Genghis, Birth of an Empire

Chapter 20

KHASAR WAITED in the deep snow, his face numb despite the covering of mutton fat. He could not help feeling a little sorry for himself. His brothers seemed to have forgotten, but this was his sixteenth birthday. On impulse, he stretched out his tongue and tried to catch a few of the cold flakes. He had been there a long time and he was weary and bored. He wondered idly if he would find himself a woman in the Tartar camp, as he stared at it over a hundred paces of white ground. The wind was bitter and the clouds scudded by at great speed overhead, driven like pale goats before a storm. Khasar liked the image of the words and repeated them to himself. He would have to remember to tell Hoelun when they came back from the raid. Khasar considered sipping his airag to keep himself warm, but he remembered Arslan’s words and resisted. The swordsmith had given him only a cupful of the precious fluid in a second leather bottle.

“I do not want you drunk,” Arslan had said sternly. “If the Tartars reach you, we’ll need a steady hand and a clear eye.”

Khasar liked the father and son Temujin had brought back, particularly the older man. At times, Arslan reminded him of his father.

A distant movement distracted Khasar from his wandering thoughts. It was difficult to stay focused on the task at hand when he thought he was slowly freezing. He decided to drink the airag rather than be too cold to act. He moved slowly so as not to disturb the layer of snow that had built up on his deel and blanket.

It stung his gums, but he gulped it quickly, feeling the warmth spread in his lower chest and up into his lungs. It helped against the cold, and now there was definitely activity in the Tartar camp. Khasar lay just to the west of them, invisible under his covering of snow. He could see running figures and, when the wind dropped, he could hear shouting. He nodded to himself. Temujin had attacked. Now they would know if it really was only a small group of Tartars or the ambush Arslan had warned about. The Tartars had offered a blood price for the small group of raiders who had come north into their lands. If anything, it helped Temujin to recruit warriors from the wanderer families, taking their wives and children into his protection and treating them with honor. The Tartars were helping Temujin to build himself a tribe out in the icy wastes.

Khasar heard the flat smack of arrows being released. From such a distance, he could not tell if they were from Tartar bows, but it did not matter. Temujin had told him to lie at that point with a white blanket over him, and that is what he would do. He could hear dogs barking and he hoped someone shot them before they could threaten Temujin. His brother still feared the animals and it would not be right for him to show weakness in front of new men, some of them still wary and untrusting.

Khasar smiled to himself. Temujin preferred to take warriors with wives and children. They could not betray him with their loved ones back at the camp under Hoelun’s care. The threat had never been spoken and perhaps it was only Khasar who thought of it. His brother was clever enough, though, he knew, cleverer than all of them.

Khasar narrowed his eyes, his pulse doubling in a jerk as two figures came racing out of the camp. He recognized Temujin and Jelme and saw that they were sprinting with bows and shafts ready. Behind them came six Tartars in their furs and decorated cloth, baying and showing yellow teeth in the pursuit.

Khasar did not hesitate. His brother and Jelme belted past without looking down at him. He waited another heartbeat for the Tartar warriors to close, then rose up from the snow like a vengeful demon, drawing back to his right ear as he moved. Two arrows killed two men, sending them onto their faces in the snow. The rest skidded to a stop in panic and confusion. They could have fallen on Khasar then, tearing him apart, but Temujin and Jelme had not deserted him. As soon as they heard his bow, each man had turned and gone down onto one knee, punching arrows into the snow ready for their snatching hands. They hammered the remaining Tartars, and Khasar had time for one last shot, sending it perfectly though the pale throat of the man closest to his position. The Tartar warrior pulled at the shaft and almost had it out before he fell still. Khasar shuddered as the man died. The Tartars wore deels much like his own people, but the men of the north were white-skinned and strange and they seemed to feel no pain. Still, they died as easily as goats and sheep.

Temujin and Jelme recovered the arrows from the bodies, cutting them out with quick chops of their knives. It was bloody work and Temujin’s face was spattered as he handed Khasar half a dozen shafts, wet and red down their full length. Without a word, he clapped Khasar on the shoulder and he and Jelme dog-trotted back into the Tartar camp, running almost crouched with their bows low to the ground. Khasar’s racing heart began to slow and he arranged the bloody arrows neatly in case he had to kill again. With great care, he wrapped a piece of oiled cloth over his bowstring to keep it strong and dry, then settled himself back in position. He wished he had brought a little more of the airag as the cold seeped into his bones and the falling snow began to drift over him once more.

“No ambush, Arslan!” Temujin called across the Tartar camp.

The swordsmith shrugged and nodded. It did not mean it could not come. It meant this time it had not. He had argued against them raiding so often into Tartar lands. It made a trap too easy to set if Temujin pecked at every single opportunity they gave him.

Arslan watched the young khan stride among the gers of dead men. The wailing of women had started and Temujin was grinning at the sound. It signified victory for all of them, and Arslan had never known a man as remorseless as the son of Yesugei.

Arslan looked up into the softly falling flakes, feeling them alight in his hair and on his eyelashes. He had lived for forty winters and fathered two sons dead and one alive. If he had been alone, he knew he would have lived the last years of his life away from the tribes, perhaps high in the mountains where only the hardiest could survive. With Jelme, he could think only as a father. He knew a young man needed others of his own age and a chance to find himself a wife and children of his own.

Arslan felt the cold bite through the padded deel he had taken from the body of a dead Tartar. He had not expected to find himself holding a tiger by the tail. It worried him to see the way Jelme hero-worshipped Temujin, despite him being barely eighteen years old. Arslan thought sourly that in his youth a khan was a man tempered by many seasons and battles. Yet he could not fault the sons of Yesugei for their courage, and Temujin had not lost a man in his raids. Arslan sighed to himself, wondering if the luck could last.

“You’ll freeze to death standing still, swordsmith,” came a voice behind him.

Arslan turned to see the still figure of Kachiun. Temujin’s brother maintained a quiet intensity that gave nothing away. He could certainly move silently, Arslan admitted to himself. He had seen him shoot and Arslan no longer doubted the boy could have taken them from cover when they rode back to the cleft in the hills. The whole family had something and Arslan thought they were heading for fame or an early death. Either way, Jelme would be with them, he realized.

“I don’t feel the cold,” Arslan lied, forcing a smile.

Kachiun had not warmed to him the way Khasar had, but the natural reserve was slowly thawing. Arslan had seen the same coldness in many of the newcomers to Temujin’s camp. They came because Temujin accepted them, but old habits were hard to break for men who had lived so long away from a tribe. The winters were too cruel to trust easily and live.

Arslan knew enough to see that Temujin chose his companions on the raids very carefully indeed. Some needed constant reassurance and Temujin let Khasar handle those, with his rough ways and humor. Others would not give up their simmering doubts until they had seen Temujin risk his life at their shoulder. For raid after raid, they saw that he was so completely without fear that he would walk up to drawn swords and know he would not be alone. So far, they had gone with him. Arslan hoped it would last, for all their sakes.

“Will he raid again?” Arslan asked suddenly. “The Tartars will not stand for this much longer.”

Kachiun shrugged. “We’ll scout the camps first, but they are dull and slow in winter. Temujin says we can go on like this for months more.”

“But you know better than that, surely?” Arslan said. “They will draw us in with a fat target and men hidden in every ger. Wouldn’t you? Sooner or later we are going to walk into a trap.”

To his astonishment, Kachiun grinned at him.

“They are just Tartars. We can take as many as they want to send against us, I think.”

“It could be thousands if you provoke them all winter,” Arslan said. “The moment the thaw comes, they could send an army.”

“I hope so,” Kachiun said. “Temujin thinks it is the only way to get the tribes to band together. He says we need an enemy and a threat to the land. I believe him.”

Kachiun patted Arslan on the shoulder as if in consolation before strolling away in the snow. The swordsmith allowed the touch out of sheer astonishment. He didn’t have a tiger by the tail after all. He had it by the ears, with his head in its mouth.

A figure came padding by him and he heard the only voice he loved.

“Father! You’ll freeze out here,” Jelme said, coming to a halt.

Arslan sighed. “I’ve heard the opinion, yes. I am not as old as you all seem to think.”

He watched his son as he spoke, seeing the bounce in his step. Jelme was drunk on the victory, his eyes shining. As Arslan’s heart swelled for his son, he saw the young man could hardly stand still. Somewhere nearby, Temujin would be holding his war council once again, planning the next assault on the tribe who had killed his father. Each one was more daring and more difficult than the last, and the nights were often wild with drinking and captured women away from the main camp. In the morning, it would be different, and Arslan could not begrudge his son the company of his new friends. At least Temujin respected his skill with a bow and sword. Arslan had given his son that much.

“Did you take a wound?” he asked.

Jelme smiled, showing small white teeth. “Not a scratch. I killed three Tartars with a bow and one with the blade, using the high pull stroke you taught me.” He mimed it automatically and Arslan nodded in approval.

“It is a good one if the opponent is unbalanced,” he replied, hoping his son could see the pride he felt. He could not express it. “I remember teaching it to you,” Arslan continued lamely. He wished he had more words, but a distance had somehow sprung up between them and he did not know how to breach it.

Jelme stepped forward and reached out to grip his father by the arm. Arslan wondered if he had taken the habit of physical contact from Temujin. For one of the swordsmith’s generation, it was an intrusion and he always had to master the urge to slap it away. Not from his son, though. He loved him too much to care.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” Jelme asked.

Arslan had to snort with barely suppressed laughter, tinged with sadness. They were so arrogant it pained him, these young men, but with the wanderer families, they had grown themselves into a band of raiders who did not question their leader’s authority. Arslan had watched the chains of trust develop between them, and when his spirits were low, he wondered if he would have to see his son killed before him.

“I will walk the perimeter of the camp and make sure there are no more surprises to spoil my sleep tonight,” Arslan said. “Go.” He forced a smile at the end and Jelme chuckled, his excitement bubbling back to the surface. He ran off between the white gers to where Arslan could hear the sound of revelry. The Tartars had been far from their main tribe, he thought to himself. For all he knew, they had been looking for the very force that had crushed them mercilessly. The news would filter its way back to the local khans, and they would respond, whether Temujin understood it or not. They could not afford to ignore the raids. In the east, the great cities of the Chin would have their spies out, looking always for weakness in their enemies.

As he walked around the camp, he found two other men doing the same thing and adjusted his view of Temujin yet again. The young warrior listened, Arslan had to admit, though he didn’t like to ask for help. It was worth remembering.

As he crunched his way through the deepening snow, Arslan heard soft sobbing coming from a thicket of trees near the outskirts of the Tartar gers. He drew his sword in utter silence at the sound, standing like a statue until the blade was completely clear. It could have been a trap, though he didn’t think so. The women of the camp would have either stayed in the gers or hidden at the edges. On a summer night, they might have been able to wait out the raiders before making their way back to their own people, but not in the winter snow.

He hadn’t reached forty years of age without sensible caution, so Arslan had his sword still drawn when he looked on the face of a young woman, half his age. With a pleased grin, he sheathed the blade and held out a hand to pull her to her feet. When she only stared at him, he chuckled low in his throat.

“You’ll need someone to warm you in your blankets tonight, girl. You’d be better off with me than one of the younger ones, I should think. Men of my age have less energy, for a start.”

To his immense pleasure, the young woman giggled. Arslan guessed she wasn’t kin of the dead men, though he reminded himself to keep his knives well hidden if he intended to sleep. He’d heard of more than one man killed by a sweetly smiling capture.

She took his hand and he pulled her up and onto his shoulder, patting her bottom as he strode back through the camp. He was humming to himself by the time he found a ger with a stove and a warm bed to shut out the softly falling snow.

Temujin clenched a fist in pleasure as he heard the tallies of the dead. The Tartar bodies would not talk, but there were too many to be a hunting trip, especially in the heart of winter. Kachiun thought they had probably been a raiding party much like their own.

“We’ll keep the ponies and drive them back with us,” Temujin told his companions. The airag was being passed around and the general mood was jubilant. In a little while they would be drunk and singing, perhaps lusting after a woman, though without hope in that bare camp. Temujin had been disappointed to find that most of the women were the sort of hardy crones men might take into the wilderness to cook and sew rather than as playful objects of lust. He had yet to find a wife for Khasar or Kachiun, and as their khan, he needed as many loyal families around him as possible.

The old women had been questioned about their menfolk, but of course they claimed to know nothing. Temujin watched one particularly wizened example as she stirred a pot of mutton stew in the ger he had chosen as his own. Perhaps he should have someone else taste it, he thought, smiling at the idea.

“Do you have everything you need, old mother?” he said. The woman looked back at him and spat carefully on the floor. Temujin laughed out loud. It was one of the great truths of life that no matter how furious a man became, he could still be cowed by a show of force. No one, however, could cow an angry woman. Perhaps he should have the food tasted first, at that. He looked around at the others, pleased with them all.

“Unless the snow covered a few,” he said, “we have a count of twenty-seven dead, including the old lady Kachiun shot.”

“She was coming at me with a knife,” Kachiun replied, nettled. “If you’d seen her, you’d have taken the shot as well.”

“Thank the spirits you weren’t hurt, then,” Temujin replied with a straight face.

Kachiun rolled his eyes as some of the other men chuckled. Jelme was there with a fresh covering of snow on his shoulders, as well as three brothers who had come in only the month before. They were so green you could smell the moss on them, but Temujin had chosen them to stand by his side in the first chaotic moments of the fight in the snow. Kachiun exchanged glances with Temujin after looking in their direction. The small nod from his older brother was enough for him to embrace them all as his own blood. The acceptance wasn’t feigned, now that they had proved themselves, and the three beamed around at the others, thoroughly enjoying their first victory in this company. The airag was hot on the stove and each of them gulped as much as he could to keep the cold out before the stew gave strength back to tired limbs. They had all earned the meal and the mood was light.

Temujin addressed the oldest of them, a small, quick man with very dark skin and unkempt hair. He had once been with the Quirai, but a dispute with the khan’s son had meant he had to ride away with his brothers before blood was shed. Temujin had welcomed them all.

“Batu? It’s time to bring my brother Khasar in from the cold, I think. There will be no more surprises this night.”

As Batu rose, Temujin turned to Jelme. “I imagine your father is out checking the camp?”

Jelme nodded, reassured by Temujin’s smile.

“I would expect no less,” Temujin said. “He is a thorough man. He may be the best of us all.” Jelme nodded slowly, pleased. Temujin signaled to the old Tartar woman to serve him the stew. She clearly considered refusing him, but thought better of it and gave him a large portion of the steaming mix.

“Thank you, old mother,” Temujin said, ladling it into his mouth. “This is good. I do not think I have ever tasted anything better than another man’s food eaten in his own ger. If I had his beautiful wife and daughters to entertain me, I would have it all.”

His companions chuckled as they received their own hot food and laid into it, eating like wild animals. Some of them had lost almost all traces of civilization in their years away from a tribe, but Temujin valued that ferocity. These were not men who would think to question his orders. If he told them to kill, they killed until they were red to the elbows, regardless of who stood in their way. As he took his family north, he had found them scattered on the land. The most brutal had been alone, and one or two of those were too much like mad dogs to be trusted. Those he had taken out away from the gers, killing them quickly with the first blade Arslan had forged for him.

As he ate, Temujin thought of the months since coming back to his family. He could not have dreamed then of the hunger he saw in the men around him, the need to be accepted once again. Yet it had not always gone smoothly. There had been one family who joined him, only to steal away in the middle of the night with all they could carry. Temujin and Kachiun had tracked them down and carried the pieces back to his camp for the others to see before they left them for wild animals. There was no return to their previous lives, not after they had joined him. Given whom he had decided to take in, Temujin knew he could not show weakness, or they would have torn him apart.

Khasar came in with Batu, blowing and rubbing his hands together. He shook himself deliberately close to Temujin and Kachiun, scattering snow over them. They cursed and ducked against the soft pats of snow that spattered in all directions.

“You forgot about me again, didn’t you?” Khasar demanded.

Temujin shook his head. “I did not! You were my secret, in case there was a last attack when we were all settled.”

Khasar glared at his brothers, then turned away to get his bowl of stew.

As he did so, Temujin leaned close to Kachiun and whispered, “I forgot he was out there,” loudly enough for them all to hear.

“I knew it!” Khasar roared. “I was practically frozen to death, but all the time I kept telling myself, ‘Temujin won’t have abandoned you, Khasar. He will be back any moment to call you in to the warm.’ ”

The others watched bemused as Khasar reached into his trousers and rummaged around.

“I think a ball has actually frozen,” he said mournfully. “Is that possible? There’s nothing but a lump of ice down there.”

Temujin laughed at the wounded tone until he was in danger of spilling the rest of his own stew.

“You did well, my brother. I would not have sent a man I couldn’t trust to that spot. And wasn’t it a good thing you were there?”

He told the others about the rush of Tartar warriors that Khasar and Jelme had put down. As the airag warmed their blood, they responded with stories of their own, though some told them humorously and others were dark and bleak in tone, bringing a touch of winter into the warm ger. Little by little, they shared each other’s experiences. Little Batu had not had the sort of archery training that had marked the childhood of Yesugei’s sons, but he was lightning fast with a knife and claimed no arrow could hit him if he saw it fired. Jelme was the equal of his father with a sword or bow, and so coldly competent that Temujin was in the habit of making him second in command. Jelme could be depended upon, and Temujin thanked the spirits for the father and son and everyone who had come after them.

There were times when he dreamed of being back in that stinking pit, waiting to be killed. Sometimes, he was whole, his body perfect. Other times, it was roped with scars or still raw and bleeding. It was there that he had found the strange thought that still burned inside him. There was only one tribe on the plains. Whether they called themselves Wolves or Olkhun’ut or even tribeless wanderers, they spoke the same language and they were bound in blood. Still, he knew it would be easier to sling a rope around a winter mist than to bring the tribes together after a thousand years of warfare. He had made a beginning, but it was no more than that.

“So what next when we’ve finished counting our new horses and gers here?” Kachiun asked his brother, interrupting his thoughts. The rest of them paused in their eating to hear the answer.

“I think Jelme can handle the next raid,” Temujin said. Arslan’s son looked up from his meal with his mouth open. “I want you to be a hammer,” Temujin told him. “Do not risk my people, but if you can find a small group, I want it crushed in my father’s memory. They are not our people. They are not Mongols, as we are. Let the Tartars fear us as we grow.”

“You have something else in mind?” Kachiun asked with a smile. He knew his brother.

Temujin nodded. “It is time to return to the Olkhun’ut and claim my wife. You need a good woman. Khasar says he needs a bad one. We all need children to carry on the line. They will not scorn us when we ride amongst them now.

“I will be gone for some months, Jelme,” Temujin said, staring at Arslan’s son. His yellow eyes were unblinking and Jelme could not meet them for long. “I will bring back more men to help us here, now that I know where to find them. While I am gone, it will be your task to make the Tartars bleed and fear the spring.”

Jelme reached out and they gripped each other’s forearms to seal the agreement.

“I will be a terror to them,” Jelme said.

In the darkness, Temujin stood swaying outside the ger Arslan had chosen and listened to the sounds within, amused that the swordsmith had finally found someone to take the edge off his tension. Temujin had never known a man as tightly bound as the swordsmith, nor one he would rather have stood with in battle, unless it was his own father. Perhaps because Arslan was from that generation, Temujin found he could respect him without bristling or proving himself with every word and gesture. He hesitated before interrupting the man at his coupling, but now that the decision was made, he intended to ride south in the morning and he wanted to know Arslan would be with him.

It was no small thing to ask. Anyone could see how Arslan watched his son whenever the arrows were flying. Forcing him to leave Jelme alone in the cold north would be a test of his loyalty, but Temujin did not think Arslan would fail it. His word was iron, after all. He raised a hand to knock on the small door, then thought better of it. Let the swordsmith have his moment of peace and pleasure. In the morning they would ride back into the south. Temujin could feel bitterness stir in him at the thought of the plains of his childhood, swirling like oil on water. The land remembered.

Chapter 21

TEMUJIN AND ARSLAN TROTTED across the sea of grass. To Arslan’s surprise, he had found he was comfortable with the silence between them. They talked at night around the fire, and practiced with swords until they had built a fine sweat. The blade Temujin carried was beautifully balanced and cut with a blood channel that allowed it to slide free from a wound without snagging. Arslan had made it for him and instructed him in maintaining its edge and oiling the steel against rust. The muscles of Temujin’s right arm stood out in ridges as he became completely familiar with the weight, and with Arslan as his tutor, his skill improved daily.

The days riding were spent if not in thought then in the peaceful absence of it. To Arslan, it was just as he had traveled with his son, Jelme, and he found it restful. He watched as Temujin rode a little ahead or scouted up a hill to see the best route south. The young raider had a quiet assurance about him, a confidence that could be read in every movement. Arslan considered the twists of fate that had led him to rescue Temujin from the Wolves. They called him khan in their little camp, though there were barely twenty men to follow him and only a handful of women and children. Still, Temujin walked with pride amongst them and they fought and won raid after raid. There were times when Arslan wondered what he had unleashed.

It was no easy task to find the Olkhun’ut. They had moved camp many times since Temujin had ridden away from them with Basan, the news of his father’s injury still fresh. It took two moons just to reach the lands around the red hill, and still Temujin did not know where to find them. It was even possible that they had begun another drift to the south as they had years before, putting them beyond reach. Arslan saw the tension grow in his young companion as they questioned each wanderer and herdsman they met, searching for any word of them.

It was no easy task for Temujin to approach strangers with Arslan at his side. Even when he strapped his bow to his saddle and rode up with his hands in the air, they were met with drawn arrows and the frightened eyes of children. Temujin dismounted to speak to the tribeless as he found them, though more than one galloped away as soon as he and Arslan were spotted. Some he directed north, promising them a welcome in his name. He did not know if they believed him. It was a frustrating business, but a fearless old woman finally nodded at the name and sent them east.

Temujin found no peace for his spirit in riding lands he had known as a child. He also asked for news of the Wolves, to avoid them. Eeluk was still somewhere in the area and it would not do for Temujin to come across a hunting party unprepared. There would be a reckoning between them, he knew, but not until he had gathered enough warriors to tear through the gers of the Wolves like a summer storm.

When they sighted the vast camp of the Olkhun’ut after another month of riding, Temujin reined in, overcome with memory. He could see the dust of outriders as they came out, buzzing like wasps around the edges of the tribe.

“Keep your hand away from your sword when they come,” he murmured to Arslan.

The swordsmith suppressed a grimace at the unnecessary advice, sitting like stone.

Temujin’s pony tried to munch a patch of brown grass, and he slapped it on the neck, keeping the reins tight. He remembered his father as clearly as if he were there with him and he kept a tight hold on his emotion, showing a cold face of which Yesugei would have approved.

Arslan felt the change in the younger man, seeing the tension in his shoulders and the way he sat his horse. A man’s past was always full of pain, he thought, deliberately relaxing as he waited for the yelling warriors to finish their display of bravery.

“What if they refuse to give her up?” Arslan asked.

Temujin turned his yellow eyes on the swordsmith, and Arslan felt a strange emotion under that cold stare. Who was the boy to disturb him in such a way?

“I will not leave without her,” Temujin said. “I will not be turned away without a death.”

Arslan nodded, troubled. He could still remember being eighteen, but the recklessness of those years was long behind him. He had grown in skill since his youth, and he had yet to meet a man who could beat him with a sword or a bow, though he assumed such a man existed. What he could not do was follow Temujin into his coldness, to the sheer indifference to death that was only possible for the very young. He had a son, after all.

Arslan showed nothing of his internal struggle, but by the time the Olkhun’ut warriors were on them, he had emptied his mind and was perfectly still.

The riders screamed and whooped as they galloped close with bows drawn and arrows fitted to the strings. The display was meant to impress, but neither Arslan nor Temujin paid it any heed. Arslan saw one of the riders check and yank on the reins as he caught sight of Temujin’s face. The sharp movement almost brought his pony to its knees, and the warrior’s face grew tight with astonishment.

“It is you,” the rider said.

Temujin nodded. “I have come for my wife, Koke. I told you I would.”

Arslan watched as the Olkhun’ut warrior hawked his throat clear of phlegm and spat on the ground. Pressure from his heels brought his gelding close enough for him to reach out. Temujin looked on impassively as Koke raised his arm as if to strike him, his face working in pale rage.

Arslan moved, kicking his pony into range. His sword licked out so that its razor tip sat snugly under Koke’s throat, resting there. The other warriors roared in anger, milling around them. They bent their bows ready to fire and Arslan ignored them as if they were not there. He waited until Koke’s eyes flickered toward him, seeing the sick fear there.

“You do not touch the khan,” Arslan said softly. He used his peripheral vision to watch the other men, seeing how one bow bent farther than the others. Death was close enough to feel on the breeze, and the day seemed to grow still.

“Speak carefully, Koke,” Temujin said, smiling. “If your men shoot, you will be dead before we are.”

Arslan saw that Temujin had noted the bending bow, and wondered again at his calm.

Koke was like a statue, though his gelding shifted nervously. He took a tighter grip on the reins rather than have his throat cut by a sudden jerk of his mount.

“If you kill me, you will be cut to pieces,” he said in a whisper.

Temujin grinned at him. “That is true,” he replied, offering no further help. Though he smiled, he felt a cold lump of anger surface deep inside. He had no patience for the ritual humiliation of strangers, not from these people.

“Remove the sword,” Koke said.

To his credit, his voice was calm, but Temujin could see sweat appear on his forehead, despite the wind. Coming close to death would do that for a man, he thought. He wondered why he felt no fear himself, but there was not a trace of it in him. A vague memory of wings beating his face came back to him, and he had a sense of being detached from the moment, untouched by danger. Perhaps his father’s spirit watched him still, he thought.

“Welcome me to your camp,” Temujin said.

Koke’s gaze jumped back from Arslan to the young man he had known from so long before. He was in an impossible position, Temujin knew. Either he had to back down and be humiliated, or he would die.

Temujin waited, uncaring. He glanced around him at the other men, spending a long moment looking at the warrior who had drawn an arrow back to his ear. The man was ready to loose and Temujin raised his chin in a small jerk, showing he knew.

“You are welcome in the camp,” Koke whispered.

“Louder,” Temujin said.

“You are welcome,” Koke said again, through gritted teeth.

“Excellent,” Temujin replied. He turned in the saddle to the man who still waited with a drawn bow.

“If you loose that arrow, I will pull it out and shove it down your throat,” he told him. The man blinked and Temujin stared until the needle-sharp point was lowered almost sheepishly. He heard Koke’s gasp behind him as Arslan removed the blade, and he took a deep breath, finding to his surprise that he was enjoying himself.

“Ride in with us then, Koke,” he said, clapping his cousin on the back. “I have come for my wife.”

There was no question of entering the camp without visiting the khan of the Olkhun’ut. With a pang of memory, Temujin remembered Yesugei’s games of status with Sansar, as one khan to another. He kept his head high, but he felt no shame as Koke led him to Sansar’s ger in the center of the camp. Despite his successes against the Tartars, he was not Sansar’s equal, as his father had been. At best, he was a war leader, a raider barely approaching the level where he could be received. If he had lacked even that status, Temujin knew that only his father’s memory would have granted him an audience and perhaps not even then.

