one group to another on her horse. She would be telling them to be brave, to hold together, to fight with their husbands and sons. Khokakhchin sat with Sochigil and the children by their cart, listening as one of the men who had retreated with Daritai told Nekun-taisi’s wife what had happened.
As Yesugei’s forces had converged, the Tatars had flanked them. Near Ghunan’s camp, another force, led by the Tatar chief Gogun, had struck from the south. Yesugei had not known that Gogun and Ghunan had joined forces, but the Tatar chiefs were prepared for the Mongol attack. They had begun to close around them in a pincer movement. Yesugei had ordered a retreat, telling the chiefs with him to scatter and draw off the enemy. Instead, the main force of the Tatars was pursuing Yesugei while letting the other Mongol commanders escape.
“They mean to put an end to Yesugei,” Khokakhchin heard the man say. “He’s the one they want. All we can do is hold out here and hope the other chiefs come to our defense.”
“They won’t,” another man said. “They’ll get ready to defend their own. Yesugei would tell them to lie low for now and fight the enemy another day. And some of them may already be blaming the Bahadur for this rout. They’ll wait before they fight again.”
“It’s almost as if the enemy knew our plans,” the first man said. “Someone might have told them. That son of Dobon’s, the false shaman—maybe that’s why he disappeared. He wouldn’t have lasted lon
g in battle, and Bughu wanted nothing more to do with him. What did he have to lose? Maybe he rode to the Tatars thinking he’d get a reward.”
Khokakhchin did not believe it, but others would. The story would spread; people would be ready to believe that an outcast and coward who had often seemed mad was also a traitor. It was an easy way to explain defeat.
The children slept soundly, curled up under the cart, their heads on packs. Sochigil tossed restlessly at Khokakhchin’s side. Khokakhchin could not sleep. The sky was growing gray in the east when Hoelun rode back to them. Munglik, Charakha’s son, was with her.
“Our people are united,” the Ujin said in a weary voice as she dismounted. One of her braids had come loose, trailing down from under her scarf; Hoelun fingered the thick plait absently. “Even Orbey Khatun is offering me support instead of complaints.” She took a breath, then knelt by Khokakhchin. “I must ask something of you, old woman. I want you to take the children to higher ground and find a place for them to hide.”
Khokakhchin nodded; she had expected such a request. “Munglik will go with you.” Hoelun motioned at the boy, who was still seated on his horse. “He’ll help you look out for the boys.”
“No,” a child’s voice said. Temujin crawled out from under the cart. “I won’t go. I’ll fight with you, Mother.”
“You’ll go with your brothers,” Hoelun said.
“Why?”
“Because you and your brothers are Yesugei’s sons. You’re the first ones they’ll kill if we’re captured.” Hoelun put her hands on Temujin’s shoulders and drew the boy to her. “You are your father’s heir, Temujin. You may have to avenge him if—”
“He’ll win,” Temujin said.
Hoelun turned to Khokakhchin. “Take a little food with you. If—” Hoelun fell silent, clearly not wanting to say aloud that her husband might fall in battle. “If what I most fear happens, make your way to the camp of Charakha’s uncle, where the Kerulen River meets the Senggur. His Khongkhotats will give you refuge. From there, send a message to Toghril Khan, begging him to take the sons of his anda and sworn brother into his household.”
“I’m honored,” Khokakhchin said, “that you would trust me with your sons, Ujin.”
“Go, before it’s light.” Hoelun crawled under the cart to wake the other children.
They went up the slope on foot. The underbrush grew thicker as they climbed, and the tangled roots of the pines that covered the ridge’s southeastern face would have made passage on horseback difficult.
Hoelun had strapped Khachigun to a board and tied him to Khokakhchin’s back. Barely a year old, he was the least likely of the children to survive. She would do what she could to save him, but not at the risk of losing the others. She refused to think of how slight the chances of survival were for all of them.
A creek, barely more than a trickle, ran down one patch of the slope before disappearing under rocks. Khokakhchin told Temujin and Bekter to fill the empty skins Hoelun had given to them. They had some dried meat, dried curds, and their weapons—knives, bows, and arrows. She hoped that they would not have to use them; the smaller bows of the boys would not offer much of a defense against those of men.
It was dark under the trees. They came to stonier ground where the trees grew more sparsely and Khokakhchin saw that it was growing light. She continued to climb, ignoring the weight of Khachigun on her back. A great rock blocked their path, and they were forced to go around it.
They went on until Khokakhchin looked up to see a small rocky ledge jutting out from the slope. The mountainside had grown steeper. They had to move away from the ledge, making their way slowly up the slope, then double back to reach it.
Khokakhchin untied the straps binding Khachigun to her, then sat down under the trees bordering the ledge. The children settled around her, panting for breath. From here, she could see the plain and the barricades lining the bottom of the ridge.
“Listen to me,” she said to the boys. “Stay under these trees, not out on the ledge where you might be seen from below. Temujin and Bekter, you’ll look out for your younger brothers. Munglik, you’ll help me make a shelter. If all goes well, we’ll be able to come out of hiding before too long.” She wondered if the Tatars hated Yesugei enough to search the ridge for his sons.
