‘Tengri of the blue sky, Erlik of the underworld, master of shadows, show me how to break the chains,’ Mohrol whispered, his voice scratching. ‘Let him see his mirror soul in water, let him see his shadow soul in sunlight. I have given you blood in rivers, sweet mares bleeding their lives into the ground. I have given blood to the ninety-nine gods of white and black. Show me the chains and I will strike them free. Make me the hammer. By the ninety-nine, by the three souls, show me the way.’ He raised his right hand to the sun, splaying the fingers that were his mark and his vocation. ‘This is your ancient land, spirit lords of the Chin. If you hear my voice, show me how you will be appeased. Whisper your needs into my ears. Show me the chains.’
Ogedai moaned on the bier, his head falling to one side. Mohrol was with him in an instant, still chanting. After such a night, with the dawn still grey and the dew half-frozen on the red grass, he could feel the spirits around the khan. He could hear them breathe. His mouth was dry from a bitter paste that left a black crust on his lips. He had soared with it in the darkness, but there had been no answers, no flash of light and understanding.
‘What will you take to let him go? What do you want? This flesh is the cage for the khan of a nation. Whatever you want you may have.’ Mohrol took a deep breath, close to collapse. ‘Is it my life? I would give it. Tell me how to break the chains. Were the mares not enough? I can have a thousand more brought to mark his skin. I can weave a web of blood around him, a skein of dark threads and dark magic.’ He took faster breaths, forcing his body to pant, raising the heat within him that might lead to more powerful visions. ‘Shall I bring virgins to this place? Shall I bring slaves or enemies?’ His voice fell lower, so that no one else could hear. ‘Shall I bring children to die for the khan? They would give their lives gladly enough. Show me the chains that I may strike them away. Make me the hammer. Is it a kinsman that he needs? His family would give their lives for the khan.’
Ogedai moved. He blinked rapidly, and as Mohrol watched in astonishment, the khan began to sit up, falling backwards as his right arm crumpled. The shaman caught him and tipped his own head back to howl in triumph like a wolf.
‘Is it his son?’ Mohrol went on desperately as he held the khan. ‘His daughters? His uncles or friends? Give me the sign, strike off the chains!’
At the shaman’s howl, men had jerked from sleep all around them. Hundreds came running from all directions. The news spread and as they heard, men and women raised their hands and cheered, hammering pots or swords together, whatever they had. They crashed out a rippling thunder of joy and Ogedai sat up, flinching from it.
‘Bring me water,’ he said, his voice weak. ‘What is happening?’ He opened his eyes and saw the field of blood and the corpse of the last mare lying dark in the dawn light. Ogedai could not understand what had happened and he rubbed his itching face, staring in confusion at the flakes of dried blood on his palms.
‘Raise a fresh ger for the khan,’ Mohrol ordered, his voice barely a wheeze, but growing stronger in his jubilation. ‘Make it clean and dry. Bring food and clean water.’
The ger was raised around Ogedai, though he was able to sit up. The weakness in his arm drained away in slow stages. By the time the rising sun was blocked by felt and wood, he was drinking water and calling for wine, though Mohrol would not hear of it. The shaman’s authority had grown with his success and the khan’s servants could not ignore his stern expression. For just a short time, the shaman could overrule his own khan. Mohrol stood tall with a new dignity and visible pride.
Khasar and Tolui joined Ogedai in the new ger, as the most senior men in the camp. The khan was still pale, but he smiled weakly at their worried expressions. His eyes were sunken and dark and his hand quivered as Mohrol handed him a bowl of salt tea, telling him to drink it all. The khan frowned and licked his lips at the thought of wine, but he did not protest. He had felt death pressing and it had frightened him, for all he thought he had prepared for it.
‘There were times when I could hear everything, but not respond,’ Ogedai said, his voice like an old man’s breath. ‘I thought I was dead then, with spirits in my ears. It was…’ His eyes darkened as he sipped and he did not go on to tell them of the sick terror he had felt, trapped in his own body, drifting in and out of consciousness. His father had told him never to speak of his fears. Men were fools, Genghis had said, always imagining others were stronger, faster, less afraid. Even in his weakness, Ogedai remembered. The terror of that dark had hurt him, but he was still the khan.