He and Arslan dismounted and allowed their ponies to be taken away, their bows with them. Koke had grown into a man in the years since they had last met, and Temujin was interested to see how the khan’s bondsmen accepted his cousin’s right to enter the ger after just a few murmured words. Koke had come up in the world, Temujin realized. He wondered what service he had performed for the khan of the Olkhun’ut.

When Koke did not return, Temujin was struck by a memory and chuckled suddenly, startling Arslan from his silent tension.

“They always make me wait, these people,” Temujin said. “But I have patience, do I not, Arslan? I bear their insults with great humility.” His eyes glittered with something other than amusement, and Arslan only bowed his head. The cool control he had seen in Temujin was under strain in that camp. Though he showed no sign if it, Arslan considered there was a chance of them both being killed through a rash word.

“You honor your father with your restraint,” he said softly. “Knowing it is not from weakness, but from strength.”

Temujin glanced sharply at him, but the words seemed to settle his nerves. Arslan kept his face clear of any relief. For all his ability, Temujin was only eighteen. Wryly, Arslan admitted that Temujin had chosen his companion well for the trip south. They had ridden into terrible danger and Temujin was as prickly as any other young man with his new status and pride. Arslan readied himself to be the calming force Temujin had known he needed when his judgment was clear.

Koke returned after an age, stiff disdain in every movement.

“My lord Sansar will see you,” he said, “but you will give up your weapons.”

Temujin opened his mouth to object, but Arslan untied his scabbard with a flick of his fingers and slapped the hilt of his sword into Koke’s open hand.

“Guard the blade well, boy,” Arslan told him. “You will not see another of that quality in your lifetime.”

Koke could not resist feeling the balance of the sword, but Temujin spoiled his attempt by pressing the second of Arslan’s blades into his arms, so that he had to take it or drop them both. Temujin’s hand felt empty as he let it go, and his gaze remained fixed on the weapons as Koke stepped back.

It was Arslan who faced one of the khan’s bondsmen at the door, opening his arms wide and inviting a search. There was nothing passive in the way he stood there, and Temujin was reminded of the deadly stillness of a snake about to strike. The guard sensed it too and patted down every inch of the swordsmith, including the cuffs of his deel and his ankles.

Temujin could do no less and he endured the search without expression, though inwardly he began to simmer. He could not like these people, for all he dreamed of forming a great tribe of tribes across the land. When he did, the Olkhun’ut would not be part of it until they had been bled clean.

When the bondsmen were satisfied, they ducked into the ger and, in an instant, Temujin was back on the night he had learned of his father’s injury. The polished wooden floor was the same and Sansar himself seemed unmarked by the passage of years.

The khan of the Olkhun’ut remained seated as they approached, his dark eyes watching them with a hint of jaded amusement.

“I am honored to be in your presence, lord,” Temujin said clearly.

Sansar smiled, his skin crinkling like parchment. “I had not thought to see you here again, Temujin. Your father’s passing was a loss for all our people, all the tribes.”

“There is a high price still to pay for those who betrayed him,” Temujin replied. He sensed a subtle tension in the air then as Sansar leaned forward in his great chair, as if expecting something more. When the silence had become painful, Sansar smiled.

“I have heard of your attacks in the north,” the khan said, his voice sibilant in the gloom. “You are making a name for yourself. I think, yes, I think your father would be proud of you.”

Temujin lowered his gaze, unsure how to respond.

“But you have not come to me to boast of little battles against a few raiders, I am sure,” Sansar went on.

His voice held a malice that set Temujin on edge, but he replied with calm.

“I have come for what I was promised,” he said, looking Sansar squarely in the eye.

Sansar pretended to be confused for a moment.

“The girl? But you came to us then as the son of a khan, one who might well inherit the Wolves. That story has been told and ended.”

“Not all of it,” Temujin replied, watching as Sansar blinked slowly, his inner amusement sparkling in his gaze. The man was enjoying himself and Temujin wondered if he would be allowed to leave alive. There were two bondsmen in the ger with their khan, both armed with swords. Koke stood to one side with his head bowed. In a glance, Temujin saw that the swords he held could be snatched from his grip. His cousin was still a fool.

Temujin forced himself to relax. He had not come to die in that ger. He had seen Arslan kill with blows from his hands, and he thought they might survive the first strikes of the bondsmen. Once the warriors gathered in his defense, it would be the end. Temujin dismissed the idea. Sansar was not worth his life; not then, or ever.

“Is the word of the Olkhun’ut not good, then?” he said softly.

Sansar drew in a long breath, letting it hiss over his teeth. His bondsmen shifted, allowing their hands to touch the hilts of their swords.

“Only the young can be so careless with their lives,” Sansar said, “as to risk insulting me in my own home.” His gaze dropped to Koke and sharpened at the sight of the twin swords.

“What can a mere raider offer me for one of the Olkhun’ut women?” he said.

He did not see Arslan close his eyes for a moment, struggling with indignation. The sword he carried had been with him for more than a decade, the best he had ever made. They had nothing else to offer. For an instant, he wondered if Temujin had guessed there would be a price and chosen not to warn him.

Temujin did not reply at first. The bondsmen at Sansar’s side watched him as a man might watch a dangerous dog, waiting for it to bare its fangs and be killed.

Temujin took a deep breath. There was no choice, and he did not look at Arslan for approval.

“I offer you a perfect blade made by a man without equal in all the tribes,” he said. “Not as a price, but as a gift of honor to my mother’s people.”

Sansar bowed his head graciously, gesturing at Koke to approach him. Temujin’s cousin covered his smile and held out the two swords.

“It seems I have a choice of blades, Temujin,” Sansar said, smiling.

Temujin watched in frustration as Sansar fingered the carved hilts, rubbing the balls of his thumbs over bone and brass. Even in the gloom of the ger, they were beautiful, and Temujin could not help but remember his father’s sword, the first that had been taken from him. In the silence, he recalled the promise to his brothers and spoke again before Sansar could reply.

“As well as the woman I was promised, I need two more to be wives for my kin.”

Sansar shrugged, then drew Arslan’s blade and held it up to his eye to look along its length.

“If you will make me a gift of both blades, I will find your offer acceptable, Temujin. We have too many girls in the gers. You may take Sholoi’s daughter if she will have you. She has been a thorn in our side for long enough, and no man can say the Olkhun’ut do not honor their promises.”

“And two more, young and strong?” Temujin said, pressing.

Sansar looked at him for a long time, lowering the swords to his lap. At last, he nodded, grudgingly.

“In memory of your father, Temujin, I will give you two daughters of the Olkhun’ut. They will strengthen your line.”

Temujin would have liked to reach out and grab the khan by his skinny throat. He bowed his head and Sansar smiled.

The khan’s bony hands still fondled the weapons and his gaze became distant, as he seemed almost to have forgotten the men who stood in front of him. With an idle gesture, he signaled the pair to be removed from his presence. The bondsmen ushered them out into the cold air, and Temujin took a deep draft of it, his heart hammering in his chest.

Arslan’s face was tight with anger and Temujin reached out to touch him lightly on the wrist. The swordsmith seemed to jump at the contact, and Temujin remained still, sensing the inner force of the man as it coiled and uncoiled within him.

“It was a greater gift than you know,” Arslan said.

Temujin shook his head, seeing Koke come out behind them, his arms empty. “A sword is just a sword,” he replied. Arslan turned a cold expression on him, but Temujin did not flinch. “You will make a better one, for both of us.”

He turned to Koke then, who was watching the exchange with fascination.

“Take me to her, cousin.”

Though the Olkhun’ut had traveled far in the years since he had last stood in their camp, it seemed the status of Sholoi and his family had remained the same. Koke led Temujin and Arslan to the very edge of the gers, to the same patched and mended home that he remembered. He had spent just a few short days there, but they were still fresh in his mind and it was with an effort that Temujin shook off his past. He had been little more than a child. As a man, he wondered if Borte would welcome his return. Surely Sansar would have said if she had been married in his absence? Temujin thought grimly that the khan of the Olkhun’ut might very well enjoy gaining two fine swords for nothing.

As Koke approached, they saw Sholoi duck out from the little door, stretching his back and hitching up a belt of string. The old man saw them coming and shaded his eyes against the morning sun to watch. The years had left more of a mark on Sholoi than on the khan. He was skinnier than Temujin remembered and his shoulders sagged under an ancient, grubby deel. When they were close, Temujin could see a web of blue veins on his knotted hands, and the old man seemed to start, as if he had only just recognized them. No doubt his eyes were failing, though there was still a hint of strength in those legs, like an old root that would stand right up to the moment it broke.

“Thought you were dead,” Sholoi said, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

Temujin shook his head. “Not yet. I said I would come back.”

Sholoi began to wheeze and it took a moment or two before Temujin realized he was laughing. The sound ended in choking and he watched as Sholoi hawked and spat a lump of ugly-looking brown phlegm onto the ground.

Koke cleared his own throat, irritably. “The khan has given his permission, Sholoi,” Koke said. “Fetch your daughter.”

Sholoi sneered at him. “I didn’t see him here when my seam split last winter. I didn’t see old Sansar out in the wind with me then, with a patch and some thread. Now I think of it, I don’t see him here now, so keep your tongue still while we talk.”

Koke flushed, his eyes darting to Temujin and Arslan.

“Fetch the other girls, Koke, for my brothers,” Temujin said. “I’ve paid a high price, so make sure they’re strong and pretty.”

Koke struggled with his temper, irritated at being dismissed. Neither Temujin nor Arslan looked at him as he strode away.

“How is your wife?” Temujin asked when his cousin had gone.

Sholoi shrugged. “Dead two winters back. She just lay down in the snow and went. Borte is all I have now, to look after me.”

Temujin felt his heart thump at the mention of her name. Until that moment, he had not known for certain she was even alive. He had a flash of understanding for the old man’s loneliness, but there was no help for it, nor for all the blows and hard words he had used with his children. It was too late to have regrets, though that seemed to be the way of the elderly.

“Where…? Temujin began. Before he could go on, the door of the ger swung open and a woman stepped out onto the cold ground. As she straightened, Temujin saw Borte had grown tall, almost as tall as he was himself. She stood at her father’s side and met his gaze with frank curiosity, finally dipping her head in greeting. Her gesture broke the spell and he saw she was dressed to travel, with a deel lined with fur and her black hair tied back.

“You were a long time coming,” she said to Temujin.

He remembered her voice and his chest grew tight with memory. She was no longer the bony child he had known. Her face was strong, with dark eyes that seemed to look right into him. He could tell nothing else about her under the thick deel, but she stood well and her skin was unmarked by disease. Her hair gleamed as she bent and kissed her father on the cheek.

“The black colt has a hoof that needs lancing,” she said. “I would have done it today.”

Sholoi nodded miserably, but they did not embrace. Borte picked up a cloth bag from inside the door and slung it over her shoulder.

Temujin was mesmerized by her and hardly heard Koke returning with their ponies. Two young girls walked at his side, both red-faced and weeping. Temujin only glanced at them when one coughed and held a dirty cloth to her mouth.

“This one is sick,” he said to Koke.

His cousin shrugged insolently and Temujin’s hand dropped to where his blade should have been. Koke saw the fingers close on air and grinned.

“She is the one Sansar told me to fetch for you, with her sister,” he replied.

Temujin set his mouth in a hard line and reached out to take the girl by her chin, raising her face to him. Her skin was very pale, he realized, his heart sinking. It was typical of Sansar to seek a bargain even after the terms had been sealed.

“How long have you been ill, little one?” Temujin asked her.

“Since spring, lord,” she answered, clearly terrified of him. “It comes and goes, but I am strong.”

Temujin let his gaze fall on Koke and held it until his cousin lost his smile. Perhaps he was remembering the beating he’d had at Temujin’s hands on a night long before. Temujin sighed. She would be lucky to survive the trip back to his camp in the north. If she died, one of his brothers would have to find a wife among the Tartar women they captured.

Arslan took the reins and Temujin mounted, looking down at Borte. The wooden saddle did not have room for two, so he held out an arm and she scrambled up to sit across his lap, clutching her bag to her. Arslan did the same with the girl who coughed. Her sister would have to walk behind them. Temujin realized he should have brought other ponies, but it was too late for regrets.

He nodded to Sholoi, knowing they would not meet again.

“Your word is good, old man,” he said.

“Look after her,” Sholoi replied, though his gaze did not leave his daughter.

Without replying, Temujin turned with Arslan and they made their way back through the camp, the girl of the Olkhun’ut trotting behind.

Chapter 22

ARSLAN HAD THE GOOD SENSE to leave them alone that first night. The swordsmith was still brooding about the loss of his blades and preferred to take a bow and hunt while Temujin came to know the woman of the Olkhun’ut. The sister who had walked was footsore and weary by the time they stopped that evening. Temujin learned that her name was Eluin and that she was used to tending to her sister, Makhda, when she was weak from her sickness. Temujin left the pair of them with the ponies after they had eaten, but he could still hear Makhda’s barking cough come at intervals. They had the horse blankets to protect them against the cold, though neither sister seemed particularly hardy. If Makhda lived long enough to reach the north, Temujin thought his mother might be able to find herbs for her, but it was a slim hope.

Borte hardly spoke as Temujin unrolled a blanket on the ground by the crackling fire. He was used to sleeping with nothing but his deel to protect him from the frost, but it did not seem right to ask her to do the same. He did not know the life she was used to, nor how Sholoi had treated her after Temujin had gone. He had not grown up around sisters and was uncomfortable with her in a way he did not fully understand.

He had wanted to talk and listen to her as they rode, but she’d sat straight-backed and stiff, rocking with the motion and staring at the horizon. He had missed the chance to open a conversation naturally, and now there seemed to be a strain between them that he could not ease.

When Arslan returned from his hunt, he played the part of a manservant with his usual efficiency. He butchered a marmot he had caught, roasting the strips of flesh until they were brown and delicious. After that, he took himself off somewhere nearby, lost in the gathering gloom. Temujin waited for some sign of Arslan’s acceptance of his trade for a wife, but there was nothing but grim silence from the older man.

As the stars turned around their northern point, Temujin began to fidget, unable to make himself comfortable. He had seen the smoothness of Borte’s tanned skin as she washed her face and arms in a stream cold enough to make her teeth chatter. They were good teeth, he had noticed, strong and white. For a while, he considered complimenting her on them, but it seemed a little like admiring a new pony and the words wouldn’t come. He could not pretend he didn’t want her under a blanket with him, but the years apart sat between them like a wall. If she had asked, he would have told her everything he had done since the last time they met, but she did not, and he didn’t know how to begin.

As he lay there under the stars, he hoped she would hear the way he puffed air out in great sighs, but if she did, she made no sign she was even awake. He might have been alone in the world, and that was exactly how he felt. He imagined staying awake until dawn so that she would see his tiredness and feel sorry for ignoring him. It was an interesting idea, but he couldn’t keep the sense of injured nobility for very long.

“Are you awake?” he said suddenly, without thinking. He saw her sit up under the stars.

“How could I sleep, with you huffing and blowing to yourself like that?” she replied.

He recalled the last time he had heard that voice in the dark and the touch of her hand on his cheek. The idea was exciting and he felt his body grow hot under his deel, despite the frozen air.

“I had an idea we would spend the first night under a blanket together,” he said. Despite his best intentions, it came out as an irritable complaint, and he heard her snort before she replied.

“Who could resist such sweet words?” she replied.

He waited hopefully, but her continuing silence was enough of an answer. Apparently, she could. He sighed, catching himself in the sound as he heard her giggle, quickly stifled in the blanket. In the darkness, he smiled, suddenly amused.

“I have thought about you many times in the years away,” he said. He saw her shape move then and guessed she had turned to him. He lay on his side facing her and scratched his nose where the damp grass tickled his skin.

“How many times?” she murmured.

He thought for a moment. “Eleven,” he said. “Twelve, including tonight.”

“You did not think of me,” she told him. “What do you remember of who I was?”

“I remember you had a pleasant voice, and a lump of snot underneath your nose,” he said, with such a ring of casual truth that it reduced her to stunned silence.

“I waited for you to come and take me away from my father for a long time,” she said at last. “There were evenings when I dreamed of you riding up, full grown as a khan of the Wolves.”

Temujin tensed in the darkness. Was that what it was? Had his new status made him less in her eyes? He raised himself on an elbow to reply, but she went on, unaware of his fast-changing moods.

“I turned down three young men of the Olkhun’ut,” she said, “the last when my mother was ill and not likely to survive the winter. The women laughed at the girl who pined for a Wolf, and still I walked proudly amongst them.”

“You knew I would come,” Temujin said, with a touch of smugness.

She snorted. “I thought you were dead, but I did not want to be married off to some horse boy of the gers, to bear his children. They laughed at my pride, but it was all I had.”

He stared into the gloom, trying to understand the struggle she had faced, perhaps as great in its way as his own. If he had learned anything in his life, it was that there are some who thrive on loneliness and take strength from it. They were vital, dangerous people and they cherished whatever kept them apart. Borte was one of those, it seemed. He was himself. He thought of his mother for a moment. She had told him to be kind.

“The first time I came to the Olkhun’ut, you were given to me, accepted by my father,” he said softly. “The second time, I came of my own will to find you.”

“You wanted to put your seed in me,” she said tightly.

He wished he could see her face in the darkness.

“I did,” he said. “I want your spirit in my sons and daughters: the best of the Olkhun’ut. The best of the Wolves.”

He heard a rustle and felt the warmth of her as she crept close and pulled her blanket over them both.

“Tell me I am beautiful,” she whispered in his ear, exciting him.

“You are,” he replied, his voice becoming hoarse. He moved his hands on her in the blackness, opening her deel and feeling the smoothness of her belly. “Your teeth are very white.” He heard her chuckle into his ear at that, but her own hands moved on him and he had no more words, nor needed them.

The following day was strangely vivid as Temujin rode with Borte. His senses seemed heightened and almost painful. Every time their flesh touched, he thought of the night before and the nights to come, thrilled by the experiences and the closeness.

They did not make good progress, though Arslan took the reins and let both sisters ride together for most of the afternoon. They stopped to hunt and, between the two bows, they had enough meat to roast each night. Makhda’s cough seemed to be growing worse away from the shelter of the Olkhun’ut gers, and her sister could be heard sobbing whenever she tended her. Arslan spoke kindly to them both, but as the first month ended, Makhda had to be tied into the saddle so that she would not fall from weakness. Though they did not speak of it, none of them expected her to live much longer.

The green of the land was fading as they rode north, and one morning, Temujin woke to see snow falling. He was wrapped in blankets with Borte and they had slept heavily, worn out by the cold and the endless plains. Seeing the snow brought a little ice back to Temujin’s spirit, marking the end of a happy time, perhaps happier than he had ever known. He knew he was returning to hardship and fighting, to leading his brothers into a war with the Tartars. Borte sensed the new distance in him and retreated from it, so that they spent hours each day in weary silence, where before they had chattered like birds.

It was Arslan who saw the wanderers first in the distance, his voice snapping Temujin out of his reverie. Three men had gathered a small herd in the lee of a hill and pitched a grubby ger there against the winter cold. Ever since Sansar had taken their swords, Temujin had feared such a meeting. With Borte in his arms, he swore softly to himself. In the distance, the strangers mounted quickly, kicking their ponies into a gallop. Perhaps their intentions were peaceful, but the sight of three young women would excite them to violence. Temujin drew rein and lowered Borte to the ground. He removed his bow from its wrapping and fitted his best remaining string, pulling away the cap of his quiver. Arslan was ready, he saw. The swordsmith had cut the rope holding Makhda in the saddle, leaving her to sit on the frozen ground with her sister. As he mounted in her place, he and Temujin exchanged a glance.

“Do we wait?” Arslan called.

Temujin watched the galloping warriors and wished he had a sword. Three poor wanderers would not own a long blade between them and it would have been enough to make the outcome certain. As it was, he and Arslan could be left for the birds in just a few bloody moments. It was less of a risk to attack.

“No,” he shouted back over the wind. “We kill them.”

He heard the sisters moaning in fear behind as he kicked in his heels and readied his bow. Despite himself, there was an exhilaration in riding with only his knees, perfectly balanced to send death from his bow.

The distance between them seemed long as they raced along the plain, then suddenly they were close and the wind was roaring in their ears. Temujin listened to the sound of his pony’s hooves striking the ground, feeling the rhythm. There was a point in the galloping stride where all four hooves left the ground for just a heartbeat. Yesugei had taught him to loose on that instant, so that his aim was always perfect.

The men they faced had not suffered through years of such training. They misjudged the distance in their excitement and the first shafts whined overhead before Temujin and Arslan reached them. The hooves thundered and again and again there was that moment of freedom when the ponies flew. Temujin and Arslan loosed together, the shafts vanishing away.

The warrior Arslan had marked fell hard from the saddle, punched off it by an arrow through his chest. His mount whinnied wildly, kicking out and bucking. Temujin’s strike was as clean, and the second man spun free to thump unmoving onto the frozen ground. Temujin saw the third release his arrow as they passed by each other at full speed, aimed right at Temujin’s chest.

He threw himself sideways. The shaft passed above him, but he had fallen too far and could not pull himself up. He cried out in anger as his foot slipped from the stirrup and he found himself clinging almost under his pony’s heaving neck at full gallop. The ground sped by underneath him as he yanked cruelly on the reins, his full weight pulling the bit free of his pony’s mouth so that he dropped another foot. For a few moments he was dragged along the icy earth, then with a huge effort of will he opened his hand on the reins and fell, trying desperately to roll out of the way of the crushing hooves.

The pony raced on without him, the sound dwindling to the silence of snow. Temujin lay on his back, listening to his own shuddering breath and gathering his wits. Everything ached and his hands were shaking. He blinked groggily as he sat up, looking back to see what had become of Arslan.

The swordsmith had put his second shaft into the chest of the warrior’s pony, sending him tumbling over the ground. As Temujin watched, the stranger staggered to his feet, obviously dazed.

Arslan drew a knife from his deel and walked unhurriedly to finish the killing. Temujin tried to shout, but as he took a breath, his chest stabbed at him and he realized he had broken a rib in the fall. With an effort, he stood and filled his lungs.

“Hold, Arslan!” he called, wincing at the sharpness.

The swordsmith heard and stood still, watching the man he had brought down. Temujin pressed a hand into his ribs, hunching over the pain as he walked back.

The wanderer watched him come with resignation. His companions lay in heaps, their ponies cropping at the ground with their reins tangled and loose. His own mount lay dying on the frost. As Temujin came closer he saw the wanderer walk to the kicking animal and plunge a knife into its throat. The flailing legs grew limp and blood came out in a red flood, steaming.

The stranger was short and powerfully muscled, Temujin saw, with very dark, reddish skin and eyes set back under a heavy brow. He was bundled in many layers against the cold and wore a square hat that came to a point. With a sigh, he stepped away from his dead pony and beckoned to Arslan with his bloody knife.

“Come and kill me, then,” he said. “See what I have for you.”

Arslan did not respond, though he turned to Temujin.

“What do you see happening here?” Temujin shouted to the man, closing the distance between them. He took his hand away from his side as he spoke and tried to straighten, though every breath sent a jolt of pain through him. The man looked at him as if he were insane.

“I expect to be killed as you killed my friends,” he said. “Unless you are going to give me a pony and one of your women?”

Temujin chuckled, gazing over to where Borte sat with Eluin and Makhda. He thought he could hear the coughing even from far away.

“That can wait until after we have eaten,” he said. “I grant you guest rights.”

The man’s face creased in amazement. “Guest rights?”

“Why not? It’s your horse we’ll be eating.”

When they rode out the following morning, the sisters were mounted on the ponies and they had another warrior for the raids against the Tartars. The newcomer did not trust Temujin at all, but with luck, his doubt and confusion would last long enough to reach the camp in the snows. If it did not, he would be given a quick death.

The wind tore viciously at them, snow stinging as it was hurled into their eyes and against any exposed skin. Eluin sat on her knees in the snow, wailing at the side of her sister’s body. Makhda had not had an easy death. The constant cold had worsened the thickness in her lungs. For the previous moon, every morning had begun with Eluin thumping at her back and chest until great red clots of blood and phlegm were torn loose enough for her to spit. When she was too weak, Eluin had used her fingers to clear her sister’s mouth and throat, while Makhda watched in terror and choked, desperate for another sip of the frozen air. Her skin had grown waxlike, and on the last day, they could hear her straining, as if she breathed through a whistling reed. Temujin had marveled at her endurance and more than once considered giving her a quick end with a knife across her throat. Arslan had pressed him to do it, but Makhda shook her head wearily every time he offered, right to the end.

They had been traveling for almost three months away from the Olkhun’ut when she slumped in the saddle, leaning to the side against the ropes, so that Eluin could not pull her upright. Arslan had lowered her down then and Eluin had begun to sob, the sound almost lost in the face of the howling wind.

“We must go on,” Borte told Eluin, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Your sister is gone from here now.”

Eluin nodded, red-eyed and silent. She arranged her sister’s body with the hands crossed on her chest. The snow would cover her, perhaps before the wild animals found another meal, in their own struggle to survive.

Still weeping, Eluin allowed Arslan to lift her into the saddle. She looked back at the tiny figure for a long time before distance hid her from sight. Temujin saw Arslan had given her a spare shirt that she wore under her deel. They were all cold despite the layers and the furs. Exhaustion was close, but Temujin knew his camp could not be far away. The Pole Star had risen as they traveled north, and he judged that they had come into Tartar lands. At least the snow hid them from their enemies, as well as it hid them from his brothers and Jelme.

As they rested the ponies and trudged through the snow on frozen feet, Borte walked with Temujin, their arms entwined in each other’s wide sleeves, so that at least one part of them felt warm.

“You will have to find a shaman to marry us,” Borte said without looking at him.

They walked with their heads bowed against the wind and snow crusted on their eyebrows like winter demons. He grunted assent and she felt his grip tighten briefly on her arm.

“My blood has not come this month,” she said.

He nodded vaguely, putting one foot in front of the other. The horses were skeletal without good grass and they too would be falling soon. Surely it was time to ride them again for a few hours? His legs ached and his broken rib still pained him with every jerk of the reins.

He drew up short in the snow and turned to her.

“You are pregnant?” he said incredulously.

Borte leaned forward and rubbed her nose against his.

“Perhaps. There has been so little food, and sometimes the blood doesn’t come because of that. I think I am, though.” She saw him surface from his walking trance and a smile come to his eyes.

“It will be a strong son to have had his beginnings on such a journey,” he said. The wind roared in a great gust as he spoke, so that they had to turn away. They could not see the sun, but the day was fading and he shouted to Arslan to look for shelter.

As Arslan began to scout around them for somewhere out of the wind, Temujin caught a glimpse of movement through the sheets of snow. He felt a prickle of danger at his neck and gave a low whistle for Arslan to come back. The wanderer looked quizzically at him and drew his knife in silence, staring into the snow.

The three of them waited in tense silence for Arslan to return while the snow whipped and flailed around them. They were almost blind in its midst, but again Temujin thought he saw the shape of a mounted man, a shadow. Borte asked him a question, but he did not hear it as he shook ice from the wrappings around his bow and attached the horsehide string to one end. With a grunt of effort, he realized the string had grown damp despite the oilcloth. He managed to fit the loop over the nocked end, but it creaked ominously and he thought it could easily snap on the first pull. Where was Arslan? He could hear the rumble of horses galloping nearby, the sound echoing in the whiteness until he could not be sure which way they were coming. With an arrow on the string, he spun, listening. They were closer. He heard the wanderer give a hiss of breath through his teeth, readying himself for an attack. Temujin noted how the man held his ground, and he gave thanks that there was one more with courage to stand at his side. Temujin raised the creaking bow. He saw dark shapes and heard shouting voices, and for a heartbeat, he imagined the Tartars coming for his head.