Khokakhchin and Munglik made a makeshift shelter of branches and dead tree limbs, then sat down to rest. The younger three children were soon asleep under the shelter on a bed of pine needles. Temujin and Bekter were silent as they gazed out at the land below.
The sun was high when Khokakhchin saw three dust clouds on the horizon to the southeast. Soon she could make out the forms of the men and horses amid the dust. The army in the center was Yesugei’s; his tugh was in the middle of a forest of curved lances. On either side of his force, two wings of the Tatar light cavalry were firing on his men, the archers turning in their saddles to shoot at the Mongols. Gorge rose in Khokakhchin’s throat as arrows arched through the air and fell toward Yesugei’s men. The Tatars were driving the Mongols toward the mountain, the two wings closing around them as if they were game.
Khokakhchin trembled with fear. Temujin said, “I see Father.”
Khokakhchin narrowed her eyes and spotted the Bahadur’s leather helmet with its metal ornaments and white horsetail. Yesugei’s men were massed around him. The Tatar forces were allowing them a retreat, but in the distance, another dust cloud had appeared against the sky. That would be the enemy’s heavy cavalry. When Yesugei’s men reached the foothills and the people barricaded there, they would have to turn and fight.
“We’re outnumbered,” Munglik muttered.
“Father’s worth ten of their men,” Temujin said.
More arrows flew toward Yesugei’s men. The Mongols fired back. An enemy archer rode closer to the Mongols; Dobon’s curved lance swept out and unhorsed him.
“If the Bahadur can hold them off until dark,” Munglik said, “he and his commanders might be able to escape. Maybe we should try to get away then. I could sneak down to steal us some horses, and—”
Temujin glared at the older boy. “Father won’t leave his men, and I won’t run away until I have to.”
“We’re staying here for now,” Khokakhchin said. “The Bahadur isn’t beaten yet.” She tried to sound confident. “Pray for him, young ones. Perhaps the spirits will listen.”
Yesugei’s forces reached the foothills before dusk. Arrows flew toward the enemy from the wagons lining the ridge. The Tatar forces fell back, out of range of the people behind the barricades, but were soon massing in the distance. Khokakhchin had been watching the fighting all day. Yesugei had held off the enemy for now, but the Tatars would attack again in the morning.
Khasar crawled out from under the shelter. “I’m hungry,” he said.
“Munglik will be back with food soon,” Khokakhchin replied, wondering why the boy was taking so long. She had sent him to gather ripening berries from some bushes she had spied farther up the slope. The little food they had might have to last for some time.
On the plain, the Tatars were lighting their fires, getting ready for the night. She shivered, longing for a fire; the air was turning sharply colder and the wind moving the trees overhead was now blowing from the north.
She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Munglik descending the slope. He had found enough berries to fill his fur hat. He knelt by the shelter and divided them among the boys, then gave Khokakhchin a small handful.
“You eat them,” she said. “I can do without food for one night.”
“Take them. I ate some off the bushes.” He got up and tugged at her arm. “There’s something I must tell you.” He drew her aside. “By the bushes, I found broken branches and trampled underbrush and the droppings of a horse,” he said softly. “I followed the trail and it led me to a small spring. A horse was there, still with its saddle and reins, drinking from the spring. It looked almost as thin as a horse in spring, as if it hadn’t grazed well in some time.”
He lowered his voice still more. “It was Jali-gulug’s horse.”
Khokakhchin caught her breath. “Are you certain?”
He nodded. “It was his saddle, and I’ve seen him on that bay gelding of his father’s many times.”
“Then he must be on this mountain, too.” Jali-gulug had spoken of spirits tearing at him on the night he left Yesugei’s camp; perhaps they had driven him to this ridge. That he was here proved he was no traitor, that he had not gone to the Tatars with Yesugei’s battle plan.
“Yesugei will kill him,” Munglik said.
“The Bahadur would first have to admit that Jali-gulug’s prophecy was truer than Bughu’s,” Khokakhchin said angrily. “You’ll say nothing of this to the boys. In the morning, you will take me to where you found the horse. If Jali-gulug still lives—”
“What are you going to do?”
“Ask no more questions, Munglik. You’re not to speak of this—do you understand?”
He nodded. They walked back to the shelter. Jali-gulug had asked her to lend him her power if he ever needed it. She hoped that she had not waited too long to offer it to him.
The plain below was as dotted with tiny fires as the night sky overhead. From the number of fires, she guessed that the Tatars outnumbered the Mongol forces four times over. Khokakhchin kept watch for a while, then woke Munglik to take his turn on guard.
She dreamed as she lay under the shelter, and fire burned in her dream. She was holding a small transparent disk, an eye of flame like the one a trader had shown her so long ago. As she lifted it to the sky, a bolt of lightning flashed toward her, passed through the disk, and struck near her. Flames leaped from the ground; she had called down the lightning, yet felt no fear.
She woke, knowing what she would have to do. Temujin stirred next to her; she gently nudged him awake. They crawled out from under the twigs and branches toward Munglik and the ledge.
The sky was gray. A strong wind was blowing across the plain from the north, making waves in the grass and whipping at the yak tails of the Tatar standards. “Munglik,” Khokakhchin said, “you and I will gather more berries. Temujin, you keep watch.”
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