Servants laid sheets of rough felt on the bloody ground around him. The thick mats drew up the blood in an instant, becoming heavy and red. More were brought in and piled on top of the lower layers until the whole floor of the ger was covered. Mohrol knelt then at Ogedai’s side and reached out to examine his eyes and gums.
‘You have done well, Mohrol,’ Ogedai said. ‘I did not expect to be coming back.’
Mohrol frowned. ‘It is not over, my lord. The sacrifice of mares was not enough.’ He took a long breath and fell silent while he bit at a ragged nail on his hands, tasting the specks of blood there. ‘The spirits of this land are full of bile and hatred. They released their grip on your soul only when I spoke of another in your place.’
Ogedai looked blearily at the shaman, struggling not to show his fear.
‘What do you mean? My head is full of wasps, Mohrol. Speak clearly, as if to a child. I will understand you then.’
‘There is a price for your return, lord. I do not know how long you have before they snatch you back into the darkness. It could be a day, or even a few more breaths, I cannot tell.’
Ogedai stiffened. ‘I cannot go through that again, do you understand, shaman? I could not breathe…’ He felt his eyes prickle and rubbed furiously at them. His own body was a weak vessel, it always had been. ‘Bring me wine, shaman.’
‘Not yet, my lord. We have just a little time and you need to think clearly.’
‘Do what you must, Mohrol. I will pay any price.’ Ogedai had seen the dead mares and he shook his head wearily, looking through the walls of the ger to where he knew they still lay. ‘You have my own herds, my slaughtermen, whatever you need.’
‘Horses are not enough, my lord, I’m sorry. You came back to us…’
Ogedai looked up sharply. ‘Speak! Who knows how much time I have!’
For once, the shaman stammered, hating what he had to say.
‘Another sacrifice, lord. It must be someone of your own blood. That was the offer that pulled you back from death. That was the reason you returned.’
Mohrol was so intent on watching Ogedai’s response that he did not sense Khasar coming towards him until he was heaved into the air to face the older man.
‘You little…’ Khasar’s mouth worked in rage, sending flecks of spit onto Mohrol’s face as he held the shaman and shook him like a dog with a rat. ‘I have heard these games before from men like you. We broke the back of the last one and left him for the wolves. You think you can scare my family? My family? You think you can demand a blood debt for your shabby spells and incantations? Well, after you, shaman. You die first and then we’ll see.’
As he spoke, Khasar had drawn a short skinning knife from his belt, keeping his hand low. Before anyone could speak, he flicked his wrist, cutting into Mohrol’s groin. The shaman gasped and Khasar let him fall onto his back. He wiped blood from the knife, but kept it ready in his hand as Mohrol writhed, his hands cupped.
Ogedai rose slowly from his pallet. He was thin and weak, but his eyes were furious. Khasar looked coldly at him, refusing to be cowed.
‘In my camp, you cut my own shaman, uncle?’ Ogedai growled. ‘You have forgotten where you are. You have forgotten who I am.’
Khasar stuck his chin out defiantly, but he put away the blade.
‘See him clearly, Ogedai…my lord khan,’ Khasar replied. ‘This one wants my death, so he whispers that it has to be one of your blood. They are all hip-deep in games of pow
er and they have caused my family – your family – enough pain. You should not listen to a word from him. Let us wait a few days and see how you recover. You will be strong again, I’d bet my own mares on it.’
Mohrol rolled to his knees. The hand he pressed to his groin was red with fresh blood and he felt sick and shaky with the pain. He glared at Khasar.
‘I do not know the name yet. It is not my choice. I wish it was.’
‘Shaman,’ Ogedai said softly. ‘You will not have my son, even if my own life depends on it. Nor my wife.’
‘Your wife is not your blood, lord. Let me cast another divination and find the name.’
Ogedai nodded, easing himself back down to the pallet. Even that small exertion had brought him to the edge of fainting.
Mohrol got to his feet like an old man, hunched over against the pain. Khasar smiled coldly at him. Spots of blood fell from between the shaman’s legs, vanishing instantly into the felt.