“Here!” he heard a voice. “They are here!”

Temujin almost dropped the bow in relief as he recognized Kachiun and knew he was back amongst his people. He stood numbly as Kachiun leapt from his saddle into the snow and thumped into him, embracing his brother.

“It has been a good winter, Temujin,” Kachiun said, hammering him excitedly on the back with his gloved hand. “Come and see.”

Chapter 23

TEMUJIN AND THE OTHERS MOUNTED for the last mile, though their ponies were dropping in exhaustion. The camp they came to was set against the dark face of an ancient landslip, sheltered from the worst of the wind by an overhang above and the hill at their back. Two dozen gers clustered there like lichen, with wild dogs and tethered ponies in every available spot out of the wind. Despite aching for rest and hot food, Temujin could not help glancing around at the bustling place hidden away in the snow. He could see Jelme kept the camp on a war footing. Warriors on their way to a long watch strode by with their heads down against the wind. There were far more men than women and children, Temujin noticed, seeing the camp with the fresh eyes of a stranger. That was a blessing when they were ready to ride and fight at a moment’s notice, but it could not go on forever. Men followed their leaders to war, but they wanted a home to return to, with a woman’s touch in the dark and children round the feet like puppies.

Those who had known hunger and fear as wanderers might be satisfied with the fledgling tribe in the snow, though even then they were as wary of each other as wild dogs. Temujin repressed his impatience. The wanderers would learn to see a brother where once had stood an enemy. They would learn the sky father knew only one people and saw no tribes. It would come in time, he promised himself.

As he walked through the camp, he became more alert, shrugging off his weariness as the details caught his interest. He saw watchers high on the cliff above his head, bundled against the wind. He did not envy them and he thought they would see little in the constant snow. Still, it showed Jelme’s thoroughness and Temujin was pleased. The camp had a sense of urgency in every movement, rather than the usual winter lethargy that affected the tribes. He felt the suppressed excitement as soon as he was amongst them.

There were new faces there, men and women who looked at him as if he were a stranger. He imagined they saw his ragged group as another wanderer family brought into the fold. Temujin looked at Borte to see how she was taking her first sight of his little tribe in the north. She too was pale with tiredness, but she rode close to his side and her sharp eyes took it all in. He could not tell if she approved. They passed a ger where Arslan had built a brick forge months before, and Temujin saw the glow from its flame, a tongue of light on the snow. There were men and women in there for the warmth, and he heard laughter as he trotted by. He turned to the swordsmith to see if he had noticed, but Arslan was oblivious. His gaze searched ceaselessly among the tribe, looking for his son.

Jelme came out to meet them as soon as he heard Kachiun shout. Khasar too came skidding from a different ger, beaming in delight at the sight of the small party who had been gone half a year. As they dismounted, grinning boys ran to take their ponies without having to be summoned. Temujin cuffed at one, making him duck. He was pleased with Jelme’s stewardship of the tribe. They had not grown fat and slow in his absence.

Arslan’s pride in his son was obvious and Temujin saw Jelme nod to his father. To Temujin’s surprise, Jelme went down on one knee and reached out for Temujin’s hand.

“No, Jelme, stand up,” Temujin said, half irritably. “I want to get out of the wind.”

Jelme remained where he was, though he raised his head.

“Let the new men see, my lord khan. They do not know you yet.”

Temujin understood and his appreciation of Jelme went up a degree. Some of the wanderer families would have known Jelme as the closest thing to a khan for the months Temujin had been away. It was important to show them the true leader had returned. He did not argue again, and allowed Jelme to place his hand on his head before lifting him up and embracing him.

“Did you find a shaman amongst these new arrivals?” Temujin asked.

Jelme winced at the question as he rose. “There is one, though he stole the supply of airag and bargains his ration for more whenever he can.”

“Keep him sober for a few days, then,” Temujin said. “As long as he can dedicate my marriage to the sky father and earth mother, I’ll keep him drunk for a month afterwards.”

He looked around him once more, seeing how many faces had stopped in the snow and wind to watch the scene. As he caught the eyes of those he knew, they bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Jelme’s gaze fell on Borte and Eluin and he bowed low at the waist.

“We are honored to have you with us, daughters of the Olkhun’ut,” he said.

Borte did not know what to make of the confident stranger. She dipped her head jerkily in return, flushing as she looked away. Nothing in her life had prepared her to be treated with respect, and for a moment, she had to blink back tears.

Released from the formalities of his welcome, Jelme was finally free to take his father’s arm and embrace him.

“I have bled the Tartars,” he told Arslan, struggling not to seem too proud. His father chuckled and slapped his son on the back. Perhaps in time, he too would become comfortable with the easy manner Temujin encouraged amongst his men.

“I am home,” Temujin said, under his breath and unheard by the others. It was little more than a raiding camp on frozen ground, with barely enough food or shelter for any of them, but there was no question. He had brought Borte home.

“Take me to my mother, Jelme,” he said, shivering in the wind. “She will be hungry for news of the Olkhun’ut.” He caught a glimpse of Borte’s nervousness at his words and sought to reassure her.

“She will welcome you, Borte, as if you were her own daughter.”

As Jelme began to lead the way, Temujin saw the raider he had taken under his wing standing uncomfortably on the outskirts of their little group. His mind swam with a hundred things to remember, but he could not leave the man standing amongst strangers.

“Kachiun? This is Barakh, a fine warrior. He needs work with the bow and he has never used a sword. He is brave and strong, however. See what you can make of him.” He frowned to himself as he spoke, remembering yet another debt.

“Make sure that Arslan is given everything he needs to forge new swords. Have men sent out to dig for ore.”

Kachiun nodded. “There is a seam in this hill. We have the gray stones piled ready for him. Jelme wouldn’t let anyone touch it until his father returned.”

Temujin saw that Arslan and his son were both listening.

“That was right,” he said immediately. “Arslan will make two swords as great as any we have ever seen, is that not so?”

Arslan was still reeling from the pleasure of seeing his son alive and strong, a leader of men. He bowed his head.

“I will make them,” he said.

“Now, by the sky father, let us get out of this wind,” Temujin said. “I thought it would be spring by now.”

Khasar shrugged. “We think this is the spring, as far north as we are. I am enjoying the milder weather, myself.”

Temujin looked around at Khasar, Kachiun, Jelme, and Arslan. They were fine warriors and his heart soared at the thought of what they might accomplish together. He was home.

Hoelun had a ger to herself, with a young girl from the wanderer families to help her. She was in the process of rubbing clean mutton fat into her skin when she heard the commotion. Her servant went out into the snow for news, returning red-faced and gasping from the cold.

“Your son is in the camp, mistress,” she said.

Hoelun let the pot of grease fall from her hands and wiped them on an old cloth. She made a clicking sound in her throat to hurry the girl along as she held out her arms and shrugged herself into the deel. The strength of her emotions surprised her, but her heart had leapt at the news. Temujin had survived again. Though she could not forget what he had done in the darkest times, he was still her son. Love was a strange and twisted thing for any mother, beyond all reason.

By the time she heard his voice outside, Hoelun had composed herself, taking little Temulun on her lap and combing her hair to calm her shaking hands. The girl seemed to sense her mother’s strange mood and looked around wide-eyed when the door opened. Temujin brought the winter in with him in a gust of snow and bitter air that made Hoelun shiver and Temulun cry out with happiness at the older brother she had not seen for such a long time.

Hoelun watched as Temujin embraced his sister, complimenting her on her beautiful hair, as he always did. The girl chattered while Hoelun drank in every detail of the young man who inspired such mixed feelings in her. Whether he knew it or not, he was very much the son Yesugei would have wanted. In her darkest moments, she knew Yesugei would have approved the death of Bekter when they were close to starving. Her sons had inherited their father’s ruthlessness, or perhaps had it hammered into them by the lives they had led.

“It is good to see you, my son,” Hoelun said formally. Temujin only smiled, turning aside to bring in a tall young woman and another behind her. Hoelun’s eyes widened as she took in the delicate features of her own people. It brought a pang of homesickness, surprising after so many years. She rose and took the two younger women by their hands, bringing them into the warmth. Temulun came to join them, snuggling in between and demanding to know who they were.

“More wood on the fire there,” Hoelun told her girl. “You must both be freezing. Which of you is Borte?”

“I am, Mother,” Borte responded shyly. “Of the Olkhun’ut.”

“I knew that from your face and the markings on your deel,” Hoelun said as she turned to the other. “And you, daughter, what is your name?”

Eluin was still stunned with grief, but she did her best to reply. Hoelun sensed her misery and embraced her on an impulse. She brought them both to where they could sit, calling for bowls of hot tea to warm them. Temulun was kept quiet with a bag of sweet yoghurt curds and sat in the corner, digging deeply into it. Temujin watched as the women of the Olkhun’ut talked together and was pleased to see Borte begin to smile at his mother’s recollections. Hoelun understood their fears amongst the strangeness. She had felt the same way herself, once. While they thawed, she questioned them endlessly, her voice slipping into an old accent Temujin recognized from the Olkhun’ut. It was strange to hear it from his mother, and he was reminded again of the life she had led before Yesugei or her children.

“Is Sansar still the khan? What of my nephew, Koke, and his father, Enq?”

Borte answered Hoelun easily, responding to her motherly ways without embarrassment. Temujin looked on with pride, as if he were responsible. His mother seemed to have forgotten him, so he seated himself and nodded to the servant girl for a bowl of tea, accepting it gratefully and closing his eyes in pleasure as its warmth worked through him. Eluin too began to join the conversation and he allowed himself to relax at last and close his eyes

“…this cannot go on much longer, this storm,” he heard his mother saying. “The thaw has already begun and the hill passes have begun to clear.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold,” Borte replied, rubbing her hands together. The women seemed to like each other and Temujin settled back gratefully.

“I brought Eluin to be a wife to Khasar or Kachiun. Her sister died on the trip,” he said, opening his eyes a fraction. Both women looked at him, then the conversation began again as if he had not spoken. He snorted softly to himself. No man could be a khan to his mother. The warmth made him drowsy and, with their soft voices in his ears, he dropped off to sleep.

Kachiun and Khasar sat in a neighboring ger, chewing on hot mutton that had been simmering in broth for the best part of a day. With the cold, it was necessary to keep a stew on the fire the whole time so that there was always a bowl to warm them before they went out again. There had been little chance to relax while Temujin was away. The brothers tolerated Jelme’s orders with good nature, knowing it was what Temujin would have wanted. In private, though, they dropped all masks and pretenses, talking long into the night.

“I liked the look of that Eluin,” Khasar said.

Kachiun rose to the bait immediately, as his brother had known he would. “Your girl died, Khasar. Eluin was promised to me and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything like it, little brother. The eldest gets his tea and stew first, have you noticed? It is the same with wives.”

Kachiun snorted, half in amusement. He had seen Eluin first, when he rode out to answer the scout’s call. He had hardly noticed her then, bundled up against the cold, but he felt it gave him some sort of finder’s rights. It was certainly a stronger claim than Khasar’s, who had just stumbled out of a ger and met her.

“Temujin will decide,” he said.

Khasar nodded, beaming. “I am glad we will not argue. I am the eldest, after all.”

“I said he will decide, not choose you,” Kachiun replied, sourly.

“She was pretty, I thought. With long legs.”

“What could you see of her legs? She looked like a yak in all those layers.”

Khasar looked off into the distance. “She was tall, Kachiun, didn’t you notice? Unless you think her feet don’t reach to the ground, there must be long legs in there somewhere. Strong legs to wrap around a man, if you know what I mean.”

“Temujin could marry her to Jelme,” Kachiun replied, more to sting his brother than because he believed it.

Khasar shook his head. “Blood comes first,” he said. “Temujin knows that better than anyone.”

“If you took a moment to listen to him, you’d hear he claims a blood tie to every man and woman in camp, regardless of tribe or family,” Kachiun said. “By the spirits, Khasar, you think more of your stomach and loins than of what he’s trying to do here.”

The two brothers stared balefully at each other.

“If you mean I don’t follow him around like a lost dog, then you’re right,” Khasar said. “Between you and Jelme, he has his own adoring little pack these days.”

“You are an idiot,” Kachiun told him, slowly and deliberately.

Khasar flushed. He knew he lacked the keen intelligence of Temujin and perhaps even Kachiun, but the world would freeze solid before he would admit it.

“Perhaps you should go and lie at the door of our mother’s ger in the snow,” he said. “You could press your nose up against it, or something.”

Both of them had killed men, with Temujin and with Jelme, yet when they came together, it was with the roaring energy of two boys, all elbows and red-faced struggle. Neither one reached for their knives and Khasar quickly had Kachiun’s head locked under his arm and was shaking him.

“Say you are his dog,” Khasar said, breathing heavily with the exertion. “Quickly, I’m on watch next.”

“I saw Eluin first and she’s mine,” Kachiun said as he choked.

Khasar squeezed even tighter. “Say you would prefer her to bed your handsome older brother,” he demanded.

Kachiun struggled violently and they fell together against a bed, breaking Khasar’s grip. Both of them lay panting, watching each other warily.

“I don’t care if I am his dog,” Kachiun said. “Neither does Jelme.” He took a deep breath in case his brother launched himself at him again. “Neither do you.”

Khasar shrugged.

“I like killing Tartars, but if they keep sending old women out with their raiders, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Even Arslan managed to find himself a pretty young thing before he left.”

“Is she still refusing you?” Kachiun asked.

Khasar frowned. “She said Arslan would kill me if I touched her, and I think she could be right. There’s one I don’t want to cross.”

Arslan stood in the ger he had constructed around his forge, letting the warmth seep into his bones. His precious tools had been oiled and wrapped against rust, and he found nothing to complain about as he faced Jelme.

“You have done well here, my son. I saw how the other men looked to you. Perhaps it was the sky father who guided us to the Wolves.”

Jelme shrugged. “That is in the past. I have found a purpose here, Father, a place. I am concerned with the future now, if this winter ever comes to an end. I’ve never seen one like it.”

“In all your many years,” Arslan replied, smiling. Jelme seemed to have grown in confidence away from him, and he did not know quite how to take the strong young warrior who faced him so calmly. Perhaps he had needed the absence of his father to become a man. It was a sobering thought, and Arslan did not want to be sober.

“Can you find me a skin or two of airag while we talk?” he said. “I want to hear about the raids.”

Jelme reached inside his ger and produced a fat skin of the potent liquid.

“I have arranged for hot stew to be brought to us,” he said. “It’s thin, but we still have a little meat dried and salted.”

Both men stood against the forge, relaxing in the heat. Arslan untied his deel to let the warmth get through.

“I saw your swords had gone,” Jelme said.

Arslan grunted irritably. “They were the price for the women Temujin brought back.”

“I’m sorry,” Jelme said. “You will make others just as fine, or better.”

Arslan frowned. “Each one is a month of solid work, and that doesn’t include the time digging ore or making the ingots of iron. How many more do I have left in me, do you think? I won’t live forever. How many times can I get just the right steel and work it without flaws?” He spat on the forge and watched it bubble gently, not yet hot enough to skitter away. “I thought you would inherit the blade I carried.”

“Perhaps I will yet, if we grow strong enough to take it from the Olkhun’ut,” Jelme replied.

His father turned away from the forge and stared at him.

“Is that what you think? That this small group of raiders will sweep across the land in the spring?”

Jelme met his gaze stubbornly, but did not reply. Arslan snorted.

“I brought you up to have more sense than that. Think tactically, Jelme, as I taught you. We have, what, thirty warriors at most? How many have been trained from their earliest years as you were, as Temujin and his brothers were?”

“None of them, but-” Jelme began.

His father brought his hand down in a chopping gesture, his anger growing.

“The smallest tribes can field sixty to eighty men of good quality, Jelme, men who can take a bird on the wing with their bows, men with good swords and knowledge enough to form horns in the attack, or to retreat in good order. I would not trust this camp to stage an attack on a fifth of the Olkhun’ut warriors. Do not be deceived! This frozen little place will need the sky father’s blessing to survive a single season after the thaw. The Tartars will come howling, looking for revenge for whatever petty damage they have suffered in the winter.”

Jelme set his jaw tight at that and glared at his father.

“We have taken horses, weapons, food, even swords-”

Once again, his father silenced him.

“Blades I could bend in my hands! I know the quality of Tartar weapons, boy.”

“Stop it!” Jelme suddenly roared at his father. “You know nothing of what we have done. You haven’t even given me the chance to tell you before you are away with your warnings and prophecies of doom. Yes, we may be destroyed in the spring. I have done what I could to build them and train them while you were away. How many men have you taken on to work the forge and learn your skill? I have not heard of a single one.”

Arslan opened his mouth, but Jelme had worked himself into a fury and there was no stopping him.

“Would you have me give up and lie in the snow? This is the path I have chosen. I have found a man to follow and I gave my oath. My word is iron, Father, as you told me it must be. Did you mean that it was strong only while the odds were on your side? No. You’ve taught me too well, if you expect me to give up on these people. I have a place, I told you, no matter how it comes out.” He paused, taking deep breaths from the force of his emotion. “I have made the Tartars fear us, just as I said I would. I hoped you would be proud of me and instead you blow like a windy old man with your fears.”

Arslan did not mean to strike him. His son was standing too close and when he moved his hands, Arslan reacted from instinct, snapping out an iron-hard fist to crack against his son’s jaw. Jelme fell, dazed, his shoulder striking the edge of the forge.

Arslan watched, appalled, as Jelme took a moment and rose with icy calm. His son rubbed at his jaw and his face was very pale.

“Do not do that again,” Jelme said softly, his eyes hard.

“It was a mistake, my son,” Arslan replied. “It was worry and weariness, nothing more.” He looked as if he felt the pain himself.

Jelme nodded. He had suffered worse in their practice bouts together, but there was still anger running through him and it was hard to shake it off.

“Train men to make swords,” Jelme said, making it an order. “We will need every last one of them, and as you say, you will not live forever. None of us do.” He rubbed his jaw again, wincing as it clicked.

“I have found something of worth here,” he said, trying hard to make his father understand. “The tribes fight amongst themselves and waste their strength. Here, we have shown a man can begin again and it does not matter whether he was once a Naiman or a Wolf.”

Arslan saw a strange light in his son’s eyes and was worried by it. “He gives them food in their bellies and, for a little while, they forget old feuds and hatreds. That is what I am seeing here!” he snapped at his son. “The tribes have fought for a thousand years. You think one man can cut through all that history, that hatred?”

“What is the alternative?” Temujin said from the door.

Both men spun to face him and he glanced at the dark bruise on Jelme’s jaw, understanding it in an instant.

He looked exhausted as he came to stand by the forge.

“I could not sleep with three women and my sister chattering like birds, so I came here.”

Neither son nor father replied and Temujin went on, closing his eyes as the warmth reached him.

“I do not ask for blind followers, Arslan,” he said. “You are right to question our purpose here. You see a ragged group with barely enough food to get through to the thaw. Perhaps we could find ourselves a valley somewhere and raise herds and children while the tribes continue to roam and butcher each other.”

“You won’t tell me you care how many strangers die in those battles,” Arslan said with certainty.

Temujin fixed his yellow eyes on the swordsmith, seeming to fill the small space of the ger.

“We feed the soil with our blood, our endless feuding,” he said after a time. “We always have, but that does not mean we always should. I have shown that a tribe can come from the Quirai, the Wolves, the Woyela, the Naimans. We are one people, Arslan. When we are strong enough, I will make them come to me, or I will break them one at a time. I tell you we are one people. We are Mongols, Arslan. We are the silver people and one khan can lead us all.”

“You are drunk, or dreaming,” Arslan replied, ignoring his son’s discomfort. “What makes you think they would ever accept you?”

“I am the land,” Temujin replied. “And the land sees no difference in the families of our people.” He looked from one to the other. “I do not ask for your loyalty. You gave me that with your oath and it binds you until death. It may be that we will all be killed in the attempt, but you are not the men I think you are if that will stop you.” He chuckled to himself for a moment, knuckling his eyes against the weariness made worse by the warmth.

“I climbed for an eagle chick once. I could have stayed on the ground, but the prize was worth the risk. It turned out that there were two of them, so I was luckier than I had hoped to be.” His chuckle seemed bitter, though he did not explain. He clapped father and son on the shoulder.

“Now stop this bickering and climb with me,” he said. He paused for a moment to see how they took his words, then went back out into the cold snow to find somewhere to sleep.

Chapter 24

WEN CHAO KEPT A CLOSE EYE on his servants through the hangings of the litter as they struggled under its weight. With three men to each wooden handle, the labor should have been just enough to keep them warm, but when he glanced out of the silk awning, he noticed more than one was growing blue around the lips. He had not moved before the winter snow had begun to melt, but there was still crunching ice underfoot and the wind was cruel. He suspected he would lose another slave before they reached the Mongol camp, if not two. He pulled his furs around him and wondered peevishly if they would find the camp at all.

He amused himself for a time by cursing Togrul, the khan of the Kerait, who had claimed to know where the raiding band were waiting out the winter. With a little more heat and imagination, he practiced even more complicated insults for the members of the Chin court in Kaifeng.

He had known he had been outmaneuvered from the moment he laid eyes on the expressions of the eunuchs. They were as bad as gossipy old women, and there was little that went on in the court that they did not hear. Wen remembered the acid delight in little Zhang, the first amongst them, as he had ushered him into the presence of the first minister.

Wen pursed his lips in irritation at the memory. He prided himself on his expertise in the games of power, but there it was. He had been lulled by a woman of the best Willow house in Kaifeng and missed just one important meeting. He sighed at the thought of her skill, remembering every wanton touch and the peculiar thing she had tried to do with a feather. He hoped her services had cost his enemies dearly, at least. When he had been summoned from her bed in the middle of the night, he had known immediately that he would pay for his pleasures. Ten years of cleverness had been wasted by one drunken night of poetry and love. It hadn’t been good poetry, either, he reflected. The minister had announced a diplomatic mission to the barbarous tribes as if it were a great honor, and of course, Wen had been forced to smile and knock his head on the floor as if he had been given his heart’s desire.

Two years later, he was still waiting to be recalled. Away from the machinations and games of the Chin court, no doubt he had been forgotten. He addressed copies of his reports to trusted friends with instructions to send them on, but it was likely none of them was ever read. It was no great chore to lose them amongst the thousands of scribes who tended the court of the Middle Kingdom, not for one as devious as Zhang, at least.

Although Wen refused to despair, there was a chance he would end his days among the ugly Mongol tribes, frozen to death or poisoned by their endless rancid mutton and sour milk. It was really too much for a man of his position and advanced years. He had taken barely a dozen servants, as well as his guards and litter-bearers, but the winter had proved too much for the weaker ones, passing them back into the wheel of life for their next reincarnation. Remembering the way his personal scribe had caught a fever and died still made him furious. The man had sat down in the snow and refused to go on. One of the guards had kicked him, on Wen’s instructions, but the little fellow gave up the spirit with every sign of spiteful pleasure as he died.

Wen hoped fervently that he would return as a scrubber of floors, or a pony that would be beaten regularly and with much enthusiasm. Now that the man was gone, Wen could only regret the beatings he had not inflicted himself. There was never enough time, even for the most conscientious of masters.

He heard the thumping rhythm of hoofbeats and considered twitching back the hanging that kept out the wind from his litter, before thinking better of it. No doubt it would be the guards reporting a complete lack of sign, as they had done for the previous twelve days. When he heard them shout, his old heart thumped with relief, though it was beneath him to show it. Was he not the fifth cousin of the Emperor’s second wife? He was. Instead, he reached for one of his most annotated scrolls and read the words of philosophy, finding calm in their simple thoughts. He had never been comfortable with the high moral tone of Confucius himself, but his disciple Xun Zi was a man Wen would have liked to take for a drink. It was his words he turned to most often when his mood was low.

Wen ignored the excited chatter of his guards as they decided who should disturb him in his solitary splendor. Xun Zi believed the path to excellence was the path of enlightenment, and Wen was considering a delicious parallel in his own life. He was just reaching for his writing tools when the litter was laid down and he heard a nervous throat being cleared by his ear. He sighed. The travel had been dull, but the thought of mingling once more with unwashed tribesmen would try his patience to the limit. All this for one night of debauchery, he thought, as he moved the hanging aside and stared into the face of his most trusted guard.

“Well, Yuan, we seem to have stopped,” he said, letting his long fingernails click on the parchment in his hand to show his displeasure. Yuan was crouching by the litter and dropped flat as soon as Wen spoke, pressing his forehead against the icy ground. Wen sighed audibly.

“You may speak, Yuan. If you do not, we will be here all day.” In the distance, he heard the mournful note of warning horns on the wind. Yuan glanced back in the direction he’d ridden from.

“We found them, master. They are coming.”

Wen nodded. “You are first among my guards, Yuan. When they have finished blustering and yelping, let me know.”

He let the silk hanging fall back into place and began tying his scrolls in their scarlet ribbons. He heard the rumble of approaching horses and felt the tickle of curiosity become overwhelming. With a sigh at his own weakness, Wen slid back the spyhole in the wooden edge of the litter, peering through it. Only Yuan knew it was there and he would say nothing. To the slaves, it would seem as if their master scorned the danger. It was important to present the right image for slaves, he thought, wondering if there was time to add a note to his own small thoughts on philosophy. He would have his work bound and sent back to be published, he promised himself. It was particularly critical of the role of eunuchs in the court of Kaifeng. As he squinted through the tiny hole, he thought it would be best to publish it anonymously.

Temujin rode with Arslan and Jelme on his flanks. Ten of his best men came with them, while Khasar and Kachiun had split smaller forces around the camp to look for a second attack.

From the first sighting, Temujin knew something was wrong with the little scene. He wondered why so many armed men seemed to be guarding a box. The men themselves were strange, though he recognized seasoned warriors when he saw them. Instead of attacking, they had formed a defensive square around the box to wait for his arrival. Temujin glanced at Arslan, with his eyebrows raised. Over the sound of the galloping hooves, Arslan was forced to shout.

“Tread carefully, my lord. It can only be a representative of the Chin, someone of rank.”

Temujin looked back at the strange scene with renewed interest. He had heard of the great cities in the east, but never seen one of their people. They were said to swarm like flies and use gold as a building material, it was so common. Whoever it was, they were important enough to travel with a dozen guards and enough slaves to carry the lacquered box. In itself, that was a strange thing to see in the wilderness. It shone blackly and at its sides were draped hangings the color of the sun.

Temujin had an arrow on the string and was guiding his pony with his knees. He lowered the bow, giving a short call to those around him to do the same. If it was a trap, the Chin warriors would find they had made an error coming into those lands.

He reined in. For those with an eye to see it, his men kept their formation perfectly as they matched him. Temujin tied his bow neatly to the thong on his saddle, touched the hilt of his sword for luck, and rode up to the man at the center of the strange party.

