The vast camp was a place of life and work, and it pleased Khasar to see his people so industrious. In the distance, a newborn child started squalling and he smiled to hear it. His feet followed tracks in the grass that had been worn down to the clay beneath. When they left, the camp would look like a vast drawing of shapes, and he struggled to picture it.
Relaxed as he was, he did not at first take notice of the disturbance at a meeting of paths ahead of him. Seven men stood in an angry knot, wrestling to pull a reluctant stallion to the ground. Khasar paused to watch them geld the animal, wincing as one flailing hoof caught a man in the stomach and left him writhing on the ground. The pony was young and powerfully muscled. It fought the men, using its huge strength against the ropes they had on it. Once it was down, they would truss the legs and render it helpless for the gelding knife. They seemed hardly to know what they were doing, and Khasar shook his head in amusement, beginning to walk past the struggling group.
As he edged around the kicking beast, it reared, pulling one of the men off his feet. The pony snorted in fury and backed up into Khasar, stepping on his foot so that he shouted in pain. The closest man to him reacted to the noise, backhanding him across the face to get him out of their way.
Khasar erupted with a fury to match the bound horse. He hammered a blow in return. The man staggered, dazed, and Khasar saw the others drop their ropes, their eyes dangerous. The pony took advantage of the unexpected freedom to bolt, racing away through the camp with its head down. All around them, the other stallions of the herd whinnied in response to its calls, and Khasar was left facing furious men. He stood before them without fear, knowing they would recognize his armor.
“You are Woyela,” he said, looking to break the tension. “I will have your horse recaptured and brought to you.”
They said nothing as they exchanged glances. Each of them shared a resemblance and Khasar realized they were the sons of the Woyela khan. Their father had arrived only a few days before, bringing five hundred warriors as well as the families. He had a reputation for quick temper and a prickly sense of honor. As the men crowded around Khasar he thought the same traits had been passed to his sons.
Khasar hoped for a moment that they would let him go without a fight, but the one he had struck was wild with anger and it was he who pressed closest, bolstered by the presence of his brothers. A livid mark showed on the side of his face where Khasar had hit him.
“What right do you have to interfere?” one of the others snapped. They were deliberately crowding him and Khasar could see the bustle of the camp had stopped around them. There were many families watching the exchange, and with a sinking feeling, he knew he could not back away without shaming Genghis, perhaps even risking his hold on the camp.
“I was trying to get past,” he ventured through gritted teeth, readying himself. “If your bullock of a brother had not struck me, you would have had that pony on the ground by now. Next time, truss his legs first.”
One of the largest spat on the ground near his feet, and Khasar clenched his fists as a voice cut through the air.
“What is this?” The effect on the men was instant and they stood still. Khasar glanced at an older man who bore the same stamp of features. It could only be the khan of the Woyela, and Khasar could do nothing but bow his head. It had not yet come to blades and he knew better than to insult the one man who might control his sons.
“You are brother to the man who calls himself Genghis,” the khan said. “Yet this is a Woyela camp. Why are you here to anger my sons and spoil their work?”
Khasar flushed in irritation. No doubt Kachiun would have been informed of the confrontation and would have men on the way, but he did not trust himself to answer at first. The khan of the Woyela was clearly enjoying the situation, and Khasar did not doubt he had seen it from the beginning. When he had mastered his temper, he spoke slowly and clearly to the khan.
“I struck the man who struck me. There is no cause to see blood spilled today.”
In reply the khan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He had a hundred warriors within easy call, and his sons were ready to beat humility into the man who stood so proudly before him.
“I might have expected such a response. Honor cannot be set aside when it is not convenient. This part of the camp is Woyela land. You trespass upon it.”
Khasar assumed the cold face of the warrior to hide his irritation. “My brother’s orders were clear,” he said. “All tribes may use the land while we gather. There is no Woyela ground here.”
