Bones Of the Hills

EPILOGUE

All things were new. The brothers and sons of Genghis did not take the khan to the hills of a foreign land to be torn by crows and eagles. They wrapped his body in sheets of bleached linen and sealed it under oil while they reduced the region of Xi Xia to a smoking, desolate ruin. It was his last order and they did not rush the work. A full year passed while every town, every village, every living thing was hunted down and left to rot.

Only then did the nation move north to the frozen plains, taking the first khan to the Khenti mountains where he had come into the world. The tale of his life was sung and chanted a thousand times, and once read, when Temuge told the full tale from his history. He had trapped the words on calfskin sheets and they were the same no matter how many times he said them.

Ogedai was khan. He did not gather the tribes and take their oaths while his father lay in oil and cloth. Yet it was his voice that ruled the rest and if his brother Chagatai was sullen at Ogedai’s rise to power, he did not dare let it show. The nation mourned and there was not a living soul who would have challenged Genghis’ right to choose his heir after he had gone from them. With his life complete, they knew again what he had done and meant. His people had risen and his enemies were dust. Nothing else mattered at the last accounting of a life.

On a bitter dawn, with a chill wind blowing in from the east, the sons and brothers of Genghis rode to the head of his funeral column, leaving the nation behind. Temuge had planned every detail, borrowing from the death rites of more than one people. He rode with Khasar and Kachiun behind a cart drawn by fine horses. A minghaan officer sat high over the animals, urging them on with a long stick. Behind him on the cart lay a simple box of elm and iron, at times seeming too small to contain the man within. In the days before, every man, woman and child of the nation had come to lay a hand on the warm wood.

The honour guard was just a hundred men, well formed and young. Forty young girls rode with them and they cried out and wailed to the sky father with every pace, marking the passing of a great man and forcing the spirits to attend and listen. The great khan would not go alone into the hills.

They reached the place Temuge had prepared and the brothers and sons of the khan gathered in grim silence as the box was lifted inside a chamber cut from the rock. They did not speak as the women gashed their throats and lay down, ready to serve the khan in the next world. Only the warriors who oversaw the ritual came out and many of them were red-eyed with grief.

Temuge nodded to Ogedai and the heir raised his hand gently, standing for a long time as he gazed into the last resting place of his father. He swayed slightly as he stood, his eyes glassy from drink that did nothing to dull his grief. The son of Genghis spoke slurred words in a whisper, but no one heard them as he let his arm fall.

The warriors heaved on ropes that arced up into the hills. Their muscles grew taut and they strained together until they heard thunder above. Wooden barriers gave way and for a moment, it seemed as if half the mountain fell to block the chamber, raising a cloud of dust so thick that they could not breathe or see.

When it cleared, Genghis had gone from them and his brothers were satisfied. He had been born in the shadow of the mountain known as Deli’un-Boldakh and they had buried him in that place. His spirit would watch over his people from those green slopes.

Kachiun nodded to himself, breathing out a great release of tension that he had not realised he felt. He turned his pony with his brothers and looked back only once as they wound their way through the thick trees that covered the slopes. The forest would grow over the scars they had made. In time, Genghis would be part of the hills themselves. Kachiun was grim as he looked over the heads of the young warriors riding with him. The khan would not be disturbed in his rest.

Just a few miles from the nation’s camp, Khasar rode to the senior officer, telling him to halt his men. All those who had met in the khan’s ger the night before rode forward in a single group: Temuge, Khasar, Tsubodai, Jebe, Kachiun, Jelme, Ogedai, Tolui and Chagatai. They were the seeds of a new nation and they rode well.

From the camp came Ogedai’s tuman to meet them. The heir reined in as his officers bowed, then sent them past him to kill the honour guard. Genghis would need good men on his path. The generals did not look back as the arrows sang again. The honour guard died in silence.

On the edge of the encampment, Ogedai turned to those he would lead in the years to come. They had been hardened in war and suffering and they returned his yellow gaze with simple confidence, knowing their worth. He wore the wolf’s-head sword that his father and grandfather had carried. His gaze lingered longest on Tsubodai. He needed the general, but Jochi had died at his hand and Ogedai promised himself there would be a reckoning one day, a price for what he had done. He hid his thoughts, adopting the cold face Genghis had taught him.

‘It is done,’ Ogedai said. ‘My father has gone and I will accept the oaths of my people.’