‘Do it quickly then,’ Khasar said. ‘I do not have patience for your kind, not today.’
Mohrol looked away from him, frightened by a man who used violence as easily as breathing. He could not untie his robe and examine the wound with Khasar leering at him. He felt ill and the gash throbbed and burned. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was the khan’s shaman and the divination had to be correct. Mohrol wondered what would happen if the spirits gave him Khasar’s name. He did not think he would live long after that.
As Khasar watched with contempt, Mohrol sent his servants running for tapers of incense. Soon the air of the ger was thick, and Mohrol added other herbs to his burning bowl, breathing in a coolness that made the ache in his groin just a distant irritation. After a time, even that faded and was gone.
At first, Ogedai coughed as the harsh smoke entered his lungs. One of the servants dared Mohrol’s disapproval at last and a skin of wine had appeared at the khan’s feet. He drank it like a man dying of thirst and a bloom of colour came back to his cheeks. His eyes were bright with fascination and dread as Mohrol clutched the bones for divination, holding them to the four winds and calling for the spirits to guide his hand.
At the same time, the shaman took a pot of gritty black paste and rubbed a stripe of it along his tongue. It was dangerous to release his spirit again so soon, but he steeled himself, ignoring the way his heart fluttered in his chest. The bitterness brought tears to his eyes, so that they shone in the gloom. When Mohrol closed his mouth, his pupils grew enormous, like the eyes of dying horses.
The blood was slowly seeping into the layers of felt and the smell of it was pungent. With the narcotic incense, the exhausted men could hardly stand it, but Mohrol seemed to thrive in the thick air, the paste giving strength to his flesh. His voice rolled out a chant as he moved the bag of bones to the north, east, south and west, over and over, calling for the spirits of home to guide him.
At last he threw the bones; too hard, so that the yellow pieces scattered across the felt. Was it an omen to see them leap and jump away from him? Mohrol cursed aloud and Khasar laughed as the shaman tried to read the way they fell.
‘Ten…eleven…where is the last one?’ Mohrol said, speaking to no one.
None of them noticed that Tolui had grown almost as pale as the khan himself. The shaman had not seen the yellow ankle bone resting against Tolui’s boot, touching the soft leather.
Tolui had seen. He had kept to himself the sick fear he had felt on hearing that it had to be one of Ogedai’s blood. From that moment, he had been gripped by a numb helplessness, a resignation to a fate he could not avoid. The bolting mare had knocked him from his feet, no other. He thought he had known then. Part of him wanted to tread the bone deep into the felt, to hide it with his foot, but with an effort of will, he did not. Ogedai was the khan of the nation, the man his father had chosen to rule after him. No life was worth as much as his.
‘It is here,’ Tolui whispered, then repeated himself as no one heard him.
Mohrol looked up at him and his eyes flashed with sudden understanding.
‘The mare that struck you,’ the shaman said in a whisper. His eyes were dark, but there was something like compassion in his face.
Tolui nodded, mute.
‘What?’ Ogedai broke in, looking up sharply. ‘Do not even think of that, shaman. Tolui is not part of this.’ He spoke firmly, but the terror of the grave was still on him and his hands trembled on the wine cup. Tolui saw.
‘You are my older brother, Ogedai,’ Tolui said. ‘More, you are the khan, the man our father chose.’ He smiled and rubbed his hand across his face, looking almost boyish for a moment. ‘He told me once that I would be the one to remind you of things you have forgotten. That I would guide you as khan and be your right arm.’
‘This is madness,’ Khasar said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. ‘Let me spill this shaman’s blood first.’
‘Very well, general!’ Mohrol snapped suddenly. He stepped forward to face Khasar with his arms open. ‘I will pay that price. You have spilled my blood already this morning. Have the rest if you wish. It will not change the omens. It will not change what must be done.’
Khasar touched his hand to where his knife lay under his belt, tucked into the grubby folds of cloth, but Mohrol did not look away from him. The paste he had consumed had stolen away any fear, and instead he saw Khasar’s love for Ogedai and Tolui, coupled with his frustration. The old general could face any enemy, but he was lost and confused by such a decision. After a time, Mohrol dropped his arms and stood patiently, waiting for Khasar to see the inevitable.