He did not speak. Those lands were Temujin’s by right and he did not have to explain his presence in them. His yellow gaze was steady on the warrior, and Temujin noted the overlapping armor with interest. Like the box itself, the panels were lacquered in a substance that shone like black water, the fastenings hidden by the design. It looked as if it would stop an arrow, and Temujin wondered how he could obtain a set to test.

The warrior watched Temujin from beneath the rim of a padded helmet, his face half covered by cheekpieces of iron. He looked ill to Temujin, a ghastly yellow color that spoke of too many evenings drinking. Yet the whites of his eyes were clear and he did not flinch from the sight of so many armed men as they waited for orders.

The silence stretched and Temujin waited. At last, the officer frowned and spoke.

“My master of the Jade Court wishes to speak with you,” Yuan said stiffly, his accent strange to Temujin’s ears. Like his master, Yuan disliked the warriors of the tribes. They had no discipline of the sort he understood, for all their ferocity. He saw them as ill-tempered hounds and it was undignified to have to converse with them like human beings.

“Is he hiding in that box?” Temujin asked.

The officer tensed and Temujin dropped his hand near the hilt of his sword. He had spent hundreds of evenings training with Arslan, and he did not fear a sudden clash of blades. Perhaps his amusement showed in his eyes, for Yuan restrained himself and sat like stone.

“I am to say a message from Togrul of the Kerait,” Yuan continued.

Temujin reacted to the name with intense curiosity. He had heard it before and his camp contained three wanderers who had been banished from that tribe.

“Say your message then,” Temujin replied.

The warrior spoke as if he were reciting, looking off into the far distance. “Trust these men and offer them guest rights in my name,” Yuan said.

Temujin grinned suddenly, surprising the Chin soldier. “Perhaps that would be wise. Have you considered the alternative?”

Yuan looked back at Temujin, irritated. “There is no alternative. You have been given your orders.”

Temujin laughed aloud at that, though he never lost his awareness of the soldier in reach of a sword.

“Togrul of the Kerait is not my khan,” he said. “He does not give orders here.” Still, his interest had grown in the party who had come into the lands around his war camp. The officer said nothing more, though he radiated tension.

“I might just have you all killed and take whatever is in that fine box you are protecting,” Temujin said, more to sting the man than anything else. To his surprise, the officer did not grow angry as he had before. Instead, a grim smile appeared on his face.

“You do not have enough men,” Yuan replied with certainty.

As Temujin was about to respond, a voice from the box snapped an order in a language he could not understand. It sounded like the honking of geese, but the officer bowed his head immediately.

Temujin could not resist his curiosity any longer.

“Very well. I grant you guest rights in my home,” he said. “Ride in with me so that my guards do not send arrows down your throat as you come.” He saw that Yuan was frowning and spoke again. “Ride slowly and make no sudden gestures. There are men in my camp who do not like strangers.”

Yuan raised a fist and the twelve bearers gripped the long handles and stood as one, gazing impassively forward. Temujin did not know what to make of any of it. He snapped orders to his men and took the lead with Arslan, while Jelme and the others trotted their ponies around the little group to bring up the rear.

As he came abreast with Arslan, Temujin leaned over in the saddle, his voice a murmur.

“You know these people?”

Arslan nodded. “I have met them before.”

“Are they a threat to us?” Temujin watched as Arslan considered.

“They could be. They have great wealth and it is said their cities are vast. I do not know what they want with us, in this place.”

“Or what game Togrul is playing,” Temujin added. Arslan nodded and they did not speak again as they rode.

Wen Chao waited until his litter had been placed on the ground and Yuan had come to the side. He had watched their arrival in the camp with interest and suppressed groans at the sight of the familiar gers and scrawny sheep. The winter had been hard and the people he saw had a pinched look to their faces. He could smell the mutton fat on the breeze long before he came to the camp, and he knew the odor would stay in his robes until they were washed and washed again. As Yuan drew back the silk hangings, Wen stepped out amongst them, breathing as shallowly as he possibly could. From experience, he knew he would get used to it, but he had yet to meet a tribesman who troubled to wash more than once or twice a year, and then only if he fell in a river. Nonetheless, he had a task to perform and, though he cursed little Zhang under his breath, he stepped out into the cold wind with as much dignity as he could muster.

Even if he had not seen how the other men deferred to the young one with the yellow eyes, Wen would have known him for the leader. In the court of Kaifeng, they knew of those who were “tigers in the reeds,” those who had the warrior’s blood running in them. This Temujin was one of those tigers, Wen decided, as soon as he faced those eyes. Such eyes they were! Wen had seen nothing like them.

The wind was bitter for one dressed in thin robes, but Wen showed no discomfort as he faced Temujin and bowed. Only Yuan would know the gesture was far short of the angle courtesy dictated, but it amused Wen to insult the barbarians. To his surprise, the raider merely watched the movement and Wen found himself prickling.

“My name is Wen Chao, ambassador of the Chin court of the Northern Sung. I am honored to be in your camp,” he said. “Word of your battles with the Tartars has spread far across the land.”

“And that brought you here in your little box, did it?” Temujin replied. He was fascinated by every aspect of the strange man waited upon by so many servants. He too had the yellow skin that looked ill to Temujin’s eyes, but he bore himself well in the wind as it plucked at his robes. Temujin estimated his age as more than forty, though the skin was unlined. The Chin diplomat was a strange vision for those who had grown up in the tribes. He wore a green robe that seemed to shimmer. His hair was as black as their own, but scraped back on his head and held in a tail with a clasp of silver. To Temujin’s astonishment, he saw that the man’s hands ended in nails like claws that caught the light. Temujin wondered how long the man could stand the cold. He seemed not to notice it, but his lips were growing blue even as Temujin watched.

Wen bowed again before speaking.

“I bring greetings of the Jade Court. We have heard much of your success here, and there are many things to discuss. Your brother in the Kerait sends his greetings.”

“What does Togrul want with me?” Temujin replied.

Wen fumed, feeling the cold bite at him. Would he not be invited into the warm gers? He decided to push a little.

“Have I not been granted guest rights, my lord? It is not fitting to talk of great issues with so many ears around us.”

Temujin shrugged. The man was clearly freezing and he wanted to hear what had brought him across a hostile plain before he passed out.

“You are welcome here”- he tasted the name on his tongue before mangling it horribly-“Wencho?”

The old man controlled a wince and Temujin smiled at his pride.

“Wen Chao, my lord,” the diplomat replied. “The tongue must touch the roof of the mouth.”

Temujin nodded. “Come in to the warmth then, Wen. I will have hot salt tea brought to you.”

“Ah, the tea,” Wen Chao murmured, as he followed Temujin into a ragged ger. “How I have missed it.”

In the gloom, Wen seated himself and waited patiently until a bowl of hot tea was pressed into his hands by Temujin himself. The ger filled with men who stared at him uneasily, and Wen forced himself to breathe shallowly until he became used to the sweaty closeness of them. He longed for a bath, but such pleasures were long behind.

Temujin watched as Wen tasted the tea through pursed lips, clearly pretending to enjoy it.

“Tell me of your people,” Temujin said. “I have heard they are very numerous.”

Wen nodded, grateful for the chance to speak rather than sip.

“We are a divided kingdom. The southern borders hold more than sixty thousand souls under the Sung emperor,” he said. “The northern Chin, perhaps the same.”

Temujin blinked. The numbers were larger than he could imagine.

“I think you are exaggerating, Wen Chao,” he replied, pronouncing the name correctly in his surprise.

Wen shrugged. “Who can be sure? The peasants breed worse than lice. There are more than a thousand officials in the Kaifeng court alone, and the official count took many months. I do not have the exact figure.” Wen enjoyed the looks of astonishment that passed between the warriors.

“And you? Are you a khan amongst them?” Temujin persisted.

Wen shook his head. “I passed my…” He searched his vocabulary and found there was no word. “Struggles? No.” He said a strange word. “It means sitting at a desk and answering questions with hundreds of others, first in a district, then in Kaifeng itself for the emperor’s officials. I came first among all those who were tested that year.” He looked into the depths of his memory and raised his bowl to his mouth. “It was a long time ago.”

“Whose man are you, then?” Temujin said, trying to understand.

Wen smiled. “Perhaps the first minister of the civil service, but I think you mean the Sung emperors. They rule the north and south. Perhaps I will live to see both halves of the Middle Kingdom rejoined.”

Temujin struggled to understand. As they stared at him, Wen placed his bowl down and reached inside his robe for a pouch. A collective tension stopped him.

“I am reaching for a picture, my lord, that is all.”

Temujin gestured for him to continue, fascinated at the idea. He watched as Wen removed a packet of brightly colored papers and passed one to him. There were strange symbols on it, but in the middle was the face of a young man, glaring out. Temujin held the paper at different angles, astonished that the little face seemed to watch him.

“You have painters of skill,” he admitted grudgingly.

“That is true, my lord, but the paper you hold was printed on a great machine. It has a value and is given in exchange for goods. With a few more like it, I could buy a good horse in the capital, or a young woman for the passage of a night.”

He saw Temujin pass it around to the others and watched their expressions with interest. They were like children, he thought. Perhaps he should give them each a note as a gift before he left.

“You use words I do not know,” Temujin said. “What is the printing you mentioned? A great machine? Perhaps you have decided to fool us in our gers.”

He did not speak lightly, and Wen reminded himself that the tribesmen could be ruthless even with their friends. If they thought for a moment that he was mocking them, he would not survive. If they were children, it was best to remember they were deadly as well.

“It is just a way of painting faster than one man alone,” Wen said soothingly. “Perhaps you will visit Chin territory one day and see for yourself. I know that the khan of the Kerait is much taken with my culture. He has spoken many times of his desire for land in the Middle Kingdom.”

“Togrul said that?” Temujin asked.

Wen nodded, taking the note back from the last man to hold it. He folded it carefully and replaced the pouch while all their eyes watched.

“It is his dearest wish. There is soil there so rich and black that anything can be grown, herds of wild horses beyond counting and better hunting than anywhere in the world. Our lords live in great houses of stone and have a thousand servants to indulge their every whim. Togrul of the Kerait would wish such a life for himself and his heirs.”

“How can you move a house of stone?” one of the other men asked suddenly.

Wen nodded to him in greeting. “It cannot be moved, as you move your gers. There are some the size of mountains.”

Temujin laughed at that, knowing at last that the strange little man was playing games with them.

“Then it would not suit me, Wen,” he said. “The tribes must move when the hunting is poor. I would starve to death in that stone mountain, I think.”

“You would not, my lord, because your servants would buy food in the markets. They would raise animals to eat and grow crops to make bread and rice for you. You could have a thousand wives and never know hunger.”

“And that appeals to Togrul,” Temujin said softly. “I see how it could.” His mind was whirling with so many strange new ideas, but he still had not heard the reason for Wen to seek him out in the wilderness, so far from his home. He offered Wen a cup and filled it with airag. When he saw the man was setting his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, Temujin grunted.

“Rub it on your hands and face and I will refill the cup,” he said.

Wen inclined his head in thanks before doing as Temujin suggested. The clear liquid brought a flush to his yellow skin, making it bloom with sudden heat. He drained the rest down his throat and emptied the second as soon as Temujin had poured it, holding the cup out for a third.

“Perhaps I will journey east someday,” Temujin said, “and see these strange things with my own eyes. Yet I wonder why you would leave all that behind, to travel where my people rule with sword and bow. We do not think of your emperor here.”

“Though he is father to us all,” Wen said automatically. Temujin stared at him and Wen regretted drinking so quickly on an empty stomach.

“I have been among the tribes for two years, my lord. There are times when I miss my people very much. I was sent here to gather allies against the Tartars in the north. Togrul of the Kerait believes you are one who shares our dislike for those pale-skinned dogs.”

“Togrul is well informed, it seems,” Temujin replied. “How does he know so much of my business?” He refilled Wen’s cup a fourth time and watched as it too went the way of the others. It pleased him to see the man drink, and he filled a cup of his own, sipping carefully to keep his head clear.

“The khan of the Kerait is a man of wisdom,” Wen Chao replied. “He has fought the Tartars for years in the north and received much gold as tribute from my masters. It is a balance, you understand? If I send an order to Kaifeng for a hundred ponies to be driven west, they come in a season and, in return, the Kerait spill Tartar blood and keep them away from our borders. We do not want them straying into our land.”

One of the listening tribesmen shifted uncomfortably and Temujin glanced at him.

“I will want your advice on this, Arslan, when we talk alone,” Temujin said.

The man settled himself, satisfied. Wen looked around at them all.

“I am here to offer you the same arrangement. I can give you gold, or horses…”

“Swords,” Temujin said. “And bows. If I agree, I would want a dozen sets of the armor your men are wearing outside, as well as a hundred ponies, mares and stallions both. I have no more use for gold than I have for a house of stone I cannot move.”

“I did not see a hundred men in the camp,” Wen protested. Inside, he rejoiced. The bargaining had begun with more ease than he could have imagined.

“You did not see them all,” Temujin said, with a snort. “And I have not said I agree. What part does Togrul play in this? I have never met the man, though I know of the Kerait. Will he come after you to beg me for my help?”

Wen colored, putting down the cup of airag he had raised.

“The Kerait are a strong tribe, with more than three hundred men under arms, my lord. They heard from Tartar prisoners that you were raiding farther and farther north.” He paused, choosing his words. “Togrul is a man of vision and he sent me, not to beg, but rather to have you join your force to his. Together, you will drive the Tartars back for a dozen generations, perhaps.”

The man Temujin had called Arslan seemed to bristle again, and Wen saw Temujin drop a hand to his arm.

“Here I am khan, responsible for my people,” he said. “You would have me bend the knee to Togrul in return for a few ponies?” A subtle menace had come into the crowded ger, and Wen found himself wishing Yuan had been allowed to accompany him.

“You have merely to refuse and I will leave,” he said. “Togrul does not need a bondsman. He needs a war leader with ruthlessness and strength. He needs every man you can bring.”

Temujin glanced at Jelme. After the endless winter, he knew as well as anyone that the Tartars would be thirsting for revenge. The idea of joining forces with a greater tribe was tempting, but he needed time to think.

“You have said much of interest, Wen Chao,” Temujin said, after a time. “Leave me now to make my decision. Kachiun? Find warm beds for his men and have some stew brought to ease their hunger.” He saw Wen’s gaze drop to the half-empty skin of airag by his feet. “And some airag to warm him tonight, as well,” he added, carried away by his own generosity.

They all stood as Wen rose to his feet, not quite as steady as when he had come in. The man bowed once more, and Temujin noticed how it was a fraction deeper than the first attempt. Perhaps he had been stiff from traveling.

When they were alone, Temujin turned his bright gaze on his most trusted men.

“I want this,” he said. “I want to learn as much as I can about these people. Houses of stone! Slaves by the thousand! Did it not make you itch?”

“You do not know this Togrul,” Arslan said. “Are the silver people for sale, then?” He snorted. “These Chin think we can be bought with promises, awed with talk of the teeming millions in their cities. What are they to us?”

“Let us find out,” Temujin said. “With the men of the Kerait, I can drive a spike into the Tartars. Let the rivers run red with what we will do.”

“My oath is to you, not to Togrul,” Arslan said.

Temujin faced him. “I know it. I will not be bondsman to any other. Yet if he will join his strength with us, I will have the greater part of the bargain. Think of Jelme, Arslan. Think of his future. We are too full of life to build our tribe in ones and twos. Let us leap upwards in great bounds and risk it all each time. Would you sit and wait for the Tartars?”

“You know I would not,” Arslan said.

“Then my decision is made,” Temujin said, filled with excitement.

Chapter 25

WEN CHAO STAYED for three days in the camp, discussing terms. He allowed them to press skins of airag on him before he lowered the gold curtains of his litter and Yuan gave the signal for him to be lifted.

Behind the silk hangings, Wen scratched himself, convinced he had picked up lice from the gers. It had been a trial, as he had expected, but they seemed as keen on war with the Tartars as Togrul had hoped. It was no surprise, Wen thought to himself, as he was borne over the plains. The tribes raided each other even in winter. Now that the spring had brought the first grass through the frozen ground, they would be at their business in earnest. It had always been their way. Wen smiled to himself as he read the works of Xun Zi and drowsed, occasionally making notes in the margins. The minister had been right to send someone with his diplomatic skills, he thought. Little Zhang could not have brokered such a deal, even with the promises of ponies and armor. The lisping eunuch would certainly have shown his disgust at the wedding ceremony Wen Chao had witnessed the previous day. He shuddered at the thought of the hot drink of milk and blood he had been given. Xun Zi would have applauded his discipline then. The woman Borte had been as stringy and hard as her husband, Wen reflected. Not his taste at all, though the young raider seemed to find her pleasing. What Wen would have given for a night with one of the Willow women! There was no place for sleek, powdered thighs in that hard land, and Wen cursed his work yet again, miserably.

On the fourth day out, he was ready to give the order to stop for a meal, when Yuan galloped back from his scouting. Wen listened impatiently from inside the litter as Yuan snapped orders. It was frustrating to play the part of the noble when interesting things were going on around him. He sighed to himself. His curiosity had landed him in trouble more than once before.

When Yuan finally approached the litter, Wen had stowed his scrolls and warmed himself with a draft of the clear fluid the tribes brewed. That, at least, was useful, though it paled in comparison with the rice wine he knew at home.

“Why do you disturb me this time, Yuan?” he asked. “I was going to take a nap before the meal.” In fact, one glance at his first guard’s flushed face had set his pulses throbbing. He needed rebalancing, he was sure of it. Too much time amongst the tribes and he would be thinking of taking up a sword himself like a common soldier. They had that effect on even the most cultured of men.

“Riders, my lord. Tartars,” Yuan said, touching his forehead to the icy grass.

“Well? We are in Tartar lands, are we not? It is no surprise to meet a few of them while we travel south to the Kerait. Let them pass, Yuan. If they stand in our way, kill them. You have disturbed me for nothing.”

Yuan bowed his head and Wen spoke quickly to avoid shaming his first guard. The man was as prickly as a eunuch over matters of honor.

“I spoke rashly, Yuan. You were right to bring it to my attention.”

“My lord, there are thirty warriors, all of them well armed and riding fresh ponies. They can only be from a larger camp.”

Wen spoke slowly, trying to restrain his patience. “I do not see how that affects us, Yuan. They know better than to interfere with a representative of the Chin. Tell them to go around us.”

“I thought…” Yuan began. “I wondered if you might send a rider back to the camp we left, my lord. To warn them. The Tartars could well be looking for them.”

Wen blinked at his first guard in surprise. “You have grown affectionate toward our hosts, I see. It is a weakness in you, Yuan. What do I care if the Tartars and Mongols kill each other? Is that not my task, handed down from the first minister himself? Honestly, I think you forget yourself.”

A warning shout came from one of the other guards, and both Wen and Yuan heard the approach of riders. Yuan remained where he was.

Wen closed his eyes for a moment. There was no peace to be had in this land, no silence. Whenever he thought he had found it, someone would go riding past, looking for enemies to kill. He felt a wave of homesickness strike him like a physical force, but crushed it down. Until he was recalled, this was his fate.

“If it please you, Yuan, tell them we have not seen the raiders. Tell them I am exercising my men ready for spring.”

“Your will, master.”

Wen watched as the Tartar warriors rode up. They did look as if they were armed for war, he acknowledged, though he cared nothing for Temujin or his ragged gers. He would not have shed a tear if the entire Tartar nation was destroyed, and the Mongol tribes with them. Perhaps then he would be called home at last.

He saw Yuan speak with the leader, a heavyset man wrapped in thick furs. It made Wen shudder to see such a filthy warrior, and he would certainly not lower himself to address him in person. The Tartar seemed angry, but Wen cared nothing for that. His men were chosen from the personal guard of the first minister, and any one of them was worth half a dozen screaming tribesmen. Yuan himself had won his sword in a tournament of all the army, standing first amongst his division. In that, at least, Wen had been well served.

With furious glances at the litter, the Tartars blustered and pointed their swords, while Yuan sat his horse impassively, shaking his head. Only their youthful pride prevented them from riding away, and Wen wondered if he would indeed be called out to remind them of his status. Even unwashed Tartars knew the Chin representative was not to be touched, and he was relieved when the warriors finished their display and rode on without looking back. A small part of him was disappointed that they had not decided to draw swords. Yuan would have butchered them. Idly, Wen wondered if Temujin was ready for such a force. He decided he did not care. If they found the Mongol camp, one or the other would prevail. Either way, there would be fewer tribesmen to trouble his sleep.

When they were gone, Wen found his digestion had become disturbed. Blowing air from his lips in irritation, he called for Yuan to set up the small pavilion he used to empty his bowels away from prying eyes. He did all he could to make himself comfortable, but the pleasures of the court haunted his dreams and he had not had a woman in a long, long time. Perhaps if he wrote humbly to little Zhang, he could arrange his recall. No. He could not bear the thought.

The Tartar raiders came in hard and fast as soon as they heard the warning horns sound. They kicked their ponies into a gallop and each man rode with a bow ready to send death down the throat of anyone standing in the way.

Temujin and his brothers came skidding out of their gers while the first horn notes still echoed. The warriors moved to their positions without panic. Those on the main path pulled wooden barriers up from the ground, jamming staffs under them to keep them solid. Riders would not be able to gallop right between the gers. They would have to jink around the obstacles, and be forced to slow down.

Temujin saw his men ready their arrows, laying them down on the frozen ground. They were finished moments before they sighted the first enemy in his stinking furs.

The Tartars rode three abreast, high in the saddle as they searched for targets. Temujin saw they were relying on fear and confusion, and he showed his teeth as he watched them come. He felt the ground shudder underneath his feet, and he wished he had the sword Arslan had made for him. In its place was a Tartar blade of poor quality. It would have to serve.

The first riders saw the barrier in their path. Two swung their mounts around it, interfering with the third. They saw the men in its shadow and released their shafts from instinct, hammering them uselessly into wood. As soon as they struck, Kachiun and Khasar rose above the edge and loosed, the bowstrings humming. The arrows punched through the riders, slamming two of the Tartars into the hard ground at full gallop. They did not rise again.

At first, it was a massacre. The Tartars who galloped behind their fellows found their way blocked by riderless ponies and the dead. Two of them leapt the barricade before Kachiun and Khasar could set another arrow. The riders found themselves in an open space, with drawn bows all around. They had barely time to shout before dark shafts impaled them, cutting off their war cries and sending them spinning out of the saddles.

Another of the Tartars tried to leap the first barrier. His pony missed the jump and crushed it flat, snapping the staff that held it upright. Khasar rolled away, but Kachiun’s leg was caught and he swore in pain. He lay helpless on his back as more galloped in, knowing he could measure his life in moments.

A rider saw Kachiun struggling and drew back on his bow to pin him to the ground. Before he could loose, Arslan stepped out from one side and ripped a sword across his throat. The Tartar collapsed, his pony veering wildly. Arrows whined around them as Arslan yanked Kachiun free. Khasar was on one knee, sending shaft after shaft into the Tartars, but he had lost his calm and six men broke through, untouched by any of them.

Temujin saw them coming. Without the first barrier, the men could ride straight down the left of the main path. He saw two of his men face them and fall with Tartar arrowheads sticking out of their backs. The second barrier group turned to send arrows after them and, behind, another group of six broke past his brothers. The raid was hanging in the balance, despite his preparations.

He waited until a Tartar had loosed his shaft before stepping out and chopping his blade into the man’s thigh. Blood spattered him as the man screamed, yanking wildly on his reins. Out of control, the Tartar turned his pony into a ger, which collapsed with a crackle of broken wood, catapulting him over the pony’s head.

The first group of six turned their bows on Temujin, forcing him to leap for cover. A snarling warrior rode at him, his bow bent to send the spiked arrow down into his chest. Temujin rolled, coming up with his sword outstretched. The man yelled as the blade buried itself in his gut and the arrow buzzed over Temujin’s head. The shoulder of the pony hit Temujin as it passed, knocking him flat. He rose groggily and looked around him.

The camp was in chaos. The Tartars had lost a lot of men, but those who lived were riding around in triumph, looking for targets. Many of them had dropped their bows and drawn swords for the close work. Temujin saw two kick their mounts at Arslan while he himself scrabbled for his own bow to send a shaft after them. The first arrow he touched was broken and the rest were scattered. He found one that would do, after a moment’s frenzied search. He could hear his mother yelling and, as he turned to see, Borte darted out from a ger, rushing after little Temulun. His young sister was running in panic and neither of them saw the Tartar bearing down on them. Temujin held his breath, but Arslan was armed and ready for his attackers. He made his choice.

Temujin heaved back on the string, aiming at the lone warrior bearing down on Borte. He heard a sudden thunder and another Tartar was riding at him, sword already swinging to take off his head. There was no time to dodge, but Temujin dropped to his knees as he let go, struggling to adjust his aim. The arrow went skipping over the ground, wasted. Then something hit him hard enough to shake the world and he fell.

Jelme stepped up to his father’s side as the two Tartars bore down on them.

“Go left,” Arslan snapped at his son, even as he stepped to the right.

The Tartars saw them move, but the father and son had left it to the very last moment and they could not adjust. Arslan’s blade tip found the neck of one man as Jelme cut the other, almost taking his head off. Both Tartars were dead in a heartbeat, their ponies hammering past without direction.

The Tartar leader had not survived the first attack on the barricades, and there were barely a dozen left of the original force. With the hill backing onto the camp, there was no chance to ride through and away, so those that still lived shouted and wheeled, cutting at anything against them. Arslan saw two pulled out of their saddles and knifed as they writhed, screaming. It was a bloody business, but the main Tartar force had been destroyed. The few survivors lay low on the saddles as they galloped back the way they had come, shafts whistling after them.

Arslan saw one coming back from the other side of the camp, and he readied himself to kill again, standing perfectly still in the pony’s path. In the last moment, he saw the kicking legs of a captive across the saddle and spoiled his own blow. His left hand snapped out to yank Borte free, but his fingers caught only an edge of cloth and then the man was past. Arslan saw Khasar was following the rider with an arrow on the string, and he shouted.

“Hold, Khasar. Hold!”

The order rang across a camp that was suddenly quiet after the roaring Tartars. Not more than six made it away and Arslan was already running for the ponies.

“Mount up!” he roared. “They have one of the women. Mount!”

He looked for Temujin as he ran, then saw a limp figure and skidded to a stop in horror. Temujin lay surrounded by dead men. A pony with a broken leg stood shivering next to him, its sides streaked with whitish sweat. Arslan ignored the animal, pushing it away as he knelt beside the young man he had rescued from the Wolves.

There was a lot of blood and Arslan felt his heart contract in a painful spasm. He reached down and touched the flap of flesh that had been torn free from Temujin’s scalp. With a shout of joy, he saw it still bled into the pool that lay around his head. Arslan lifted Temujin free of the blood that covered half his face.

“He is alive,” Arslan whispered.

Temujin remained unconscious as Arslan carried him to a tent. His brothers galloped out after the raiders, sparing only a glance for the figure in Arslan’s arms. They were grim-faced and angry as they passed him, and Arslan did not pity any Tartars they caught that day.

Arslan laid Temujin down in his mother’s ger, surrendering him to her. Temulun was crying bitterly in a corner, the sound almost painful. Hoelun looked up from her son as she reached for her needle and thread.

“Comfort my daughter, Arslan,” she said, concentrating on her task.

Arslan ducked his head in acknowledgment, going over to the little girl.