The khan’s sons muttered amongst themselves as they heard his words, and the khan himself seemed to stiffen.
“I say there is and I see no one of rank to challenge my word. Yet you will hide in your brother’s shadow.”
Khasar took a slow breath. If he claimed the protection of Genghis, the incident would end. The khan of the Woyela was not such a fool as to challenge his brother in the camp, with a vast army at his call. Yet the man watched him like a snake ready to strike, and Khasar wondered if it had been chance that put the brothers and the wild stallion in his path that morning. There would always be those willing to test men who presumed to lead them in war. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Kachiun enjoyed politics and maneuvering, but he had no taste for it, nor for the posturing of the khan and his sons.
“I will not spill blood here,” he began, seeing the triumph in the khan’s eyes, “but I will not need my brother’s shadow.” As he spoke he slammed his fist into the chin of the nearest brother, knocking him cold. The others roared and leaped at him almost as one. Blows rained on his head and shoulders as he moved backwards, then braced his legs and struck hard into a face, feeling the nose break. Khasar enjoyed fighting as much as any man who had grown up amongst brothers, but the odds were impossible and he almost went down as his head was snapped back and hard thumping blows crashed against his armor. At least he was protected there, and as long as he remained on his feet, he could duck and slip their punches while hammering back at them with everything he had.
Even as he formed the thought, one of them took him around the waist and dumped him on the ground. Khasar kicked out hard, hearing a yelp as he covered his head against their stamping boots. Where was Kachiun, by the spirits? Khasar could feel blood pouring from his nose, and his lips had begun to swell. His head was ringing from a kick to his right ear. Much more of this and he would be permanently injured.
He felt the weight of one of them straddling him, trying to pull Khasar’s arms away from his face. Khasar peered through a gap at the man. He chose his moment and shoved a thumb hard into his attacker’s eye. It seemed to give under his strike, and he hoped he had blinded him. The Woyela son rolled off with a cry, and if anything, the kicks intensified.
A shout of pain came from somewhere close and, for a moment, Khasar was left alone to try to get to his feet. He saw a stranger had leaped among the Woyela brothers, knocking one to the ground and kicking another hard in the knee. The newcomer was little more than a boy, but he could punch with all his weight behind a blow. Khasar smiled at him through broken lips, but he was too dazed to rise.
“Stop this!” ordered a voice behind him, and Khasar knew a moment of hope before he realized Temuge had not arrived with a dozen men to help him. His younger brother ran straight up to the struggling mass and heaved one of the Woyela men away.
“Get Kachiun,” Khasar shouted, his heart sinking. Temuge would accomplish nothing but getting himself beaten, and then there would be blood. Genghis might accept one brother fighting, but a second would be a personal attack on his family too great to ignore. The khan of the Woyela seemed oblivious to the danger, and Khasar heard him laugh as one of his sons smashed a fist into Temuge’s face, knocking him to his knees. The young stranger too had lost the advantage of surprise, and he was suffering under a rain of kicks and punches. The Woyela sons were laughing as they transferred their efforts to the two newcomers, and Khasar raged to hear Temuge cry out in pain and humiliation, fendin
g off their kicks as he struggled to rise.
Another sound came then, a series of hard cracks that had the sons of the Woyela yelping and falling back. Khasar continued to protect his head on the ground until he heard Kachiun’s voice, tight with fury. He had brought men with him and it had been their sticks Khasar had heard.
“Stand, if you can, brother. Tell me who you want dead,” Kachiun snapped to Khasar.
As Khasar lowered his hands, he spat red phlegm onto the grass and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mass of bruising and blood, and the khan of the Woyela stiffened at the sight, his amusement fading.
“This was a private matter,” the khan said quickly as Kachiun glared at him. “Your brother claimed no formal rank.”
Kachiun looked at Khasar, who shrugged, wincing as his bruised body protested.