In the end, it was Tolui’s voice that broke the silence.
‘I have much to do, uncle. You should leave me now. I have to see my son and have letters written to my wife.’ His face was stiff with pain, but his voice remained steady as Khasar glanced at him.
‘Your father would not have given up,’ Khasar said gruffly. ‘Believe me, as one who knew him better than any man.’
He was not as certain as he seemed. In some moods, Genghis would have thrown his life away without a thought, enjoying the grand gesture. In others, he would have fought to the last furious breath, doomed or not. Khasar wished with all his heart that his brother Kachiun were there. Kachiun would have found an answer, a way through the thorns. It was just ill luck that Kachiun was riding with Tsubodai and Batu into the north. For once, Khasar was alone.
He felt the pressure from the younger men as they looked to him in hope for some stroke that would cut through the decision. All he could think of was to kill the shaman. That too was a useless act, he realised. Mohrol believed his own words, and for all Khasar knew, the man spoke the perfect truth. He closed his eyes and strained to hear Kachiun’s voice. What would he say? Someone had to die for Ogedai. Khasar raised his head, his eyes opening.
‘I will be your sacrifice, shaman. Take my life for the khan’s. I can do that much, for my brother’s memory, for my brother’s son.’
‘No,’ Mohrol said, turning away from him. ‘You are not the one, not today. The omens are clear. The choice is as simple as it is hard.’
Tolui smiled wearily as the shaman spoke. He came close to Khasar and the two men embraced for a moment while Ogedai and the shaman looked on.
‘Sunset, Mohrol,’ Tolui said, looking back at the shaman. ‘Give me a day to prepare myself.’
‘My lord, the omens are set. We do not know how long the khan has left before his spirit is taken.’
Ogedai said nothing as Tolui looked at him. His younger brother’s jaw tensed as he struggled with himself.
‘I will not run, brother,’ he whispered. ‘But I am not ready for the knife, not yet. Give me the day and I will bless you from the other side.’
Ogedai nodded weakly, his expression tortured. He wanted to speak out, to send Mohrol away and dare the malevolent spirits to come back for him. He could not. A wisp of memory of his helplessness came to him. He could not suffer it again.
‘Sunset, brother,’ Ogedai said at l
ast.
Without another word, Tolui strode out of the ger, ducking to pass through the small door into the clean air and sun.
Around him, the vast camp was arrayed in all directions, busy and alive with the noise of horses and women, children and warriors. Tolui’s heart thumped with pain at such a pleasant, normal scene. He realised with a stab of despair that it was his last morning. He would not see the sun rise again. For a time, he simply stood and watched it, holding one hand above his eyes to shade them from its brilliant glare.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tolui led a small group of ten riders to the river that ran by the camp. His son Mongke rode at his right shoulder, the young man’s face pale with strain. Two slave women ran at Tolui’s stirrups. He dismounted on the banks and the slaves removed his armour and underclothes. Naked, he walked into the cold water, feeling his feet sink into the cool mud. Slowly he washed himself, using silt to work the grease from his skin, then dipping under the surface to sluice himself down.
His female slaves both stripped to enter the water with him. They shivered as they worked bone tools under his fingernails to clean them. Both women stood up to their waists in the water, their breasts firm with goosebumps. There was no lightness or laughter from them and Tolui was not aroused by the sight, whereas any other day might have had him playing in the shallows and splashing to make them squeal.
With care and concentration, Tolui accepted a flask of clear oil and rubbed it into his hair. The prettier of his slaves tied it into a black tail that hung down his back. His skin was very white at the nape of his neck, where the hair protected it from the sun.
Mongke stood and watched his father. The other minghaans were senior men who had seen battle a thousand times. Next to them, he felt young and inexperienced, but they could not look at him. They were quiet with respect for Tolui, and Mongke knew he had to maintain the cold face for his father’s honour. It would have shamed the general to have his son weeping, so Mongke stood like a stone, his face hard. Yet he could not take his eyes off his father. Tolui had told them his decision and they were all bruised by it, helpless in the face of his will and the khan’s need.
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