“Would you like to be picked up?” he asked her.

Temulun nodded through her tears and he jerked her into the air. She looked up at him and he forced himself to smile. The reaction to killing was setting in and he felt himself grow light-headed as his pounding heart beat too fast for stillness and quiet. Hoelun pushed the bone needle through the first piece of Temujin’s scalp and Arslan saw the little girl wince and her mouth open to resume crying.

“It’s all right, little one, I’ll take you to Eluin. She has been looking for you,” he said. He did not want the girl to see the bodies outside but, equally, he could not stay in the ger and do nothing. He hoped Eluin was still alive.

As he turned to leave, he heard Temujin give a shuddering gasp. When Arslan looked, he saw Temujin’s eyes were open and clear, watching Hoelun as she stitched with quick, neat hands.

“Lie still,” Hoelun said, when her son tried to get up. “I need to do this well.”

Temujin subsided, his gaze finding Arslan at the door. “Tell me,” he ordered.

“We broke the attack. They have Borte,” Arslan replied.

As he spoke, Hoelun tugged at the thread and a whole section of Temujin’s scalp wrinkled. Arslan bounced Temulun in his arms, but she had quieted again and seemed content to play with a silver button on his deel.

Hoelun used a cloth to dab blood out of her son’s eyes. The scalp wound was still bleeding heavily, but the stitching helped. She pushed the needle through another bit of flesh and felt Temujin tense.

“I need to be up, Mother,” he murmured. “Are you nearly finished?”

“Your brothers have gone after the last of them,” Arslan said quickly. “With such a wound, there is no point in following them, not yet. You have lost a lot of blood and there’s no point in risking a fall.”

“She is my wife,” Temujin replied, his eyes growing cold. His mother bent forward as if to kiss him, instead biting off the end of the thread in his skin. He sat up as soon as she moved away, raising his fingers to the line of stitches.

“Thank you,” he said. His eyes lost their hard focus then and Hoelun nodded as she rubbed at the dried blood on his cheek.

Arslan heard Eluin’s voice outside the ger and stepped through the door to pass Temulun into her care. He returned, looking grim, as Temujin tried to stand. The young khan swayed, taking hold of the central spar of the ger to keep himself upright.

“You cannot ride today,” Arslan told him. “All you could do is follow the tracks of your brothers. Let them find her.”

“Would you?” Temujin demanded. He had closed his eyes against the dizziness, and Arslan’s heart swelled to see his determination. He sighed.

“No, I would go after them. I will bring your pony and fetch my own.”

He ducked out of the ger and Hoelun stood and took Temujin’s free hand in her own.

“You will not want to hear what I have to say,” she murmured.

Temujin opened his eyes, blinking against a fresh trail of blood.

“Say whatever you have to,” he replied.

“If your brothers cannot run them down before night, they will hurt her.”

“They will rape her, Mother. I know. She is strong.”

Hoelun shook her head. “You do not know. She will be ashamed.” She paused for a moment, wanting him to understand. “If they have hurt her, you will have to be very strong. You cannot expect her to be the same, with you or any man.”

“I will kill them,” Temujin promised, rage kindling in him. “I will burn them and eat their flesh if they do.”

“That will bring you peace, but it will not change anything for Borte,” Hoelun said.

“What else can I do? She cannot kill them as I could, or force them to kill her, even. Nothing that happens is her fault.” He found himself crying and wiped angrily at bloody tears on his cheeks. “She trusted me.”

“You cannot make this right, my son. Not if they escape your brothers. If you find her alive, you will have to be patient and kind.”

“I know that! I love her; that is enough.”

“It was,” Hoelun persisted. “It may not be enough any longer.”

Temujin stood in the cold wind, his head throbbing. As Arslan brought the ponies, he looked around, smelling blood on the breeze. The camp was littered with broken bodies. Some still moved. One Tartar lay on his back as if dead, but his fingers plucked at two arrow shafts in his chest, twitching like pale spiders. Temujin drew a knife from his belt and staggered over to him. The man could only have been moments from death, but Temujin still knelt at his side and placed the point of his blade onto the pulsing throat. The touch of it stilled the scrabbling fingers, and the Tartar turned his eyes mutely onto Temujin. As he met them, Temujin pushed slowly downwards, cutting the windpipe and breathing in a gust of bloody air.

When he rose, Temujin was still unsteady. The sun seemed too bright and, without warning, he turned and vomited. He heard Hoelun speaking to him, but it was through a roaring sound that he could not clear. She and Arslan were arguing about him going out, and Temujin could see Arslan’s face frowning in doubt.

“I will not fall,” Temujin said to both of them, taking hold of his saddle horn. “Help me up, here. I have to follow them.”

It took both of them to heave him into the saddle, but once there, Temujin felt a little more secure. He shook his head, wincing at the pain crashing behind his eyes.

“Jelme?” he called. “Where are you?”

Arslan’s son was spattered with drying blood, his sword still bare as he walked around corpses to reach them. Temujin watched him come, dimly aware that he had never seen Jelme angry before.

“While we are gone, you must move the camp,” Temujin said, slurring his words. His head felt too large, lolling on his shoulders. He did not hear what Jelme said in reply.

“Travel by night. Take them into the hills, but move south toward the Kerait. If Togrul has the men to match us, I will burn the Tartars from the face of the world. I will look for you when I have found my wife.”

“Your will, my lord,” Jelme said. “But if you do not come back?” It had to be said, but Temujin winced again as the pain became overwhelming.

“Then find that valley we talked about and raise sons and sheep,” he said at last.

He had done his duty as khan. Jelme was a fine leader and those who looked to Temujin for leadership would be safe. He took a firm grip on the reins. He could not be far behind his brothers. All that was left was vengeance.

Chapter 26

AS THE SUN SANK in the west and bathed the plains in gold, Khasar and Kachiun came across the body of one of the men they were following. Wary of a trap, Kachiun remained in the saddle with his bow drawn back while Khasar approached, flipping the corpse over with the toe of his boot.

The Tartar had a broken shaft protruding from his stomach where he’d snapped it off. His entire lower body was black with blood and his face was chalk white and stiff. His companions had taken his pony with them, its lighter hoof marks still visible in the turf. Khasar searched the body quickly, but if there had been anything of use, the Tartars had already taken it.

The brothers rode as long as they could see tracks, but in the end, the growing gloom forced them to stop or risk losing the men they were chasing. Neither of them spoke as they mixed a draft of milk and blood tapped from a vein in Kachiun’s mare. They had both seen Temujin unconscious in Arslan’s arms, and they were desperate not to let the raiders get away.

They slept uncomfortably and woke before dawn, moving on as soon as the first light revealed the tracks of the raiders once more. With just a glance at each other, they kicked their mounts into a gallop. They were both fit and hardened. They would not let them escape through weakness.

Throughout the second day, the hoofprints grew fresher and easier to see. Kachiun was a better tracker than his brother, who never had the patience to learn the subtleties. It was Kachiun who leapt from the saddle to press his hand into the lumps of dung, looking for a trace of warmth. On the evening of the second day, he grinned as he dug his fingers into a dark ball.

“Fresher than the last. We are gaining on them, brother,” he told Khasar.

The Tartars had made little attempt to confuse their trail. They had tried to lose their pursuers at first, but the tracks of the second morning were almost straight, running fast toward some destination. If the Tartars knew they were still being followed, they no longer tried to throw them off.

“I hope we catch them before they reach wherever they’re going,” Khasar said, gloomily. “If they’re heading for a large camp, we’ll lose them and Borte.”

Kachiun mounted again, his face drawn into a grimace as his tired muscles protested.

“They must have come from somewhere,” he said. “If they get to safety, one of us will go back and gather the others. Maybe even ride with Temujin to the Kerait and join forces. They will not escape us, Khasar. One way or the other we’ll hunt them down.”

“If Temujin is alive,” Khasar muttered.

Kachiun shook his head. “He is. The Wolves themselves couldn’t stop him. You think a wound from the Tartars will?”

“It did for our father,” Khasar said.

“That is still a debt to be paid,” Kachiun replied savagely.

As the brothers slept on the third night, both were stiff and tired from the hard riding. The mixture of blood and milk could sustain them indefinitely, but they had no remounts, and the mare was showing signs of soreness, much as they were themselves. Both men had taken bruising impacts in the raid, and Kachiun’s ankle was swollen and painful to the touch. He did not speak of it to his brother, but he could not hide his limping gait whenever they dismounted. They slept soundly and Kachiun woke with a start when a cold blade touched his throat.

It was pitch dark under the stars as his eyes jerked open. He tried to roll away, but relief flooded him on hearing a voice he knew.

“Arslan could show you a thing or two about tracking, Kachiun,” Temujin said by his ear. “It is almost dawn; are you ready for another day?”

Kachiun sprang to his feet and embraced Temujin and then Arslan, surprising the older man. “We cannot be far behind them,” he said.

A few paces away, Khasar had stopped snoring and turned over. Kachiun strode to him and booted him in the ribs.

“Up, Khasar, we have visitors.”

They heard Khasar scramble to his feet and the creak of a bow being drawn. Though he slept like the dead, there was nothing wrong with his reflexes.

“I am with you, my brother,” Temujin said softly into the darkness. The bow creaked again as Khasar eased the string back.

“How is your head?” Khasar asked.

“It aches, but the stitches hold,” Temujin replied. He glanced toward the east and saw the wolf dawn, the first gray light before the sun rose. He held a skin of black airag out to them.

“Drink quickly and be ready to ride,” he said. “We have been too long on the chase already.”

His voice held a quiet pain they all understood. Borte had spent three nights with the raiding party. They did not speak of it. The airag warmed their empty stomachs and gave them a rush of energy they sorely needed. Milk and blood would follow later in the day. It would be enough.

The three brothers and Arslan were dusty and tired by the time they caught a glimpse of their prey. The trail had wound up through a range of hills, and the broken ground had slowed their headlong pace. Temujin had not spoken a word to any of them, his gaze constantly on the horizon as he searched for the last of the Tartars.

The sun was low on the horizon when they reached a crest and saw the ragged group at the far end of the valley. All four of them slid out of the saddles and pulled their ponies down with them, so that they would not be easy to see. Temujin lay with his arm over the neck of his mount, pressing it into the grass.

“It will be tonight, then,” he said. “We’ll take them when they make camp.”

“I have three arrows,” Kachiun said. “All that were left in the quiver when I rode out.”

Temujin turned to his younger brother, his face like stone. “If you can, I want them down but not dead. I do not want it to be quick, for these.”

“You make it harder, Temujin,” Arslan said, peering at the small group in the far distance. “Better to spring an attack and kill as many as we can. They too have bows and swords, remember.”

Temujin ignored the older man, holding Kachiun’s eyes. “If you can,” he repeated. “If Borte is alive, I want her to see them die, perhaps with her own knife.”

“I understand,” Kachiun murmured, remembering when they had killed Bekter. Temujin had worn the same expression, though it was made worse by the ugly line of stitches seaming his forehead. Kachiun was not able to hold the fierce gaze, and he too looked over the valley. The Tartars had reached the end and passed into thick trees.

“Time to move,” Temujin said, rising. “We must close the gap before they make camp for the night. I do not want to lose them in the dark.” He did not look to see if they followed as he forced his pony to gallop once more. He knew they would.

Borte lay on her side on a damp layer of old leaves and pine needles. Her hands and feet had been expertly tied by the Tartar tribesmen as they made their camp in the woods. She watched them fearfully as they used a hatchet to hack out the dry wood from a dead tree and built a small fire. They were all starving and the stunned despair of the first few nights was only just beginning to fade. She listened to their guttural voices and tried not to be afraid. It was hard. They had ridden into Temujin’s camp with every expectation of a successful raid. Instead, they had been smashed and broken, losing brothers and friends and almost their own lives. Two of them in particular were still seething at the shame of their retreat. It was those two who had come for her on the first night, taking out their frustration and anger in the only way they had left. Borte shuddered as she lay there, feeling again their rough hands on her. The youngest of them was little more than a boy, but he had been the cruellest and smacked his closed fist across her face until she was dazed and bleeding. Then he had raped her with the others.

Borte made a small sound in her throat, an animal sound of fear that she could not control. She told herself to be strong, but as the young one stood up from the fire and walked over to her, she felt her bladder give way in a sudden hot rush, steaming in the cold air. Though it was growing dark, he saw it and showed his teeth.

“I thought about you all day when we were riding,” he told her, crouching at her side.

She began to shiver and hated herself for the signs of weakness. Temujin had told her she was a wolf, as he was; that she could endure anything. She did not cry out as the young Tartar took her by a foot and dragged her behind him to the men around the fire. Instead, she tried to think of her childhood and running amongst the gers. Even then, the memories were all of her father hitting her, or her mother’s indifference to her misery. The only memory that stayed was the day Temujin had come for her at last, so tall and handsome in his furs that the Olkhun’ut could not even look at him.

The Tartars around the fire watched with interest as the youngest untied her feet. She could see the lust in their eyes and she gathered herself to fight them again. It would not stop them, but it was all she had left and she would not give them that last piece of her pride. As soon as her legs were free, she kicked out, her bare foot thumping uselessly into the young Tartar’s chest. He slapped it away with a grim chuckle.

“You are all dead men,” she snapped. “He will kill you all.”

The youngest was flushed and excited and he did not respond as he yanked at her deel and exposed her breasts to the evening cold. She struggled wildly and he nodded to one of the others to help him hold her down. The one who rose was thick-bodied and stank. She had smelled his foul breath close to her face the night before, and the memory made her gag, her empty stomach heaving uselessly. She kicked out with all her strength and the young one cursed.

“Take her legs, Aelic,” he ordered, pulling at his furs to expose himself.

The older man reached down to do as he was told, and then they all heard the crunch of footsteps on the leaves.

Four men strode out from between the trees. Three carried swords ready in their hands and the fourth had a bow drawn right back to his ear.

The Tartars reacted quickly, leaping up and grabbing their weapons. Borte was dropped back onto the wet ground and scrambled to her knees. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she saw Temujin and his brothers, with the swordsmith Arslan in their midst. They ran forward on light feet, perfectly balanced for the first strikes.

The Tartars roared in alarm, but the newcomers were silent as they darted in. Temujin swayed aside from a sweeping blade, then used his hilt to punch a man from his feet. He kicked down hard as he went over his enemy, feeling the nose bone snap under his heel. The next was rising from Borte and Temujin did not dare look at her as the man threw himself forward, armed only with a knife. Temujin let him come in, shifting just a little so that the blow was lost in his deel. He punched out hard with his left hand, rocking the Tartar backwards, then ripped his sword across the man’s thighs, shoving him onto his back as he yelled in pain. The knife fell in the leaves as Temujin turned away panting, looking for another target. It came to rest by Borte and she picked it up in her bound hands.

The young Tartar lay howling on the ground, his limbs flailing as he tried to rise. Temujin had moved away to attack a third with Kachiun, and the Tartar did not see Borte at first as she crept toward him on her knees. When his gaze fell on her, he shook his head, desperately. He raised his fists, but Borte jammed a knee onto his right arm and struggled to bring the blade down. His free hand found her throat and his strength was still frightening. She felt her vision blur as he squeezed desperately, but she would not be denied. Her head was shoved up high by his locked arm as she found his pulsing throat under her fingers. She could have pushed the knife in there, but she eased her hand higher, holding his straining head still as best she could. He struggled, but blood was pouring from his legs and she could feel him growing weaker as she grew strong.

She found his eyes and dug her nails into them, listening to him scream. The knife point scraped along his face, laying his cheek open before she was able to press her full weight down. Suddenly there was no resistance, as she found the eye socket and shoved. The arm at her throat fell away limply and she slumped, gasping. She could still smell the men on her skin, and she mouthed wordless rage as she twisted the blade in the socket, digging deeper.

“He is dead,” Arslan said at her side, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from the touch as if it had scalded her, and when she looked up, the older man’s eyes were full of sorrow. “You are safe now.”

Borte did not speak, though her eyes filled with tears. In a rush, the sounds of the camp came back to her from where she had lost herself. The rest of the Tartars were crying out in agony and fear all around. It was no more than she would have wanted.

Borte sat back on her haunches, looking dazedly at the blood that covered her hands. She let the knife fall once more and looked into the far distance.

“Temujin,” she heard Arslan call. “Come and tend her.” She saw the swordsmith pick up the knife and toss it into the trees. She did not understand why he would waste a good blade, and she raised her head to ask him.

Temujin strode across the camp, scattering the small fire without noticing or caring. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms. She struggled then, bursting into sobs as she tried to get away from him.

“Be still!” he ordered, as she raised her fists to hammer at his face. The first blows made him duck his head and hold her tighter. “It is over, Borte. Be still!”

The fight went out of her in an instant and she sagged in his embrace, weeping.

“I have you now,” he whispered. “You are safe and it is over.” He repeated the words in a mumble, his emotions whirling painfully. He was relieved to find her alive, but still there was a red core to him that wanted to hurt the men who had taken her. He glanced to where his brothers were tying the Tartars. Two of them were yelling like children, with Kachiun’s arrows in their legs and arms. A third would probably die from where Arslan had opened his gut, but the others would live long enough.

“Build up the fire,” Temujin said to his brothers. “I want them to feel the heat and know what is coming.”

Khasar and Kachiun set about gathering the embers he had kicked apart, dragging an old log onto the rest. Flames soon licked around the dry wood, catching quickly.

Arslan watched as husband and wife stood together. Borte’s face was blank, almost as if she had fainted. The swordsmith shook his head.

“Let us kill them and go back to the others,” Arslan said. “There is no honor in what you are planning.”

Temujin turned to him, his eyes wild.

“Leave if you want to,” he snapped. “This is a blood debt.”

Arslan stood very still.

“I will take no part in it,” he said at last.

Temujin nodded. Khasar and Kachiun had come to stand by his side. All three brothers looked at the swordsmith and he felt cold. There was no pity in any of their eyes. Behind them, the Tartars moaned in terror and the fire crackled as it grew.

Temujin stood bare-chested, sweat gleaming on his skin. His brothers had piled wood on the fire until it was an inferno and they could not approach the roaring yellow heat.

“I give these lives to the sky and earth, scattering their souls in fire,” Temujin said, raising his head to the cold stars. His mouth and chest were bloody in a great black streak that reached down to his waist. He held the last Tartar by the throat. The man was weak from his wounds, but he still struggled feebly, his legs scratching marks in the ground. Temujin did not seem to feel the weight. He stood so close to the fire that the fine hair on his arms had vanished, but he was lost in the trance of death and felt no pain.

Kachiun and Khasar watched in grim silence from a few paces farther back. They too had been marked with the blood of the Tartars and tasted flesh burnt in the flames. Three bodies lay naked to one side of the fire, two of them with black holes in their chests and enough blood to wash away grief and anger. They had not cut the man Borte had killed. The fire was only for the living.

Unaware of them all, Temujin began to chant words he had not heard since old Chagatai had whispered them on a frozen night long before. The shaman’s chant spoke of loss and revenge, of winter, ice, and blood. He did not have to struggle to recall the words; they were ready on his tongue as if he had always known them.

The last Tartar moaned in terror, his hands clawing at Temujin’s arm and scratching the skin with broken nails. Temujin looked down at him.

“Come closer, Borte,” he said, holding the man’s gaze.

Borte stepped into the firelight, the shadows of the flames playing on her skin. Her eyes caught the flickering light, so that she seemed to have flames within her.

Temujin looked up at his wife and drew his knife again from his belt, already slick with dark life. In a sharp jerk, he opened a gash in the Tartar’s chest, ripping the weapon back and forth to slice through muscle. The Tartar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Shining organs pulsed as Temujin reached in, gripping and sawing. Between two fingers, he pulled out a piece of streaming flesh from the heart. He pressed it onto the tip of his blade and held it into the flames, so that his own skin blistered as the meat sizzled and spat. He grunted at the pain, aware of it but uncaring. He let the Tartar fall onto the crisping leaves, his eyes still open. Without a word, Temujin pulled the seared flesh from the blade and held it out to Borte, watching as she held it to her lips.

It was still almost raw and she chewed hard to swallow it, feeling hot blood dribble over her lips. She had not known what to expect. This was the oldest magic: the eating of souls. She felt the meat slide down her throat and with it came a sense of great lightness, and of strength. Her lips slid back to show her teeth and Temujin seemed to slump as if something had gone out of him. Before, he had been a worker of dark incantations, a bringer of retribution. In an instant, he was no more than a tired man, worn out by grief and pain.

Borte raised her hand to her husband’s face, touching his cheek and leaving a smear of blood there.

“It is enough,” she said over the crackle of flame. “You can sleep now.”

He nodded wearily, stepping away from the flames at last to join his brothers. Arslan stood farther back, his expression dark. He had not joined in the bloodletting, or eaten the slivers of flesh cut from live men. He had not felt the rush of life that came with it, nor the exhaustion that followed. He did not look at the mutilated bodies of the Tartars as he settled himself on the ground and drew his arms into the deel. He knew his dreams would be terrible.

Chapter 27

TOGRUL OF THE KERAIT was roused from sleep by the hand of his first wife, shaking him roughly.

“Up, lazy!” she said, her hard voice splitting apart a happy dream with its usual force.

Togrul groaned as he opened his eyes. Six daughters she had given him and not a single son. He regarded her irritably as he rubbed his face.

“Why do you disturb me, woman? I was dreaming of when you were young and attractive.”

Her response was to poke him hard in the ribs.

“This new man you summoned has arrived with his ragged followers. They look no better than dirty wanderers, from what I can see. Will you stay all day in your fat slumber while they inspect your gers?”

Togrul frowned, stifling a yawn as he scratched himself. He swung his legs onto the cold floor and looked around.

“I do not see food to give me strength,” he said, frowning. “Must I go out to them on an empty stomach?”

“That stomach is never empty,” she retorted. “It is not fitting to keep them waiting while you force another sheep down your throat.”

“Woman, tell me again why I keep you on,” he said, standing. “I have forgotten.”

She snorted as he dressed, moving surprisingly quickly for such a large man. As he splashed water on his face, she pressed a warm pouch of mutton and bread into his hands, thick with grease. He smiled at last on seeing it, taking half in a great bite and belching softly as he chewed. Sitting down once more, he worked on finishing it as his wife tied his boots. He loved her very much.

“You look like a sheepherder,” she told him, as he moved toward the door. “If they ask where the real khan of the Kerait is hiding, tell them you ate him.”

“Woman, you are the light of my heart,” he said, dipping his head to pass out into the dawn light. He chuckled as she threw something that clattered against the closing door.

His mood changed as he saw the warriors who had come into the gers of the Kerait. They had dismounted and were surrounded by his foolish families, already looking irritated by the close press of the crowd. Togrul blew air from his lips, wishing he had brought another of the pouches with him. His stomach growled and he thought the newcomers would welcome a feast in their honor. His wife could hardly complain about that.

The crowd of Kerait children parted and he saw his bondsmen were there before him. He looked around for Wen Chao, but the Chin ambassador had not yet stirred from his sleep. As Togrul approached the group, his heart sank at the small number of them. Where was the horde Wen had promised?

Many of the newcomers stared around them with fascination and nervousness. In the center, Togrul saw five men standing by thin ponies, their faces hard and strained. He beamed at them as he came forward, his bondsmen falling in behind.

“I grant you guest rights in my home,” he said. “Which one of you is Temujin of the Wolves? I have heard much about you.”

The tallest stepped forward, bowing his head stiffly, as if the gesture were unfamiliar.

“No longer of the Wolves, my lord. I owe no loyalty to the tribe of my father. These are my only people now.”

Temujin had never seen a man quite as fat as Togrul before. He tried to keep the surprise from his face as Togrul greeted his brothers, as well as Jelme and Arslan. The khan could not have been more than thirty and his grip was strong, but flesh cloaked him, so that his deel strained under a wide belt. His face was round, with thick rolls of fat over his collar. Even stranger was the fact that he wore a robe very similar to the one Wen had worn on his visit. Togrul’s hair was tied back in the manner of the Chin, and Temujin did not know what to make of such a man. He looked like no khan he had ever seen, and only the familiar features and reddish skin marked him as one of their own people.

Temujin exchanged a glance with Kachiun as Togrul finished his welcome and placed heavy hands on his belly.

“The beast has woken, my friends. You must be hungry after your journey, yes?”

He clapped his hands together and called for food to be brought. Temujin watched as the crowd moved away to the gers, no doubt looking for enough food to ease the khan’s appetite. They seemed long familiar with the task.

“I do not see more than thirty warriors with you,” Togrul said, counting under his breath. “Wen Chao told me there could be as many as a hundred.”

“I will find more,” Temujin told him, instantly defensive.

Togrul raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It is true, then, that you welcome wanderers in your camp? Do they not steal?”

“Not from me,” Temujin replied. “And they fight well. I was told you needed a war leader. If you do not, I will take them back into the north.”

Togrul blinked at this sharp response. For a moment, he wished he had a single son instead of the daughters his wife had given him. Perhaps then he would not need to be courting savages fresh in from the hills.

“Wen Chao spoke highly of you and I trust his recommendation,” he said. “However, we will talk of that when we have eaten.” He smiled again in anticipation, already able to smell mutton sizzling in the gers.

“There is a Tartar camp a month’s ride to the north,” Temujin said, ignoring the offer. “There are perhaps a hundred warriors there. If you will match my men with thirty more, I will bring you Tartar heads and show you what we can achieve.”

Togrul blinked at him. The young warrior was surrounded by a huge camp and many armed men. He was addressing a man he needed to persuade to his side, but he spoke as if Togrul were the one who should be bowing his head. He wondered briefly if he should remind the man of his position, but thought better of it.

“We will talk of that, also,” he said. “But if you do not eat with me, I will be insulted.”

He watched as Temujin nodded. Togrul relaxed as platters of steaming meat were brought out into the cold air. He saw the eyes of the newcomers dart toward them. No doubt they had been half starved all winter. A fire had been laid in the center of the camp, and Togrul nodded toward it as the flames caught. Temujin shared a wary glance with his companions, and Togrul saw his brothers shrug, one of them smiling in anticipation.

“Very well, my lord,” Temujin said, reluctantly. “We will eat first.”

“I am honored,” Togrul said, unable to keep a sharp tone from his voice. He told himself to remember the estates Wen had promised. Perhaps this raider would bring them a little closer.

Wen Chao joined them at the fire when the sun had cleared the horizon. His servants disdained the blankets provided to keep off the chill of the ground. Instead, they brought out a small bench for their master. Temujin watched in interest as the servants spiced the meat with powders from tiny bottles before handing it over. Togrul snapped his fingers to have his own meat treated, and the servants moved quickly to do his bidding. It was obviously not a new request from the khan of the Kerait.

Wen Chao’s soldiers did not join in the feasting. Temujin saw the first among them, Yuan, direct the others to defensive positions around the camp while his master ate, apparently oblivious.

Togrul would not allow conversation until he had sated his appetite. Twice Temujin began to speak but, both times, Togrul merely gestured to the food, too busy with his own. It was frustrating and Temujin was sure Wen Chao had a sparkle of amusement in his eyes. No doubt he was recalling his own surprise at Togrul’s prodigious ability to eat and drink. The fat khan seemed to have no limit to the amount he could take in, and Temujin and his brothers had all finished long before him and only just after Wen, who ate as little as a bird.