Temuge too had regained his feet, looking as pale as milk. His eyes were cold and his shame made him angrier than Khasar or Kachiun had ever seen him. The third man straightened painfully and Khasar nodded to him in thanks. He too had been battered, but he grinned infectiously as he rested his hands on his knees and panted.
“Be careful,” Kachiun murmured to his brothers, barely loud enough to hear. He had brought a bare dozen of his workers, all he could grab when he heard of the fight. They would last only moments before the armed men of the Woyela. Hard eyes in the crowd watched the scene, and the khan regained some of his confidence.
“Honor has been satisfied,” he declared. “There is no grudge between us.” He turned to Khasar to see how his words had been received. Khasar stood smiling crookedly. He had heard the sound of marching feet coming closer. All of those who stood there stiffened in alarm at the jingling approach of armored warriors. It could only be Genghis.
“There is no grudge?” Kachiun hissed at the khan. “That is not for you to decide, Woyela.”
All eyes turned to see Genghis coming. He walked with Arslan and five other men in full armor. All carried drawn blades and the Woyela sons glanced at each other in dawning worry at what they had done. They had talked of testing one of the brothers of Genghis, and that part had gone beautifully. Only the arrival of Temuge had dragged them into deeper water, and none of them knew how it would be resolved.
Genghis took in the scene, his face a mask. His gaze lingered on Temuge and for a moment the yellow eyes tightened at the sight of his little brother’s trembling hands. The khan of the Woyela spoke before anyone else.
“This is already settled, lord,” he said. “It was merely a diversion, a fight over a horse.” He swallowed dryly. “There is no need for you to rule on this.”
Genghis ignored him.
“Kachiun?”
Kachiun controlled his anger to reply in a calm voice. “I do not know what started it. Khasar can tell you that.”
Khasar winced at hearing his name. Under Genghis’s stare, he considered his words carefully. The entire camp would hear eventually and he could not be seen to complain like a child to his father. Not if he expected to lead them in war afterwards.
“I am satisfied with my part in this, brother,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I have need to discuss it further with these men, I will do so on another day.”
“You will not,” Genghis snapped, understanding the implied threat as well as the Woyela sons did themselves. “I forbid it.”
Khasar bowed his head. “As you say, lord,” he replied.
Genghis looked at Temuge, seeing the shame at his public beating, coupled with the bright rage that had surprised Khasar and Kachiun before.
“You too are marked, Temuge. I cannot believe you were part of this.”
“He tried to stop it,” Kachiun replied. “They knocked him to his knees and—”
“Enough!” Temuge snapped. “In time, I will return every blow.” Blushing red, he seemed close to tears, like a child. Genghis stared at him and his own anger suddenly broke free. With a grunt, he shook his head and strode through the brothers of the Woyela. One of them was too slow and Genghis barged him down with his shoulder, barely seeming to feel the impact. The khan raised his hands in a plea, but Genghis grabbed his deel and yanked him forward. As he unsheathed his sword, the Woyela warriors drew their own in a rasp of metal.
“Hold!” Genghis roared at them, a voice that had carried across a hundred battles. They ignored the order and as they closed, Genghis jerked the khan upwards like a marmot in his grip. In two quick slashes, he brought his sword across the man’s thighs, gashing the muscles.
“If my brother was made to kneel, Woyela, you will not stand again,” he said. The khan was bellowing and blood poured over his feet as he fell. Before the warriors could reach him, Genghis raised his gaze to stare them down.
“If I see one sword in a hand in ten heartbeats more, not a single Woyela man, woman, or child will live past this evening.”
The officers amongst the warriors hesitated, raising their arms to hold back the others. Genghis stood before them without a trace of fear while the khan at his feet fell to one side, moaning. The sons still stood frozen, horrified at what they had seen. With an effort of will, the khan made a gesture that his officers chose to interpret as assent. They sheathed their swords and the warriors followed, their eyes wide. Genghis nodded. “When we ride, you Woyela will be the guards for my brother,” he said. “If you will have them?”