At last, Togrul announced himself satisfied and hid a belch with his hand.

“You can see we have not gone hungry in the winter,” he said cheerfully, patting his belly. “The spirits have been good to the Kerait.”

“And they will be generous in the future,” Wen Chao added, watching Temujin. “I am glad to see you have accepted the offer I brought you, my lord.”

The last words sounded oddly false in his throat, but Temujin accepted them as his due.

“Why am I needed here?” he asked Togrul. “You have enough men and weapons to smash the Tartars on your own. Why call on my men?”

Togrul reached up to wipe his greasy lips with the back of a hand. He seemed to feel Wen Chao’s gaze fall on him and instead took a cloth from his deel for the task.

“Your name is known, Temujin. It is true that the Kerait are strong, too strong for another tribe to attack, but Wen has convinced me of the need to carry the fight farther into the north, as you have done.”

Temujin said nothing. From his first glance at the enormous man, he had no need to ask why Togrul did not lead them himself. He wondered if the man could even sit a pony for more than a few miles. Yet he could see hundreds of the Kerait around the feast, as well as the fifty or so who had joined them at the fire. The tribe was larger than the Wolves or even the Olkhun’ut. Surely there was someone amongst them who could lead a raiding party? He did not voice the thought aloud, but Togrul saw his expression and chuckled.

“I could have one of my bondsmen attack the Tartars, could I not? How long would it be before he came to me with a knife hidden in a sleeve of his deel? I am not a fool, Temujin, do not think it. The Kerait have grown because I kept them strong and because Wen Chao has brought us horses, food, and gold from the east. Perhaps one day I will look out on lands of my own in that country. The Kerait will know peace and plenty in my lifetime if I can drive back the Tartars.”

“You would take the entire Kerait tribe into Chin territory?” Temujin said incredulously.

Togrul shrugged. “Why not? Is it too much to imagine living without a dozen baying tribes all around, watching for weakness? Wen has promised us the land, and the Kerait will thrive there.”

Temujin darted a sharp look at the Chin representative.

“I have heard much of promises,” he said. “But I have seen nothing real yet, except for pictures on paper. Where are the ponies I was promised, the armor and weapons?”

“If we agree on a course today, I will send a messenger to the city of Kaifeng. You will have them in less than a year,” Wen replied.

Temujin shook his head. “More promises,” he said. “Let us talk of things I can touch.” He looked at Togrul, his yellow eyes seeming gold in the morning light.

“I told you there is a Tartar camp in the north. My brothers and I scouted it thoroughly, seeing how they placed their men. We followed a smaller group right up to a day’s ride away and we were not spotted. If you want me to lead your men on raids, give me ones who have been blooded and I will destroy the Tartars. Let that be what seals our bargain, not gifts which may never arrive.”

Wen Chao was angry at having his word doubted. His face showed no sign of it as he spoke.

“You were lucky not to meet the outriders of that camp, my lord. I came across them as I returned to the Kerait.”

Temujin turned his pale gaze on the Chin diplomat. “They are all dead,” he said. Wen sat like stone as he digested the news. “We tracked the last of them as they ran back to their main camp.”

“Perhaps that is why you brought so few men to the Kerait,” Wen said, nodding. “I understand.”

Temujin frowned. He had exaggerated his numbers and been caught, but he could not let it pass.

“We lost four men in the raid and killed thirty. We have their horses and weapons, but not the men to ride them, unless I find them here.”

Togrul looked at Wen Chao, watching his reaction with interest.

“They have done well, Wen, is it not so? He deserves the reputation he has gathered for himself. At least you have brought the right man to the Kerait.” The khan’s gaze fell on a few greasy scraps of meat left on a platter. He reached for them, scooping up the rich fat in his hand.

“You will have your thirty men, Temujin, the best of the Kerait. Bring me a hundred heads and I will have your name written into the songs of my people.”

Temujin smiled tightly. “You honor me, my lord, but if I bring you a hundred heads, I will want a hundred warriors for summer.”

He watched as Togrul wiped his hands with a cloth, thinking. The man was obscenely large, but Temujin did not doubt the fierce intelligence that lurked in those dark eyes. Togrul had already voiced his fear of being betrayed. How could he trust a stranger better than a man from his own tribe? Temujin wondered if Togrul believed the Kerait warriors would return to his gers unchanged after a battle with the Tartars. Temujin remembered the words of his father long ago. There was no bond stronger than that between those who have risked their lives in each other’s company. It could be greater than tribe or family, and Temujin meant to have those warriors of the Kerait as his own.

Wen Chao was the one to break the silence, perhaps guessing at Togrul’s misgivings.

“Give just a year to war, my lord,” he said to Togrul, “and you will have another thirty at peace. You will rule lands of beauty.”

He spoke almost in a whisper and Temujin watched him with growing dislike. Togrul did not move as the words reached his ear, but after a time, he nodded, satisfied.

“I will give you my best men to crush the Tartar camp,” he said. “If you succeed, perhaps I will trust you with more. I will not burden you with other promises, as you seem to scorn them. We can aid each other and each man will get what he wants. If there is betrayal, I will deal with that as it comes.”

Temujin maintained the cold face as he replied, showing nothing of the hunger that ate at him. “We are agreed, then. I will want your warrior with me, also, Wen Chao. The one called Yuan.”

Wen sat very still, considering. In fact, he had been going to suggest the same thing and wondered at his luck. He made himself look reluctant.

“For this first attack, you may take him. He is a fine soldier, though I would prefer him not to know I said that.”

Temujin put out his hand and Togrul took it first in his fleshy fingers, before Wen pressed his own bonier fingers in a grip.

“I will make them reel,” Temujin said. “Have this Yuan brought to me, Wen Chao. I want to test his armor and see if we can make more.”

“I will have a hundred sets sent within a year,” Wen protested.

Temujin shrugged. “I could be dead within a year. Summon your man.”

Wen nodded to one of his ever-present servants, sending him scurrying away to return with Yuan in a few moments. The soldier’s face was utterly blank of emotion as he bowed first to Togrul and Wen Chao, then to Temujin himself. Temujin approached him as Wen barked orders in his own language. Whatever he had said, Yuan stood like a statue while Temujin examined his armor closely, seeing how the overlapping plates were joined and sewn into heavy, rigid cloth underneath.

“Will it stop an arrow?” Temujin asked.

Yuan dropped his gaze and nodded. “One of yours, yes,” he replied.

Temujin smiled tightly. “Stand very still, Yuan,” he said, striding away.

Wen Chao watched with interest as Temujin picked up his bow and strung it, fitting an arrow to the string. Yuan showed no fear and Wen was proud of his apparent calm as Temujin pulled back to his ear, holding the bow in perfect stillness for a moment as he sighted down it.

“Let us find out,” Temujin said, releasing in a snap.

The arrow struck hard enough to send Yuan backwards, hammering him off his feet. He lay stunned for a moment, then just as Temujin thought he was dead, Yuan raised his head and struggled upright. His face was impassive, but Temujin saw a glint in his eyes that suggested there was life somewhere deep.

Temujin ignored the shocked cries of the Kerait around him. Togrul was on his feet, and his bondsmen had moved quickly to put themselves between their khan and the stranger. Carefully, so as not to excite them, Temujin put his bow down and loosened the string before crossing the distance to Yuan.

The arrow had broken through the first plate of lacquered iron, the head catching in the thick cloth underneath so that it stuck out and vibrated with Yuan’s breath. Temujin undid the ties at Yuan’s throat and waist, pulling aside a silk under-tunic until the bare chest was exposed.

There was a flowering bruise on Yuan’s skin, around an oval gash. A thin line of blood trickled down the muscles to his stomach.

“You can still fight?” Temujin asked.

Yuan’s voice was strained as he spat a reply. “Try me.”

Temujin chuckled at the anger he saw. The man had great courage and Temujin clapped him on the back. He peered closer at the hole left by the arrow.

“The tunic of silk has not torn,” he said, fingering the spot of blood.

“It is a very strong weave,” Yuan replied. “I have seen wounds where the silk was carried deep into the body without being holed.”

“Where can I find shirts of it?” Temujin murmured.

Yuan looked at him. “Only in the Chin cities.”

“Perhaps I will send for some,” Temujin said. “Our own boiled leather does not stop arrows as well as this. We can make use of your armor.” He turned to Togrul, who still stood in shock at what he had witnessed. “The Kerait have a forge? Iron?”

Togrul nodded mutely and Temujin looked at Arslan.

“Can you make this armor?”

Arslan stood to inspect Yuan as Temujin had, pulling the arrow from where it had lodged and examining the torn square of gray metal. The lacquer had fallen away in flakes and the metal had buckled before allowing the arrow through. Under the pressure of Arslan’s fingers, the last of the stitching fell away and it came free in his hand.

“We could carry replacements,” Arslan said. “This one cannot be used again.” Yuan’s eyes followed the broken piece of iron as Arslan moved it. His breathing had steadied and Temujin could not help but be impressed by the man’s personal discipline.

“If we stay with the Kerait for five days, how many sets can I have?” Temujin said, pressing him.

Arslan shook his head as he thought. “These thin iron plates are not difficult to forge, though each one must be finished by hand. If I leave them rough and have helpers in the forge and women to sew them…” He paused to think it through. “Perhaps three, maybe more.”

“Then that is your task,” Temujin said. “If Wen Chao will lend us more from his guards, we will have a force of men the Tartars cannot kill. We will make them fear us.”

Wen pursed his mouth as he considered. It was true that the first minister would send gold and horses if he asked. The court did not stint on the materials to bribe the tribes. He was not certain they would be so generous with weapons and armor. Only a fool gave away his advantages in war, for all the promises Wen had made to the young raider. If he allowed Temujin to take his men’s armor, he did not doubt it would raise an eyebrow in the court if they ever heard of it, but what choice did he have? He inclined his head, forcing a smile.

“They are yours, my lord. I will have them brought to you tonight.” He repressed a shudder at the thought of Temujin’s men going as well armored as any soldier of the Chin. Perhaps in time he would have to court the Tartars to have them curb the Mongol tribes. He wondered if he might have extended his stay in the plains, his heart sinking at the thought.

In the gers of the Kerait the following night, Khasar cuffed his youngest brother, sending Temuge spinning. At thirteen years of age, the boy had none of the fire of his older brethren and tears sparkled in his eyes as he steadied himself.

“What was that for?” Temuge demanded.

Khasar sighed. “How is it that you are our father’s son, little man?” he demanded. “Kachiun would have taken my head off if I tried to hit him like that, and he is only a couple of years older than you.”

With a shout, Temuge launched himself at Khasar, only to be knocked flat as his brother cuffed him again.

“That was a little better,” Khasar admitted grudgingly. “I had killed a man by the time I was your age…” He stopped, shocked to see that Temuge was sniveling, tears running down his cheeks. “You’re not crying? Kachiun, can you believe this little scrap?”

Kachiun lay on a bed in the corner of the ger, ignoring them as he applied a layer of oil to his bow. He paused at the question, looking over to where Temuge was rubbing at his nose and eyes.

“He’s just a child, still,” he said, returning to his task.

“I am not!” Temuge shouted, red in the face.

Khasar grinned at him. “You cry like one,” he said, taunting. “If Temujin saw you like that, he’d leave you for the dogs.”

“He would not,” Temuge said, tears appearing in his eyes again.

“He would, you know. He’d strip you naked and leave you on a hill for the wolves to bite,” Khasar continued, looking sad. “They like the young ones, for the tender meat.”

Temuge snorted in disdain. “He said I could ride with him against the Tartars, if I wanted,” he announced.

Khasar knew Temujin had made the offer, but he feigned amazement. “What, a little scrap like you? Against those great hairy Tartars? They’re worse than wolves, boy, those warriors. Taller than us and white-skinned, like ghosts. Some people say they are ghosts and they come for you when you fall asleep.”

“Leave him alone,” Kachiun murmured.

Khasar considered, subsiding reluctantly. Kachiun took his silence for assent and sat up on the bed.

“They are not ghosts, Temuge, but they are hard men and good with the bow and the sword. You are not strong enough yet to stand against them.”

“You were, at my age,” Temuge said.

There was a line of shining mucus under his nose, and Khasar wondered if it would drip down to the boy’s mouth. He watched it with interest as Kachiun swung his legs to the floor to address Temuge.

“I could fire a bow better than you at your age, yes. I practiced every day until my hands were cramped and my fingers bled.” He patted his right shoulder with his left hand, indicating the compact muscle there. It was larger than his left and writhed whenever he moved.

“It built my strength, Temuge. Have you done the same? Whenever I see you, you are playing with the children, or talking to our mother.”

“I have practiced,” Temuge said sullenly, though they both knew he was lying, or at least skirting the truth. Even with a bone ring to protect his fingers, he was a hopeless archer. Kachiun had taken him out many times and run with him, building his stamina. It did not seem to make the boy’s wind any better. At the end of only a mile, he would be puffing and gasping.

Khasar shook his head, as if weary. “If you cannot fire a bow and you are not strong enough to use a sword, will you kick them to death?” he said. He thought the little boy might leap at him again, but Temuge had given up.

“I hate you,” he said. “I hope the Tartars kill you both.” He would have stormed out of the ger, but Khasar deliberately tripped him as he passed, so that he fell flat in the doorway. Temuge ran off without looking back.

“You are too hard on him,” Kachiun said, reaching for his bow again.

“No. If I hear one more time that he is such a ‘sensitive boy,’ I think I will lose my dinner. Do you know who he was talking to today? The Chin, Wen Chao. I heard them chattering about birds or something as I went by. You tell me what that was about.”

“I can’t, but he is my baby brother and I want you to stop nagging at him like an old woman; is that too much to ask?”

Kachiun’s voice contained a little heat and Khasar considered his response. He could still win their fights, but the last few had resulted in so many painful bruises that he did not provoke one lightly.

“We all treat him differently, and what sort of a warrior is he as a result?” Khasar said.

Kachiun looked up. “Perhaps he will be a shaman, or a storyteller like old Chagatai.”

Khasar snorted. “Chagatai was a warrior when he was young, or so he always said. It’s no task for a young man.”

“Let him find his own path, Khasar,” Kachiun said. “It may not be where we lead him.”

Borte and Temujin lay together without touching. With blood fresh on their mouths, they had made love on the first night of the punishment raid against the Tartars, though she had cried out in grief and pain as his weight came down on her. He might have stopped then, but she had gripped his buttocks, holding him in her while tears streamed down her face.

It had been the only time. Since that day, she could not bring herself to let him touch her again. Whenever he came to the furs, she would kiss him and curl into his arms, but nothing more. Her monthly blood had not come since leaving the Olkhun’ut, but now she feared for the child. It had to be his, she was almost certain. She had seen the way many dogs would mount a bitch in the camp of the Olkhun’ut. Sometimes the puppies would show the colors of more than one of the fathers. She did not know if the same could apply to her, and she did not dare ask Hoelun.

In the darkness of an unfamiliar ger, she wept again while her husband slept, and did not know why.

Chapter 28

TEMUJIN RUBBED ANGRILY at the sweat in his eyes. The armored cloth Arslan had made was far heavier than he had realized. It felt as if he were rolled in a carpet, and his sword arm seemed to have lost half its speed. He faced Yuan as the sun rose, seeing to his irritation how the man wore the same armor without even a trace of perspiration on his forehead.

“Again,” Temujin snapped.

Yuan’s eyes sparkled with amusement and he bowed before bringing his sword up. He had told them to wear the armor at all times, until it became a second skin. Even after a week on the route back to the Tartar camp, they were still too slow. Temujin forced his men to practice for two hours at dawn and dusk, whether they wore the armor or not. It slowed the progress of the sixty who had ridden out from the Kerait, but Yuan approved of the effort. Without it, the armored men would be like the turtles he remembered from home. They might survive the first arrows of the Tartars, but on the ground, they would be easy prey.

With the help of the Kerait swordsmiths, Arslan had made five sets of the plated robes. In addition, Wen had made good his promise and delivered ten more, keeping only one back for his new personal guard. Yuan had chosen the man himself, making sure he understood his responsibilities before he left.

Temujin wore one of the new sets, with the plating on a long chest piece as well as another to cover his groin and two more on his thighs. Shoulder guards reached from his neck to his elbow, and it was those that caused him the most difficulty. Time and again, Yuan simply stepped aside from blows, dodging their slow speed easily.

He watched Temujin move toward him, reading his intentions from the way he stepped. The young khan’s weight was more strongly on the left foot, and Yuan suspected he would begin the blow from the low left, rising upwards. They used sharp steel blades, but so far there had been little real danger for either of them. Yuan was too much a perfectionist to cut the man in a practice bout, and Temujin never came close.

At the last second, Temujin shifted his weight again, turning the sweep into a lunge. Yuan dropped his right leg back to shift out of the way, letting the blade rasp along the scales of his own armor. He did not fear a cut without force behind it, and that too Temujin was having to learn. Many more blows could be ignored or merely turned with a little delicacy.

As the sword slid past, Yuan stepped forward briskly and brought his hilt up to touch Temujin lightly on the nose. At the same time, he let air explode from his lungs, calling “Hei!” before stepping back.

“Again,” Temujin said irritably, moving before Yuan had taken position. This time he held the blade above his head, bringing it down in a chopping motion. Yuan caught the blade on his own and they came chest to chest in a clash of armor. Temujin had placed his leading foot behind Yuan’s, and the soldier found himself falling backwards.

He regarded Temujin from the ground, waiting for the next strike.

“Well?”

“Well, what?” Temujin said. “Now I would plunge the sword through your chest.”

Yuan did not move. “You would not. I have been trained to fight from any position.” As he spoke, he kicked out with one leg, dropping Temujin neatly.

Temujin leapt up, his face strained.

“If I were not wearing this heavy armor, you would not find this so easy,” he said.

“I would shoot you from far away,” Yuan replied. “Or shoot your horse, if I saw that you were armored.”

Temujin was in the process of raising his sword again. His wrists burned with fatigue, but he was determined to get in one solid blow before mounting up for the day’s ride. Instead, he paused.

“We must armor the ponies, then, just the heads and chest.”

Yuan nodded. “I have seen it done. The iron plates can be sewn into a leather harness just as easily as your armor.”

“You are a skilled teacher, Yuan, have I told you?” Temujin said.

Yuan watched him carefully, knowing a sudden strike was possible. In truth, he was still amazed that Temujin did not appear to mind being beaten time and time again in front of his men. Yuan could not imagine his old officers ever allowing such a display. The humiliation would have been too much for them, but Temujin seemed unaware, or uncaring. The tribesmen were a strange breed, but they soaked up whatever Yuan could tell them about their new armor. He had even taken to discussing tactics with Temujin and his brothers. It was a new experience for Yuan to have younger men listening so intently. When he was guarding Wen Chao, he knew he existed to give his life for the ambassador, or at least to kill as many enemies as he could before falling. The men who had come into the plains with him all knew their work, and rarely did Yuan have to correct them. He had found that he enjoyed the teaching.

“Once more,” he heard Temujin say. “I am going to come from your left.”

Yuan smiled. The last two times Temujin had thought to warn him, the attack had come from the right. It did not matter particularly, but he was amused at the attempts to cloud his judgment.

Temujin came in fast, his sword darting with greater speed than Yuan had seen before. He saw the right shoulder dip and brought his blade up. Too late to correct, he saw Temujin had followed through on the left, deliberately. Yuan could still have spoiled the blow, but he chose not to, letting the blade tip touch his throat as Temujin stood panting and exhilarated.

“That was better,” Yuan said. “You are getting faster in the armor.”

Temujin nodded. “You let the blade through, didn’t you?”

Yuan allowed a smile to show. “When you are better still, you will know,” he said.

At full gallop, Yuan looked right and left, seeing how Temujin’s brothers kept the line solid. The exercises went on all day and Yuan found himself involved in solving the problems of a massed attack. He rode with his bow strapped on his saddle, but the archery of the sixty men was not in question. Togrul had given twenty of his personal bondsmen to the group. They were fit and skilled, but they were not experienced in war and Temujin was scathing at first with them. His own raiders followed his orders with instant obedience, but the new men were always slow.

Yuan had been surprised to be given command of the left wing. The position called for a senior officer and he had expected it to go to Khasar. Certainly Khasar had thought so. Yuan had not missed the glowering looks coming his way from Temujin’s brother as he rode with his own ten just inside. After the training bouts each evening, Temujin would gather them around a small fire and give his orders for the following day. It was a small thing perhaps, but he included Yuan in his council, along with Jelme and Arslan, asking a thousand questions. When Yuan could answer from experience, they listened intently. Sometimes Temujin would shake his head halfway through, and Yuan understood his reasoning. The men Temujin commanded had not fought together for years. There was a limit to what could be taught in a short time, even with ruthless discipline.

Yuan heard Temujin’s horn sound two short blasts. It meant the left wing was to ride ahead of the rest of them, skewing the line. Over the pounding of hooves, Yuan shared a glance with Khasar and both groups of ten accelerated to their new position.

Yuan looked around him. It had been neatly done, and this time even Togrul’s bondsmen had heard the call and responded. They were improving and Yuan felt a spark of pride in his heart. If his old officers could see him, they would laugh themselves sick. First sword in Kaifeng and here he was riding with wild savages. He tried to mock himself as the soldiers at home would have done, but somehow his heart wasn’t in it.

Temujin blew a single note and the right wing moved up alongside, leaving the center behind. Yuan looked across at Kachiun and Jelme riding there, grim-faced in their armor. The riders around Temujin’s brother were a little more ragged, but they dressed the line as Yuan watched, thundering forward as one. He nodded to himself, beginning to relish the battle to come.

From behind, Temujin blew a long note, falling. They slowed together, each of the officers shouting orders at the men in their groups of ten. The rugged ponies slowed to a canter, then a trot, and Temujin moved up the center group with Arslan.

Temujin rode ahead as the line re-formed, swinging his mount across to the left wing. He allowed them to catch him and Yuan saw his face was flushed with excitement, his eyes bright.

“Send the scouts on ahead, Yuan,” Temujin called. “We will rest the ponies while they search.”

“Your will, my lord,” Yuan replied automatically. He caught himself as he turned in the saddle to two young warriors, then shrugged. He had been a soldier too long to change his habits, and in truth, he was enjoying the task of shaping the tribesmen into a battle group.

“Tayan, Rulakh, move ahead until sunset. If you see anything more than a few wanderers, ride back.” By now, he knew all sixty names, forcing them to memory, a matter of personal habit. Both of the men were from Temujin’s raiders. They bowed their heads as they passed him, kicking their mounts forward. Yuan showed nothing of his hidden satisfaction, though Temujin seemed to sense it from the grin that came to his face.

“I think you have missed this, Teacher,” Temujin called. “The spring is rising in your blood.”

Yuan did not respond as Temujin rejoined the line. He had been two years with Wen Chao on guard duty. The oath he had given to the emperor bound him to follow any order given by a lawful authority. In his deepest heart, he acknowledged the truth of Temujin’s words. He had missed the comradeship of a campaign, though the tribesmen were nothing like the men he had known. He hoped the brothers would live past the first clash of arms.

The moon was full again a month out from the Kerait. The exuberance of the first weeks had been replaced by a grim purpose. There was not so much chatter round the fires as there had been, and the scouts were on edge. They had found the site where Temujin and his brothers had seen the large group of Tartars. The blackened circles of grass brought back dark memories for the men who had been there. Kachiun and Khasar were particularly quiet as they remounted. The night they had rescued Borte had been burnt into them, too deep to forget Temujin’s chant, or the burst of light they had felt as they swallowed the flesh of their enemies. They did not speak of what they had done. That night had seemed endless, but when the dawn had finally come, they had scouted the area, trying to see where the small group had been taking her. The main Tartar camp had not been far away. The last of the raiders could have reached it in a morning’s ride, and Borte would have been lost for months, if not forever.

Temujin pressed his hand into the ashes of a fire and grimaced. It was cold.

“Send the scouts out wider,” he said to his brothers. “If we catch them on the move, it will be quick.”

The Tartar camp had come prepared for a season, perhaps with the intention of hunting the raiders who had troubled them all winter. They moved with carts laden with gers and large herds whose droppings could be read and counted. Temujin wondered how close they were. He remembered his frustration as he lay with Tartar blood on his mouth and watched a peaceful camp too large to attack. There was no question of letting them escape. He had gone to Togrul as one having no other choice.

“There were many people in this place,” Yuan noted at his shoulder. The Chin warrior had counted the black circles and noted the tracks. “More than the hundred you told Togrul.”

Temujin looked at him. “Perhaps. I could not say for sure.”

Yuan watched the man who had brought them to kill across a wilderness. It occurred to him that fifty of Togrul’s best men would have been better than thirty. The newcomers would have outnumbered Temujin’s people, and perhaps that was not to the young man’s liking. Yuan had noticed how Temujin had mixed the groups, making them work together. His reputation for ferocity was known- and for success. Already, they looked on him as a khan. Yuan wondered if Togrul knew the risk he had taken. He sighed to himself as Temujin moved away to talk with his brothers. Gold and land would buy great risks, if used well. Wen Chao had shown the truth of that.

Temujin nodded to his brothers, including Temuge in the gesture. His youngest brother had been given the smallest set of armor. Wen Chao’s men were given to lightness of frame, but it was still too big for him, and Temujin repressed a smile as he saw Temuge turn stiffly to his pony, testing the straps and reins.

“You have done well, little brother,” Temujin said as he passed him. He heard Khasar snort nearby, but ignored it. “We will find them soon, Temuge. Will you be ready when we ride to the attack?”

Temuge looked up at the brother he revered. He did not speak of the cold fear in his stomach, nor of the way the riding had exhausted him until he thought he would drop from the saddle and shame them all. Every time he dismounted, his legs had stiffened to the point where he had to hold the pony tightly or drop to his knees.

“I will be ready, Temujin,” he said, forcing a cheerful tone. Inside, he despaired. He knew his own archery was barely worth the name, and the Tartar sword Temujin had given him was too heavy for his hand. He had a smaller blade hidden inside his deel, and he hoped to use that. Even then, the thought of actually cutting skin and muscle, of feeling blood pour over his hands, was something he dreaded. He could not be as strong and ruthless as the others. He did not yet know what use he could be to any of them, but he could not bear the scorn in Khasar’s eyes. Kachiun had come to him the night before they left, saying that Borte and Hoelun would need support in the camp of the Kerait. It had been a transparent attempt to let him out of the fighting to come, but Temuge had refused it. If they needed help at all, fifty warriors could not save them in the heart of the Kerait. Their presence was a surety that Temujin would return with the heads he had promised.

Of all the brothers, only Temuge had not been made an officer. With Jelme, Arslan, and Yuan as well as his brothers, Temujin had the five he needed, and Temuge knew he was still too young, too inexperienced in war. He touched the blade of his long knife as he mounted, feeling its sharpness. He dreamed of saving their lives, over and over, so that they would look at him with astonishment and realize he was truly Yesugei’s son. He did not like to wake from those dreams. He shivered as they rode out once again, feeling the cold more than the other men seemed to. He looked inside himself for the easy courage they displayed and found nothing but terror.

The scouts found the main force of the Tartars only two days after Temujin had visited the old camp. The men rode in at full gallop, leaping from their horses to report to Temujin.

“They are moving, my lord,” the first blurted out. “They have outriders in all directions, but the army is moving slowly through the next valley, coming this way.”