Khasar murmured assent, his swollen face blank.
“Then this is finished. There is no blood feud and I have seen justice served.”
Genghis caught the eyes of his brothers and they fell in with him as he strode back to the great ger and the business of the day. Khasar clapped a hand on the young man who had helped him, taking him along rather than leaving him to be beaten again.
“This one came to help me,” Khasar said as they walked. “He knows no fear, brother.”
For an instant, Genghis glanced at the young man, seeing his pride. “What is your name?” he asked gruffly, still seething at what he had seen.
“Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.”
“Come and see me when you want a good horse and armor,” he said.
Tsubodai beamed and Khasar punched him lightly in the shoulder, approving. Behind them, the Woyela khan was left to be tended by his women. With such wounds, he would never stand straight, or perhaps even walk again.
As Genghis and his brothers strode through the tribes gathered in the shadow of the black mountain, there were many who looked on them with awe and approval. He had shown he would not be challenged, and one more small victory had been won.
The Uighurs were sighted as the summer waned and the floodwaters from the hills swelled the Onon River to the bursting point. The plains were still a vivid green and skylarks leaped and fluttered as the Uighur carts passed them.
It was an impressive display of strength and Genghis answered it with five thousand of his horsemen in ranks before the great camp. He did not come to meet them himself, knowing that his absence would be taken as subtle disapproval for their lateness. Instead, the Woyela took a position around Khasar as he rode to meet the new arrivals, and none of the khan’s sons dared do more than stare at the back of his head.
As the Uighurs drew close, Khasar approached the cart that led the dark snake of people and animals. His eyes flickered over the warriors, judging their quality. They were well armed and seemed fierce and alert, though he knew appearances could be deceiving. They would learn the tactics that had brought victory to Genghis, or be reduced to carrying messages amongst the host.
The Uighurs were horse traders as well as scholars, and Khasar was pleased to see the vast herd that accompanied them. There had to be three ponies for every warrior, and he knew the camp would be busy over the next month as the other tribes came to bargain and replenish their bloodlines.
At his raised hand, the warriors around the lead cart drew up in a defensive position, their hands on the hilts of swords. The Uighurs must have had a good supply of ore for so many to carry blades, Kha
sar thought. Perhaps there would be trade in steel as well. There were still too many in the camp with nothing but a knife to complement their bows. Khasar directed his gaze to a small gray-haired man on the front of the cart. It was he who had held up an arm to halt the column, and Khasar saw how the warriors looked to him for orders. Though the man’s deel was of simple cut, it had to be the Uighur khan, Barchuk. Khasar decided to give him honor by speaking first.
“You are welcome in the camp, lord,” he said formally. “You are the last of the great tribes to arrive, but my lord Genghis has received your message in goodwill and allocated grazing land for your families.”
The small man nodded thoughtfully as he looked past Khasar to the riders who waited in formation.
“I can see we must be the last. I can hardly believe there are any more warriors in the world, given the size of the host on this plain. You are the first men we have seen in many days of travel.” He shook his head in wonder at the thought. “The Uighurs will pledge to Genghis, as I have promised. Show us where to pitch our gers and we will do the rest.”
In comparison to some of the pricklier khans, Khasar appreciated the man’s bluntness. He smiled. “I am his brother, Khasar,” he said. “I will show you myself.”
“Step up beside me, then, Khasar. I am hungry for news.” The khan patted the wooden bench of the cart and Khasar dismounted, sending his horse back to the first rank of Woyela warriors with a slap on its rump.
“If we are the last, perhaps it will not be long before Genghis points this great arrow at his enemies,” the khan said as Khasar clambered up beside him. Barchuk clicked in his cheek at the oxen, and the cart moved off with a lurch. Khasar watched how the Uighur warriors kept formation around them and was pleased. They could ride, at least.
Gengis: Lords of the Bow Page 4