Temujin showed his teeth. “They sent out thirty men to find us and not a single one made it back alive. They must suspect a large tribe is in the area. Good. If they are cautious, they will hesitate.”

He raised his arm to bring his officers in close. They had all watched the excited actions of the scouts, and they came in fast, expecting the news.

“Tell your men to follow their orders,” Temujin said as he mounted. “We ride as one, taking your speed from me. If any man breaks formation, I will leave him for the hawks.”

He saw Khasar grinning and glowered at him.

“Even if he is my own brother, Khasar, even then. Loose your arrows on my call, then draw swords. We will hit them as one line. If you are unhorsed, stay alive long enough for the rest of us to finish the killing.”

“You will not take prisoners?” Arslan asked.

Temujin did not hesitate. “If any survive our attack, I will question their leaders to learn more. After that I have no use for them. I will not swell our ranks with blood enemies.”

The word spread quickly through the warriors as their officers returned to them. They walked their ponies forward in a single rank. As they passed a ridge, each man could see the Tartar formation, with riders and carts moving slowly across the plain.

As one, they began to trot toward the enemy. Temujin heard distant alarm horns sound and he untied his bow, fitting a string and testing it. He reached back to open the quiver strapped to his saddle, raising the first arrow and testing the feathers with his thumb. It would fly straight and true, as they would.

Chapter 29

THE TARTARS did not lack for courage. As their warning horns moaned across the plain, every warrior ran for his horse, mounting with shrill yells that carried to the ears of Temujin’s warriors. His sixty rode together as they increased their pace to a gallop. His officers snarled orders at any man who proved too eager, watching Temujin himself as he drew his first arrow in perfect balance.

Yuan had discussed the advantage of hitting the enemy as a line, and it showed in the first bloody contacts with the Tartar outriders. As Temujin’s men reached them the Tartar scouts were spitted on long shafts, their bodies falling with their horses. Temujin could see the Tartars had split their force to leave some to defend their carts, but there were still more than he had guessed, boiling out across the plains like wasps.

Temujin’s charge swept through them, crashing over dying horses and men as they were met in twos, in fives, a dozen at a time. The bows snapped quick death at the gallop and brought too great a force to resist on the loose Tartar formations. It seemed to Temujin as if just heartbeats passed before they had left a trail of dead men and riderless horses behind them and the carts were approaching at dizzying speed. He glanced left and right before blowing three quick blasts, calling for the horns formation. He had almost left it too late, but Yuan’s men moved up, matching Kachiun and Jelme on the right. They hit the carts in a crescent, enveloping the herds and Tartars with a roar.

Temujin’s grasping fingers found his quiver was empty, and he threw his bow to the ground, drawing his sword. At the center of the crescent, he found his way blocked by a heavy cart laden with felt and leather. He barely saw the first man to step into his path, taking his head with a single swing of his blade before kicking in his heels and charging into a mass of Tartar warriors. Arslan and ten more went with him into the center, killing as they went. Women and children threw themselves under the carts in terror as the riders swept through, and their wailing was like the keening of hawks on the wind.

The change came without warning. One of the Tartars dropped his sword, and even then he would have been killed if he had not thrown himself flat as Khasar passed by. Others did the same, lying prostrate as Temujin and his officers galloped around the camp, looking for resistance. It took time for the bloodlust to ease in them, and it was Temujin himself who reached for his horn and blew the falling note that meant a slower pace. His men were spattered with fresh blood, but they heard him and ran their fingers along their blades, cleaning away the sheen of life.

There was a moment of utter stillness. Where, before, their ears had rung with pounding hooves and bellowing orders, the quiet now swelled around them. Temujin listened in wonder to a silence that lasted long enough for his brothers to come to his side. Somewhere a woman began to wail and the bleating of sheep and goats began again. Perhaps they had always been there, but Temujin had not heard them over the pulse of blood that stopped his ears and made his heart throb in his chest.

He tightened his reins, turning his horse around as he surveyed the scene. The camp had been shattered. Those Tartars who still lived were on their faces in the grass, silent and despairing. He looked back over the path of the attack and saw one rider who had somehow survived the charge. The man was slack-jawed at what he had witnessed, too stunned even to ride for his life.

Temujin squinted at the lone rider, nodding to Kachiun.

“Bring him in, or kill him,” he said.

Kachiun gave a brisk nod and tapped Khasar on the shoulder for more arrows. Khasar had only two, but he handed them over and Kachiun took up his bow from where it was neatly strapped to his saddle. He had not thrown the valuable weapon down, Temujin noticed, with wry amusement.

Temujin and Khasar watched as Kachiun galloped out after the Tartar rider. The sight of him coming seemed to jerk the man out of a trance, and he turned his mount to escape at last. Kachiun closed the gap before the Tartar could hit full gallop, then fired an arrow that took him high in the back. The man rode on for a few moments before he fell, and Kachiun left him there, turning back to the camp and raising his bow to signal the kill.

Temujin started as his men roared. They had all been watching and the gesture released their excitement. Those who had bows raised them up, jerking their arms in triumph. It had happened so fast that they had been caught somehow at the finish, unsure. Now the great rush of joy that comes from facing death and living filled them all, and they dismounted. Some of Togrul’s bondsmen moved excitedly to the carts, pulling aside hides and felt to see what they had won for themselves.

Arslan’s men tied the prisoners, taking away their weapons. Some of them were unmarked and they were treated roughly, with contempt. They had no right to be alive after such a battle, and Temujin cared nothing for them. He found his hands were shaking, and as he dismounted he led his horse to keep a grip on the reins that would hide the weakness.

He glanced up from his thoughts when he saw his brother Temuge ride in close and swing a leg down. The boy was milk-white and clearly shaken, but Temujin saw he carried a bloody blade as if he did not know how it came to be in his hand. Temujin tried to catch his brother’s eye to congratulate him, but Temuge turned and vomited on the grass. Temujin walked away rather than shame him by noticing. When he had recovered, he would find a few words of praise for the boy.

Temujin stood in the center of the carts, feeling the eyes of his officers on him. They were waiting for something and he raised a hand to his eyes, pressing away the dark thoughts that slid and jostled for space in his mind. He cleared his throat and made his voice carry.

“Arslan! Find whatever skins of airag they had with them and put a guard on them, someone you can trust. Khasar, send out eight men as scouts around us. There may be more of them.” He turned to Kachiun as he returned and leapt nimbly down from his pony. “Gather the prisoners, Kachiun, and have your ten set up three of their gers as quickly as you can. We will stop here for tonight.”

It was not enough, he realized. They still watched him with gleaming eyes and the beginnings of smiles.

“You have done well,” he called to them. “Whatever we have won is yours, to be split equally among you.”

They cheered at that, stealing glances at the Tartar carts laden with valuables. The horses alone would mean instant wealth for many of them, but Temujin did not care for that. At the moment the battle was won, he had faced the prospect of returning to Togrul. The khan of the Kerait would claim his share, of course. That was his right, even if he had not been present. Temujin would not begrudge him a few dozen ponies and swords. Still, it nagged at him. He did not want to return. The thought of meekly handing back the bondsmen who had served him so well made his jaw clench in irritation. He needed them all, and Togrul was a man who saw only the lands of the Chin as a reward. On impulse, Temujin reached down and brushed the grass at his feet. Someone had been killed over that patch, he realized. Tiny droplets of blood clung to the blades and spotted his hand as he stood straight. He raised his voice again.

“Remember this, when you tell your children you fought with the sons of Yesugei. There is one tribe and one land that recognizes no borders. This is merely a beginning.”

Perhaps they cheered because they were still filled with the excitement of victory; it did not matter.

The Tartars had come prepared for a long campaign. The carts contained oil for lamps, woven ropes, cloths from the thinnest silk to canvas so thick it would hardly bend. In addition, there was a leather bag of silver coins and enough black airag to warm the coldest throats on winter nights. Temujin had those last items brought to him and stacked against the inner wall of the first ger to be erected. More than twenty Tartars had survived the attack, and he had questioned them to find their leader. Most had merely looked at him, remaining silent. Temujin had drawn his sword and killed three before the fourth man swore and spat on the ground.

“There is no leader here,” the Tartar had said in fury. “He died with the others.”

Without a word, Temujin had yanked the man to his feet and handed him over to stand by Arslan. He looked down the line of men, his face cold.

“I have no love for your people, no need to keep you alive,” he said. “Unless you can be useful to me, you will be killed here.”

No one else responded and the Tartars did not meet his eyes.

“Very well,” Temujin said into the silence. He turned to the closest of his warriors, one of the brothers he had brought into his camp in the north. “Kill the rest quickly, Batu,” he said. The little man drew his knife without expression.

“Wait! I can be of use to you,” another of the Tartars said suddenly.

Temujin paused, then shrugged and shook his head. “It is too late,” he said.

In the ger, Arslan had bound the sole survivor of the Tartar force. The cries of the rest had been pitiful and the warrior looked at them with hatred.

“You have killed the others. You will kill me, no matter what I say,” he said, straining at the ropes behind his back.

Temujin considered. He needed to know as much as possible about the Tartars.

“If you hold nothing back, I give you my oath you will live,” he said.

The Tartar snorted. “How long would I live out here on my own without even a weapon?” he snapped. “Promise me a bow and a pony and I will tell you anything you like.”

Temujin grinned suddenly. “You are bargaining with me?”

The Tartar did not reply and Temujin chuckled.

“You are braver than I expected. You have my oath that you will be given whatever you ask.”

The Tartar slumped in relief, but Temujin spoke again before he could marshal his thoughts.

“Why have you come into the lands of my people?”

“You are Temujin of the Wolves?” the man asked.

Temujin did not trouble to correct him. It was the name that spread fear in the north, whether he was part of that tribe or not.

“I am.”

“There is a blood price on your head. The khans of the north want you dead,” the Tartar said with grim pleasure. “They will hunt you down wherever you go.”

“You do not hunt a man who comes looking for you,” Temujin reminded him softly.

The Tartar blinked, considering the events of the day. He had begun that morning in the midst of strong warriors, and ended it with piles of the dead. He shuddered at the thought and suddenly gave a barking laugh.

“So we hunt each other and only the crows and hawks grow fat,” he said. The laughter turned bitter and Temujin waited patiently for the man to regain his control.

“Your people murdered the khan of the Wolves,” Temujin reminded him. He did not speak of Borte. That pain was still too ragged and bloody to allow past his lips.

“I know of it,” the Tartar replied. “I know who gave him to us, as well. It was not one of my people.”

Temujin leaned forward, his yellow eyes fierce.

“You have sworn to tell me all you know,” he murmured. “Speak and you will be safe.”

The prisoner dropped his head as he thought. “Loose my bonds, first,” he said.

Temujin drew his sword, still spattered with the blood of those he had killed. The Tartar began to turn away, holding out his hands to have the ropes cut. Instead, he felt the cold metal touch his throat as Temujin reached around him.

“Tell me,” he said.

“The khan of the Olkhun’ut,” the Tartar said, the words tumbling. “He took silver to send word to us.”

Temujin stepped back. The Tartar turned to face him again, his eyes wild.

“That is where this blood feud started. How many have you killed by now?”

“For my father? Not enough,” Temujin replied. “Not nearly enough.” He thought again of his wife and the coldness between them. “I have not yet begun to repay my debts to your people.”

Temujin held the Tartar with his eyes as the door opened. At first, neither of them looked to see who had come into the ger, then the Tartar’s gaze flickered and he looked up. He took in a sharp breath as he saw Yuan standing there, his face grim.

“I know you!” the Tartar said, yanking at his bound wrists in desperation. He turned his face to Temujin in clear terror. “Please, I can-”

Yuan moved quickly, drawing and killing in a single stroke. His blade cut through the Tartar’s neck in a spray of blood.

Temujin reacted with blinding speed, seizing Yuan’s wrist and bearing him backwards until he came up against the wicker lattice wall and was pinned there. He held Yuan by the throat and hand, his face working in fury.

“I told him he would live,” Temujin said. “Who are you to bring dishonor to my word?”

Yuan could not reply. The fingers on his throat were like iron and his face began to grow purple. Temujin ground the bones in his wrist until the sword fell from his fingers and then shook him in rage, cursing.

Without warning, Temujin let go and Yuan fell to his knees. Temujin kicked his sword away before he could recover.

“What secrets did he have, Yuan? How did he know you?”

When he spoke, Yuan’s voice was a hoarse croak and bruising had already started on his throat.

“He knew nothing. Perhaps I have seen him before when my master traveled into the north. I thought he was attacking you.”

Temujin sneered. “On his knees? With his hands bound? You are a liar.”

Yuan looked up, his eyes blazing. “I will accept your challenge, if you wish. It does not change anything.”

Temujin slapped him hard enough to rock his head to one side.

“What are you hiding from me?” he demanded.

Behind them, the door opened again and Arslan and Kachiun came inside in a rush, their weapons drawn. The gers were not private to anyone standing close by, and they had heard the struggle. Yuan ignored their blades, though his sullen gaze flickered over Arslan for a moment. As they watched, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“I am ready for death, if you choose to take my life,” he said, calmly. “I have brought dishonor to you, as you said.”

Temujin drummed the fingers of one hand on the other as he watched Yuan kneeling on the ground.

“How long has Wen Chao been among my people, Yuan?” Temujin asked.

It seemed to take an effort of will for Yuan to answer, as if he had gone far away.

“Two years,” he said.

“And before him, who did your first minister send?”

“I do not know,” Yuan replied. “I was still with the army then.”

“Your master has bargained with the Tartars,” Temujin continued.

Yuan did not respond, gazing steadily at him.

“I have heard that the khan of the Olkhun’ut betrayed my father,” Temujin said softly. “How could the Tartars approach a great tribe to arrange such a thing? It would take an intermediary, a neutral they both trusted, would it not?”

He heard Kachiun gasp behind him as the news sank in.

“Did you travel to the Olkhun’ut as well? Before the Kerait?” Temujin went on, pressing.

Yuan remained still, as if he were made of stone. “You are talking of a time before my master was even in this land,” Yuan said. “You are looking for secrets where there are none.”

“Before Wen Chao, I wonder who else came among us,” Temujin said, murmuring. “I wonder how many times the Chin have sent their men into my lands, betraying my people. I wonder what promises they made.”

The world that had seemed so solid that morning was crumbling all around him. It was too much to take in and Temujin found himself breathing hard, almost dizzy with the revelations.

“They would not want us to grow strong, would they, Yuan? They would want the Tartars and Mongols to tear each other to pieces. Is that not what Wen Chao said to me? That the Tartars had grown too strong, too close to their precious borders?”

Temujin closed his eyes, imagining the cold gaze of the Chin as they considered the tribes. For all he knew, they had been subtly influencing the tribes for centuries, keeping them at each other’s throats.

“How many of my people have died because of yours, Yuan?” he said.

“I have told you all I know,” Yuan said, raising his head. “If you will not believe me, then take my life, or send me back to Wen Chao.” His face hardened as he continued. “Or put a sword in my hand and let me defend myself against these accusations.”

It was Arslan who spoke, his face pale at what he had heard. “Let me, my lord,” he said to Temujin, never taking his eyes from Yuan. “Give him a sword and I will face him.”

Yuan turned to look at the swordsmith, his mouth turning upwards at the edges. Without speaking, he bowed his head slightly, acknowledging the offer.

“I have heard too much. Bind him until dawn and I will decide then,” Temujin said. He watched as Kachiun tied Yuan’s hands expertly. He did not resist or struggle, even when Kachiun kicked him onto his side. He lay by the body of the Tartar he had killed, his face calm.

“Post a guard on him while we eat,” Temujin ordered, shaking his head. “I need to think.”

At the first light of dawn, Temujin paced up and down outside the cluster of small gers, his face troubled. He had not slept. The scouts he had sent away with Khasar had not yet returned, and his thoughts still writhed without answers. He had spent years of his life punishing the Tartars for what they had done, for the life of his father and the lives his sons should have led. If Yesugei had survived, Bekter or Temujin would have become khan to the Wolves and Eeluk would have remained a loyal bondsman. There was a trail of death and pain between the day he had been told and the current one that found him troubled and depressed, his life torn into tatters. What had he accomplished in those years? He thought of Bekter and, for a moment, wished he were alive. The path could have been very different if Yesugei had not been killed.

As Temujin stood alone he felt fresh anger kindle in his chest. The khan of the Olkhun’ut deserved some measure of the misery he had caused. Temujin remembered the revelation he had experienced as a captive of the Wolves. There was no justice in the world- unless he made it for himself. Unless he cut twice as deep as he had been cut and gave back blow for blow. He had the right.

In the dim distance, he saw two of his scouts racing back toward the gers. Temujin frowned at their headlong pace, feeling his heart thump faster. Their arrival had not gone unnoticed and he sensed the camp come alive around him as men pulled on deels and armor, saddling their horses with quick efficiency. He was proud of them all and he wondered again what to do about Yuan. He could not trust him any longer, but Temujin had conceived a liking for the man ever since he had fired an arrow at his chest in the camp of the Kerait. He did not want to kill him.

As the scouts came closer he saw that Khasar was one of them, riding like a maniac. His horse was blowing and lathered in sweat, and Temujin felt the alarm spread through the men who waited for news. Khasar was not one to panic easily, but he rode without thought for his own safety or that of his mount.

Temujin forced himself to remain still while Khasar rode up and jumped to the ground. The men had to see him as different, untouched by their own fears.

“What is it, my brother, to have made you ride so fast?” Temujin asked, keeping his voice steady.

“More Tartars than I have ever seen,” Khasar replied, panting. “An army to make these ones we killed look like a raiding band.” He paused for breath. “You said they might come in force in the spring, and they have.”

“How many?” Temujin snapped.

“More than I could count, a day’s ride at most, probably closer by now. The ones we have killed are just the trailbreakers. There are hundreds of carts coming, horses. Maybe a thousand men. I’ve never see anything like it, brother, never.”

Temujin grimaced. “I have news of my own that you will not want to hear. It will wait for this. Water your horse before it drops dead. Have the men mount up and find a fresh pony yourself. I will want to see this army that can frighten my little brother.”

Khasar snorted. “I didn’t say they frightened me, but I thought you might like to know the entire Tartar nation is coming south for your head. That’s all.” He grinned at the idea. “By the spirits, Temujin. We stung them and stung them and now they are roaring.” He looked around at the men who watched, listening to every word. “What are we going to do now?”

“Wait, Khasar. There is something I must do first,” Temujin said. He strode to the ger where Yuan had spent the night, vanishing inside. Arslan and Kachiun went after him and the three men escorted Yuan out into the gray light, where he blinked and rubbed his wrists. His ropes had been cut and Khasar could only stand in amazement, wondering what had happened in his absence.

Temujin faced the Chin soldier.

“I have come to think of you as a friend, Yuan. I cannot kill you today,” he said. As Yuan stood in silence, Temujin brought a saddled pony to him and passed the reins into his hands.

“Return to your master,” Temujin said.

Yuan mounted easily. He looked down at Temujin for a long moment.

“I wish you good fortune, my lord,” Yuan said at last.

Temujin slapped his hand on the pony’s rump, and Yuan went trotting away without looking back.

Khasar came up to his brothers, his gaze following theirs after the retreating soldier.

“I imagine this means I have the left wing,” he said.

Temujin chuckled. “Find a fresh horse, Khasar, and you too, Kachiun. I want to see what you saw.” He looked round to find Jelme already mounted and ready to go.

“Take the men back to the Kerait and tell them an army is gathered. Togrul will have to fight or run, as he pleases.”

“What about us?” Khasar said, bewildered. “We need more than sixty warriors. We need more men than the Kerait can put in the field.”

Temujin turned his face to the south, bitter with memories.

“When I have seen this invading army with my own eyes, we will come back to the lands around the red hill,” he said. “I will find the men we need, but we have another enemy we must face first.” He looked so grim that even Khasar did not speak, and Temujin spoke so quietly they barely heard him.

“My brothers and I have a debt to settle with the Olkhun’ut, Arslan. We could all be killed. You do not have to come with us.”

Arslan shook his head. He did not look at Jelme, though he felt his son’s eyes on him.

“You are my khan,” he replied.

“Is it enough?” Temujin said.

Arslan nodded slowly.

“It is everything.”

Chapter 30

TEMUJIN STOOD with his arms outstretched as the bondsmen of the Olkhun’ut searched him thoroughly. Khasar and Arslan endured the same hands patting down every inch of them. The men who guarded Sansar’s ger sensed the grim moods of the visitors and missed nothing. All three men wore Chin armor over summer deels and silk under-tunics taken from the Tartars. Temujin glared as the bondsmen fingered the strange plates sewn into the heavy cloth. One of the men began to comment on them, but Temujin chose that moment to slap his hand away, as if irritated by the affront to his dignity. His heart beat a fast rhythm in his chest as he stood there, waiting to meet his oldest enemy.

Around them, the ever-curious Olkhun’ut had gathered, chattering to each other and pointing at the strangely garbed men who had disturbed their morning work. Temujin did not see old Sholoi among them, but his glowering uncle was there and Koke had taken possession of their swords once more, disappearing into the khan’s ger to bring news of their arrival. The young warrior had accepted their blades with something like disappointment on his face. Even at a glance, he could tell they were not of the quality that Temujin had carried before. The Tartar workmanship was rough, and the blades had to be sharpened more often than Arslan’s best steel.

“You may enter,” one of the bondsmen said at last. “And you,” he added, pointing to Khasar. “Your friend will have to wait out here.”

Temujin hid his dismay. He was not certain he could trust Khasar to keep his temper under strain, but Kachiun had other tasks that morning. He did not bother to reply and dipped low to pass through the small door, his mind racing.

For once, Sansar was not sitting in the great seat that dominated the ger he used for formal meetings. He was talking in a low voice to two more of his bondsmen as Temujin entered. Koke stood to one side, watching them. The swords they had carried were carelessly piled against the wall, an indication of their value.

At the creak of the door, Sansar broke off his murmuring and stepped up to his seat. Temujin saw that he moved with care, as if age were making his bones brittle. The khan still had the look of an old snake, with his shaved head and sunken eyes that were never still. It was hard for Temujin to look at him without showing a trace of hatred, but he kept the cold face. The Olkhun’ut bondsmen took up positions on either side of their master, glaring at the new arrivals. Temujin forced himself to remember the courtesies owed to a khan of a powerful tribe.

“I am honored to be in your presence, my lord Sansar,” he said.

“Yet again,” Sansar replied. “I thought I had seen the last of you. Why do you trouble me in my home, Temujin? I seem to see more of you than my own wives. What more could you possibly want from me?”

Temujin saw Koke smile out of the corner of his eye, and he flushed at the tone. He sensed Khasar stirring irritably and flashed a warning glance at his brother before speaking.

“Perhaps you have heard of the Tartar army coming fast out of the wastes of the north. I have seen them with my own eyes and I have come to warn you.”

Sansar gave a dry chuckle. “Every wanderer and herdsman for a thousand miles is talking of them. The Olkhun’ut have no quarrel with the Tartars. We have not traveled that far north for forty years, before my time as khan.” His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward in the chair, looking down at the two men standing stiffly before him.

“You have stirred them to war, Temujin, with your raids. You must accept the consequences. I fear for you, I really do.” His tone belied the words and Temujin hoped Khasar would keep silent as he had been ordered.

“They will not respect those tribes who claim no blood feud with them, my lord,” Temujin continued. “I saw a thousand warriors, with as many women and children in their camp. They have come into our lands in greater force than anyone can remember.”

“I am appalled,” Sansar said, smiling. “What then do you propose to do?”

“Stand in their way,” Temujin snapped, his own temper fraying under the older man’s evident amusement.

“With the Kerait? Oh, I have heard of your alliance, Temujin. The news spreads quickly when it is something so interesting. But will it be enough? I don’t think Togrul can bring more than three hundred warriors to that particular feast.”

Temujin took a slow breath, mastering himself. “The Olkhun’ut archers have a high reputation, my lord. With another three hundred of your men, I could-”

He broke off as Sansar chuckled, looking round at Koke and his two bondsmen. Sansar saw the angry expressions of Temujin and Khasar and made an attempt to be serious.

“I am sorry, but the idea was…” He shook his head. “You are here to beg warriors from me? You expect to have the entire strength of the Olkhun’ut ride back under your command? No.”

“The Tartars will take us one tribe at a time,” Temujin said, taking a step forward in his need to persuade the khan. The bondsmen saw the movement and tensed, but Temujin ignored them. “How long will you be safe, once the Kerait have been destroyed? How long will the Quirai survive, the Naimans, the Wolves? We have remained apart for so long, I think you forget we are one people.”

Sansar grew very still, watching Temujin from the recesses of his dark eyes.

“I know no brothers in the Kerait,” he said at last, his voice almost a whisper. “The Olkhun’ut have grown strong without their help. You must stand or run on your own, Temujin. You will not have my warriors with you. That is my answer. There will be no other from me.”

For a moment, Temujin was silent. When he spoke, it was as if each word were wrung out of him.

“I have bags of silver ingots, captured from the Tartars. Give me a price per man and I will buy them from you.”

Sansar threw his head back to laugh and Temujin moved. With a savage jerk, he snapped one of the iron plates from his armor and leapt forward, jamming it into Sansar’s bare throat. Blood splashed his face as he ripped the metal edge back and forth, ignoring Sansar’s hands as they clawed at him.

The bondsmen were not ready to deal with sudden death. As they broke from shock and drew their swords, Khasar was already there, his fist hammering into the nose of the closest man. He too held a piece of sharpened iron torn from where he and Temujin had weakened the threads in the armor. He used it to cut the throat of the second bondsman in a vicious swipe. The man staggered backwards, falling with a crash on the wooden floor. A bitter smell filled the air as the bondsman’s bowels released, his legs still kicking in spasms.

Temujin pulled back from the broken body of the khan, panting and covered with blood. The bondsman Khasar had punched surged forward in mindless rage, but Khasar had taken the sword from his companion. As they met, Temujin leapt from the chair, hammering into Sansar’s man and taking him to the polished floor. While Temujin held him, Khasar plunged his blade through the bondsman’s heaving chest, working it back and forth until he too was still.

Only Koke stood then, his mouth open in speechless horror. As Temujin and Khasar turned their hard eyes on him, he backed away to the wall, his feet knocking against the Tartar swords. He grabbed at one in desperate fear, pulling the blade free of its scabbard with a jerk.

Temujin and Khasar met each other’s gaze. Temujin picked up the second sword and both men stepped toward him with deliberate menace.

“I am your cousin,” Koke said, his sword hand visibly shaking. “Let me live, for your mother, at least.”

Outside, Temujin could hear shouts of alarm. The warriors of the Olkhun’ut would be gathering, and his life hung in the balance.

“Drop the sword and you will live,” he said.

Khasar looked at his brother, but Temujin shook his head. Koke’s blade clattered on the floor.

“Now get out,” Temujin said. “Run if you want, I do not need you.”

Koke almost broke the hinges in his hurry to get the door open. Temujin and Khasar stood for a moment in silence, looking at the gaping throat of the khan of the Olkhun’ut. Without a word, Khasar approached the chair and kicked the body, the force of the blow making it slide down to sprawl bonelessly at their feet.

“When you see my father, tell him how you died,” Khasar muttered to the dead khan.

Temujin saw two swords he knew on the wall and he reached for them. They could both hear the shouts and clatter of assembling men outside. He looked at Khasar, his yellow eyes cold.

“Now, brother, are you ready to die?”

They stepped out into the spring sunshine, eyes shifting quickly to judge what waited for them. Arslan stood a pace away from the door, two bodies lying at his feet. The night before, they had talked through every detail of the plan, but there was no way of knowing what would happen next. Temujin shrugged as he met Arslan’s eyes. He did not expect to survive the next few moments. He had given them both a chance to ride away, but they had insisted on coming with him.

“Is he dead?” Arslan said.

“He is,” Temujin replied.

He held Arslan’s old swords and he pressed the one the swordsmith had carried into his hand. Arslan knew he might not hold it for long, but he nodded as he took it, dropping a Tartar blade to the ground. Temujin looked past the swordsmith to the chaos of the Olkhun’ut warriors. Many of them held drawn bows, but they hesitated without orders and Temujin took the chance before they could find calm and shoot them down.

“Stand still and be silent!” he roared at the crowd.

If anything, the noise of fear and shouting increased, but those who were close by paused and stood watching. Temujin was reminded of the way animals could freeze in the stare of a hunter until it was too late.

“I claim the Olkhun’ut by right of conquest,” he bellowed, trying to reach as many of them as he could. “You will not be harmed, on my oath.”

He looked around them, judging the level of their fear and rage. Some of the warriors seemed to be urging the others on, but no one was willing yet to rush the khan’s ger and kill the men who stood so confidently before them.

On instinct, Temujin took two paces forward, moving toward a group of Sansar’s bondsmen. They were seasoned warriors and he knew the risk was greatest there. A single missed word or hesitation and they would erupt into a spasm of violence, too late to save the man they were sworn to protect. Humiliation battled with anger in their faces as Temujin raised his voice again over their heads.

“I am Temujin of the Wolves. You know my name. My mother was Olkhun’ut. My wife is Olkhun’ut. My children will be. I claim the right of inheritance through blood. In time, I will bring all the other tribes under my banners.”

Still the bondsmen did not respond. Temujin kept his blade low, by his feet, knowing that to raise it would trigger his death. He saw drawn bows sighted at him and forced calm onto his face. Where was Kachiun? His brother must have heard the disturbance.

“Do not fear when you hear the horns of the watchers,” he said in a lower voice to the bondsmen. “It will be my men, but they have orders not to touch my people.”

They had begun to lose the pale shock of the first moments and he did not know what they would do. The closest ones seemed to be listening.

“I know you are furious, but you will be honored as I take my people north against the Tartars,” he told them. “You will revenge my father’s death and we will be one tribe across the face of the plains, one people. As it should always have been. Let the Tartars fear us then. Let the Chin fear us.”

He saw their tense hands begin to relax and struggled to keep his triumph from showing on his face. He heard the alarm horns sound and once more sought to reassure the crowd.

“Not one of the Olkhun’ut will be harmed, I swear it on my father’s soul. Not by my men. Let them through and consider the oath I will ask you to take.” He looked around at the crowd and found them staring back at him, every eye on his.

“You have heard I am a wild wolf to the Tartars, that I am a scourge to them. You have heard my word is iron. I tell you now, the Olkhun’ut are safe under my hand.”

He watched as Kachiun and his ten men rode slowly through the crowd, relieved beyond words to see them. Some of the Olkhun’ut still stood rooted to the spot and had to be gently nudged out of the way by their ponies. The crowd held its silence as Kachiun and his men dismounted.

Kachiun did not know what he had expected, but he was amazed at the frozen Olkhun’ut staring at his brother. To his surprise, Temujin embraced him quickly, overcome with emotions that threatened to spoil what he had won.

“I will see the bondsmen privately and take their oath,” Temujin said to the crowd. In the silence, they could all hear him. “At sunset, I will take yours. Do not be afraid. Tomorrow, the camp will move north to join the Kerait, our allies.” He looked around, seeing that the drawn bows had been lowered at last. He nodded stiffly to the archers.

“I have heard the Olkhun’ut are feared in battle,” he said. “We will show the Tartars that they may not come into our lands unpunished.”

A heavyset man shouldered his way through the crowd from the rear. One boy was too slow to move and he smacked the back of his hand against the boy’s head, knocking him down.

Temujin watched him come, his triumph evaporating. He had known Sansar had sons. The one who approached bore the same features as his father, though on a more powerful frame. Perhaps Sansar himself had once been as strong.

“Where is my father?” the man demanded as he came forward.

The bondsmen turned to see him and many of them bowed their heads automatically. Temujin set his jaw tight, ready for them to rush him. His brothers tensed at his side and every man there was suddenly holding a blade or an axe.

“Your father is dead,” Temujin said. “I have claimed the tribe.”

“Who are you to speak to me?” the man demanded. Before Temujin could reply, Sansar’s son snapped a command at the bondsmen standing ready. “Kill them all.”

No one moved and Temujin felt a spark of hope come back to his battered spirit.

“It is too late,” he said softly. “I have claimed them by blood and conquest. There is no place for you here.”

Sansar’s son opened his mouth in amazement, looking round at the people he had known all his life. They would not meet his eyes and his face slowly became a cold mask. He did not lack courage, Temujin could see. His eyes were his father’s, roving constantly as he weighed the new situation. At last, he grimaced.

“Then I claim the right to challenge you, in front of them all. If you would take my father’s place, you will have to kill me, or I will kill you.” He spoke with absolute certainty and Temujin felt a pang of admiration for the man.

“I accept,” he said. “Though I do not know your name.”

Sansar’s son rolled his shoulders, loosening them. “My name is Paliakh, khan of the Olkhun’ut.”

It was a brave statement and Temujin bowed his head rather than refute it. He walked back to Arslan and took the fine sword from his fingers.

“Kill him quickly,” Arslan hissed under his breath. “If they start to cheer him, we are all dead.”

Temujin met his eyes without replying, turning back to Paliakh and tossing him the sword. He watched to see how well Sansar’s son caught it, and frowned to himself. All their lives depended now on his skill and the endless training bouts with Arslan and Yuan.

Paliakh swept the blade through the air, his teeth bared. He sneered as Temujin came to face him.

“With that armor? Why don’t you just have me shot from a distance? Are you afraid to face me without it?”

Temujin would have ignored the words if the Olkhun’ut bondsmen had not murmured their approval. He held out his arms and waited as Arslan and Kachiun untied the panels. When they were gone, he wore only a light silk tunic and thick cotton trousers. He raised his blade under the eyes of every man and woman of the Olkhun’ut.

“Come at me,” Temujin said.

Paliakh roared and darted forward, aiming in his fury to cut Temujin’s head from his shoulders with a single downward strike. Temujin stepped left on the outside of the blow, chopping quickly at Paliakh’s chest. He opened a gash on the man’s side which he didn’t seem to feel. The blade came round at blinding speed and Temujin was forced to parry it. They struggled face to face for a moment before Paliakh shoved him away with his free hand. In that instant, Temujin struck, bringing his edge sharply through the man’s neck.

Sansar’s son tried to spit the blood welling in his throat. Arslan’s sword dropped from his fingers and he held both hands up to his neck with a grip of terrible force. Under Temujin’s stare, he turned as if to walk away, then fell headlong and was still. A sigh went through the crowd and Temujin watched them coldly, wondering if they would tear him to pieces. He saw Koke there amongst them, his mouth open in horror. As Temujin met his eyes, his cousin turned and shoved through the crowd.

The rest of the Olkhun’ut stared like sheep and Temujin found his patience fraying. He strode through them to a cooking fire, taking a burning brand from under the pot. Turning his back on them all, he touched it to the khan’s ger along the edges, watching grimly as the flames took hold and began to lick upwards on the dry felt. It would burn well, and he would not shame the bondsmen by making them see their khan in death.

“Leave us now, until sunset,” he called to the crowd. “There is always work to be done and we will leave at dawn. Be ready.”

He glared at them until the stunned crowd began to move away, breaking into smaller groups to discuss what had happened. They looked back many times at the figures around the burning ger, but Temujin did not move until only the bondsmen remained.

The men Sansar had chosen as his personal guard were fewer in number than Temujin had realized. The Olkhun’ut had not ridden to war in a generation, and even the Wolves kept more armed men around their khan. Still, they outnumbered the ones Kachiun had brought and there was an uneasy tension between the two groups as they were left alone.

“I will not disturb Sansar’s wives and young children on this night,” Temujin said to them. “Let them mourn his passing with dignity. They will not suffer by my hand, nor be abandoned as I once was.”

Some of the bondsmen nodded their approval. The story of Yesugei’s sons and wife was known to them all. It had passed around the tribes until it had become one with a thousand other tales and myths from the storytellers.

“You are welcome at my fire,” Temujin told them. He spoke as if there were no possibility of being refused, and perhaps that was why they did not protest. He did not know, or care. A great weariness had descended on him and he found he was hungry and so thirsty he could barely speak.

“Have food brought to us while we discuss the war to come,” he said. “I need sharp-witted men to be my officers, and I do not yet know which of you will command and which will be led.”

He waited until Kachiun and Khasar had layered wood in a lattice on the cooking fire, building it high and fierce. At last, Temujin took a seat on the ground by the flames. His brothers and Arslan went with him, then the others followed, until they were all sitting on the cold ground, warily watching the new force in their lives.

Chapter 31

EXCEPT FOR WAR, there was no precedent for the Olkhun’ut to approach the Kerait on their own, and the warriors on each side showed their nervousness. Both tribes were on the move, as Togrul kept a gap between his own people and the Tartar invaders coming south.

Temujin had sent Kachiun ahead to warn Togrul, but the Kerait had still armed themselves and mounted, forming a defensive position around the center of their camp. Horns sounded their doleful note over and over on the still air. Temujin brought his mother’s people closer until both groups could see each other, just half a mile away. He halted them then, riding out to a central point with Khasar, Arslan, and ten of Sansar’s bondsmen. He left his own men with the carts, watching for a surprise attack from any direction. The tension was palpable and he did not need to warn them to stay alert. Even with the Kerait’s retreat south, the Tartars could not have been more than two weeks’ ride away and he was not yet ready for them.

He dismounted on the green grass, letting his pony’s head drop to munch at it. In the distance, he could see Togrul and wondered vaguely how the man was going to find a horse to carry him. It was with a wry smile that he saw Togrul mount a cart drawn by two black geldings and whip the reins toward Temujin’s party. Wen Chao came with him and the Kerait bondsmen formed a tight square around their lord, carrying bows and swords.

Temujin raised his hands as they came within shouting distance, showing they were empty. It was a pointless gesture considering he was surrounded by armed men, but he did not want to worry Togrul any more than he already had. He needed the support of the fat khan.

“You are welcome in my camp, Togrul of the Kerait,” Temujin called. “I grant you guest rights in honor.”

Togrul dismounted with elaborate care, his fleshy face set as if made of stone. When he came within arm’s reach of Temujin, he looked past him to the ranks of warriors and the mass of the Olkhun’ut drawn up in formation. The assembly of warriors was almost as great as his own, and he gnawed his bottom lip before speaking.

“I accept, Temujin,” he replied. Something in Temujin’s eyes made him continue. “Are you now khan of the Olkhun’ut? I do not understand it.”

Temujin chose his words carefully.

“I have claimed them, by right of my mother and my wife. Sansar is dead and they have come with me to fight the Tartars.”

Knowing his man, Temujin had arranged for the cooking fires to be started as soon as the Olkhun’ut stopped on the green plain. As he spoke, enormous platters of roasted mutton and goat were brought forward and great white cloths of felt laid on the ground. As host, Temujin would normally have sat last, but he wanted to put Togrul at his ease. He seated himself on the felt, pulling his legs up under him. The khan of the Kerait had no choice after such a gesture and took a place opposite, gesturing to Wen Chao to join him. Temujin began to relax and did not look round as Khasar and Arslan took their positions with the others. Each of them was matched by a warrior from the Kerait until they were equal in strength. At Temujin’s back, the people of the Olkhun’ut waited and watched their new khan in silence.

Yuan too was there and he bowed his head rather than look at Temujin as he lowered himself to the thick mat of felt. Wen Chao glanced at his first soldier and frowned to himself.

“If no one else will ask, Temujin,” Togrul began, “how is it that you rode away with only a dozen men and returned with one of the great tribes at your bidding?”

Temujin gestured to the food before he replied, and Togrul began to eat almost automatically, his hands working independently of his sharp eyes.

“The sky father watches over me,” Temujin said. “He rewards those of our people who respond to the threat to our land.” He did not want to speak of how he had killed Sansar in his own ger, not in front of a man he needed as an ally. It would be too easy for Togrul to fear his war leader.

Togrul was clearly not satisfied with the answer and opened his mouth to speak again, revealing a mush of meat and sauce. Before he could continue, Temujin went on quickly.

“I have a claim on them through blood, Togrul, and they did not refuse me. What matters is that we have enough men to break the Tartars when they come.”

“How many have you brought?” Togrul said, chewing busily.

“Three hundred riders, well armed,” Temujin replied. “You can match those numbers.”

“The Tartars have more than a thousand, you told us,” Wen Chao said suddenly.

Temujin turned his yellow eyes on the Chin ambassador without reply. He sensed Yuan watching him and wondered how much Wen Chao knew, how much Yuan had told him.

“It will not be easy,” Temujin said to Togrul, as if Wen Chao had not spoken. “We will need many sets of the Chin armor. The Olkhun’ut have two men with forges and the skill for swords and plate. I have given them their orders. We will also need to armor our horses, with leather and iron on the neck and chest.” He paused, watching as Togrul wrestled with a chewy piece of meat.

“I have shown the success of our tactics against the smaller groups,” Temujin went on, “though we were outnumbered even then. The Tartars do not use our charging line, nor the horns formation to flank them.” He flickered a glance at Wen Chao. “I do not fear their numbers.”

“Still, you would have me risk everything,” Togrul said, shaking his head.

It was Wen Chao who interrupted the silent communication between them.

“This army of Tartars must be broken, my lord khan,” he said softly to Togrul. “My masters will remember your service in this. There are lands marked out for your people when the battle is over. You will be king there and never know hunger or war again.”

Once more, Temujin saw the proof that Wen Chao had a peculiar hold over the fat khan, and his dislike for the Chin ambassador increased sharply. As much as their needs were the same, he did not enjoy seeing one of his own people in the thrall of the foreign diplomat.

To cover his irritation, Temujin began to eat, enjoying the taste of Olkhun’ut herbs. He noticed that it was only then that Wen Chao matched him and reached for the platters. The man was too used to intrigue, Temujin thought. It made him dangerous.

Togrul too had noticed the movement, considering the meat in his hand for a moment before popping it into his mouth with a shrug.

“You wish to lead the Kerait?” Togrul said.

“For this one battle, yes, as I have done before,” Temujin replied. This was the heart of it and he could not blame Togrul for his fears. “I have my own tribe now, Togrul. Many look to me for safety and leadership. When the Tartars are crushed, I will go south into warmer lands for a year or so. I have had enough of the cold north. My father’s death has been avenged and perhaps I will know peace and raise sons and daughters.”

“Why else do we fight?” Togrul murmured. “Very well, Temujin. You will have the men you need. You will have my Kerait, but when we are done, they will come east with me to a new land. Do not expect them to remain where no enemy threatens us.”

Temujin nodded and put out his hand. Togrul’s greasy fingers closed over his and their eyes met, neither man trusting the other.

“Now I am sure my wife and mother would like to be reunited with their people,” Temujin said, gripping the hand tightly.

Togrul nodded. “I will have them sent to you,” he said, and Temujin felt the last of his tension ease within him.

Hoelun walked through the camp of her childhood with Borte and Eluin. The three women were accompanied by Khasar and Kachiun, as well as Arslan. Temujin had warned them not to relax. The Olkhun’ut had apparently accepted him, carried along by the irresistible tide of events. It did not mean they were safe to stroll anywhere amongst the gers.

Borte’s pregnancy was growing heavy, altering her gait so that she could barely keep up with Hoelun. She had leapt at the chance to visit the families of the Olkhun’ut. She had left them as the woman of a raider. To return as the wife of their khan was an exquisite pleasure. She strode with her head high, calling out to those she recognized. Eluin craned her neck in excitement, searching for a glimpse of her family. When she saw them, she darted past two sleeping dogs to embrace her mother. She had grown in confidence since coming to the camp. Khasar and Kachiun were both courting her and Temujin seemed content to let them settle it between themselves. Eluin had bloomed under the attention. Hoelun watched as she broke the news of her sister’s death, her voice too low to be heard. Her father sat down heavily on a log by the door of their ger, bowing his head.

For herself, Hoelun felt only sadness as she looked around the camp. Everyone she knew had grown, or passed on to the birds and spirits. It was a strangely uncomfortable experience to see the gers and decorated deels of families she had known as a girl. In her mind, it had remained the same, but the reality was a place of unknown faces.

“Will you see your brother, Hoelun? Your nephew?” Borte murmured. She stood almost entranced as they watched Eluin’s reunion. Hoelun could see a yearning in the young wife of her son. She had not mentioned a visit to her own home.

In the distance, they heard the pounding of hooves as Temujin and his officers drilled the Olkhun’ut and Kerait in their tactics for war. They had been out since dawn and Hoelun knew her son would run them to exhaustion in the first few days. His new status did not affect the resentment many of the Kerait felt at having to fight alongside lesser families. Almost before the first evening was over, there had been two fights and one Kerait man had been gashed with a knife. Temujin had killed the victor without giving him a chance to speak. Hoelun shuddered as she pictured her son’s face. Would Yesugei ever have been so ruthless? She thought he would, if he had ever had the chance to command so many. If the shamans spoke truly about one soul being left for the land as well as one to join the sky, he would be proud of his son’s accomplishments.

Hoelun and Borte watched as Eluin kissed her father’s face again and again, her own tears mingling with his. At last she stood to leave them and her mother took her head in the cradle of her shoulder, pressing her there. Borte looked away from the moment of affection, her expression unreadable.

Hoelun had not needed to ask what had happened with the Tartars who had borne her away from her husband. It was all too clear in the way she resisted any touch, jerking back even as Hoelun reached for her arm. Hoelun’s heart went out to her for what she had suffered, but she knew better than anyone that time would dull the blade of grief. Even the memories of Bekter seemed distant, somehow; no less vivid, but robbed of their pain.

The sun seemed chill on her skin and Hoelun found she was not enjoying the return to the Olkhun’ut as she had hoped. It was too different. She was no longer the little girl who had ridden out with her brothers and come across Yesugei. She remembered him on that day, handsome and fearless as he charged them. Enq had yelled as he took Yesugei’s arrow in the hip, putting his heels to his horse and galloping away. She had hated the strange warrior then, but how could she have known Yesugei would be a man to love? How could she have known she would stand amongst her people again as the mother of a khan?

Through the gers, she saw an old man walking stiffly, leaning his weight on a stick. Borte gasped as she glanced at him and Hoelun guessed who he was from the way his daughter stood painfully straight, summoning her pride.

Sholoi hobbled to them, taking in every detail of the warriors for their protection. His eyes passed over Hoelun, then snapped back in sudden recognition.

“I remember you, girl,” he said, “though it’s a long time ago.”

Hoelun narrowed her eyes, trying to recall him as he might have been when she was young. A vague memory came back to her, a man who had taught her to braid harness from rope and leather. He had been ancient then, at least to her young eyes. To her surprise, she felt tears brimming.

“I remember,” she said, and he grinned at her, revealing brown gums. Borte had not spoken and he nodded to his daughter, his toothless smile widening.

“I hadn’t thought to see you again in these gers,” he said.

Borte seemed to stiffen and Hoelun wondered if she could hear the affection in her father’s gruff tone. He laughed suddenly.

“Two wives to khans, two mothers to more. Yet only two women stand before me. I will win a skin or two of airag with such a fine riddle.”

He reached out and touched the hem of Borte’s deel, rubbing two fingers together to judge the cloth.

“You made the right choice, girl. I can see that. I thought there was something about that Wolf. Didn’t I tell you that?”

“You said he was probably dead,” Borte replied, her voice as cold as Hoelun had ever heard.

Sholoi shrugged. “Maybe I did,” he said sadly.

The silence ached between them and Hoelun sighed.

“You adore her, old man,” she said. “Why don’t you tell her that?”

Sholoi colored, though whether with anger or embarrassment, they could not tell.

“She knows it,” he muttered.

Borte paled as she stood there. She shook her head. “I did not,” she replied. “How could I have known if you never said?”

“I thought I must have done,” Sholoi replied, looking out across the camp. The maneuvers on the plain of massed warriors seemed to hold his attention, and he could not look at his daughter.

“I am proud of you, girl, you should know that,” he said suddenly. “I would treat you more kindly if I could raise you again.”

Borte shook her head. “You can’t,” she said. “And I have nothing to say to you now.”

The old man seemed to shrivel under the words, and when Borte turned to Hoelun, there were tears in her eyes. Sholoi did not see them and he continued to stare out across the plains and gers.

“Let us go back,” Borte said, her eyes pleading. “It was a mistake to come here.”

Hoelun thought of leaving her there for a few hours with her father. Temujin had been firm, however. Borte carried his heir and could not be risked. Hoelun suppressed her irritation. Perhaps it was part of being a mother, but the complexities between the pair seemed foolish. If they left then, she knew Borte would never see her father again and would spend her later years regretting the loss. Temujin would simply have to wait.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Hoelun snapped to her sons and Arslan. At least Khasar and Kachiun were used to her authority. “We will stay here while Borte visits her father in his ger.”

“The khan was very clear…” Arslan began.

Hoelun turned sharply to him. “Are we not one people?” she demanded. “There is nothing to fear from the Olkhun’ut. I would know if there were.”

Arslan dropped his gaze, unsure how to respond.

“Kachiun,” Hoelun said, “go and find my brother Enq and tell him his sister will eat with him.” She waited while Kachiun ran swiftly away, his legs moving before he thought to ask where the ger in question might be. Hoelun watched him hesitate at a crossed path and smiled. He would ask directions rather than come sheepishly back, she was sure. Her sons could think for themselves.

“You will accompany me, Khasar, and you too, Arslan. You will eat and then we will find Borte and her father and take them back.”

Arslan was torn, remembering Temujin’s warnings. He did not relish being put in such a situation, but to argue further would shame Hoelun in front of the Olkhun’ut and he could not do that. In the end, he bowed his head.

Sholoi had turned back to watch the exchange. He flickered a glance at his daughter to see how she was taking it.

“I would like that,” he said.

Borte nodded stiffly and his smile lit up his face. Together, they walked back through the gers of the Olkhun’ut, and Sholoi’s pride was visible from far away. Hoelun watched them go with satisfaction.

“We are going to war,” she murmured. “Would you deny them their last chance to talk as father and daughter?”

Arslan did not know if the question was aimed at him, so he did not respond. Hoelun seemed lost in memories, and then she shook herself.

“I am hungry,” she announced. “If my brother’s ger is where it used to be, I can find it still.” She strode forward and Arslan and Khasar fell in behind, unable to look each other in the eye.

Four days after Temujin had brought the Olkhun’ut, warning horns sounded as the sun set across the plains. Though the warriors of both tribes had been run to exhaustion during the day, they leapt up from their meal, hunger forgotten as they gathered weapons.

Temujin mounted his pony to give him a better view. For a single sickening instant, he thought the Tartars had somehow marched around them, or split their forces to attack on two fronts. Then his hands tightened on the reins and he paled.

Kachiun’s eyes were as sharp as they had ever been, and he too stiffened. Arslan looked at the reaction of the younger men, still unable to make out details in the growing gloom.

“Who are they?” he asked, squinting at the mass of dark riders galloping in.

Temujin spat furiously onto the ground by Arslan’s feet. He saw how well the strangers rode in formation and his mouth remained bitter.

“They are my father’s tribe, Arslan. They are the Wolves.”

Chapter 32

IRON TORCHES FLICKERED and roared in the night wind as Eeluk entered the joint camp. Temujin had sent Arslan out to grant a meeting with the khan as soon as the Wolves halted. He would not go himself, and even as he saw Eeluk stride through the gers to where he sat with his brothers, he did not know if he could let him leave alive. To attack a guest was a crime that would hurt him with the Olkhun’ut and the Kerait, but he thought Eeluk could be goaded into breaking the protection and then Temujin would be free to kill him.

Eeluk had grown thicker in body in the years since Temujin had seen him last. His head was bare, shaved to the skull except for a single lock of braided hair that swung as he walked. He wore a heavy black deel, trimmed in dark fur, over a tunic and leggings. Temujin narrowed his eyes as he recognized the wolf’s-head hilt of the sword on his hip. Eeluk padded through the gers without looking round, his gaze fixed on the figures by the central fire. Tolui walked at his shoulder, even larger and more powerful than Temujin remembered.

Temujin had wanted to remain seated, to show how little he cared about the man who had come to him, but he could not. As Eeluk and Tolui approached he rose to his feet, his brothers standing with him as if at a signal. Togrul saw how tense they were and, with a sigh, he too levered himself up. Yuan and a dozen of his best men stood at his back. Whatever Eeluk intended, his life would be forfeit at the slightest provocation.

Eeluk’s gaze flickered from Temujin to Khasar and Kachiun, frowning as he saw Temuge there. He did not recognize the youngest son of Yesugei, though he saw the fear in his eyes.

There was no fear in the others. Each of them stood ready to attack, their faces pale as their muscles tightened and their hearts pounded. The khan of the Wolves had been in all their dreams, and they had killed him in a thousand ways before waking. Kachiun and Khasar had last seen him when he took the Wolves away, leaving them to die on the bleak plains with winter on its way. Everything they had suffered since that day could be laid at his feet. He had assumed the face of a monster in their imagination, and it was strange to see a man, grown older, but still strong. It was hard to keep the cold face.

Tolui’s gaze was drawn to Temujin and captured there by the yellow eyes. He too had his memories, but he was far less confident than when he had captured Yesugei’s son and taken him back to his khan. He had learned to bully those less powerful than himself and fawn on those who ruled him. He did not know how to respond to Temujin and looked away, troubled.

It was Togrul who spoke first, when the silence became uncomfortable.

“You are welcome in our camp,” he said. “Will you eat with us?”

Eeluk nodded without looking away from the brothers. “I will,” he said.

Hearing his voice brought a fresh spasm of hatred to Temujin, but he lowered himself to the mat of felt with the others, watching to see if Eeluk or Tolui reached for a weapon. His own sword was ready by his hand, and he did not relax. Sansar had believed himself safe in his own ger.

Eeluk took his bowl of salted tea in both hands, and only then did Temujin reach for his own, sipping without tasting any of it. He did not speak. As guest, Eeluk had to speak first and Temujin hid his impatience behind the bowl, showing him nothing.

“We have been enemies in the past,” Eeluk said, when he had drained the bowl.

“We are enemies still,” Temujin replied immediately, released.

Eeluk turned his flat face to him. With so many men ready to leap at his throat, he seemed calm, though his eyes were bloodshot, as if he had been drinking before the meeting.

“That may be true, though it is not why I have come here now,” Eeluk said quietly. “The tribes are busy chattering about the Tartar army coming south, an army you provoked into existence with your raids.”

“What of it?” Temujin snapped.

Eeluk smiled tightly, his temper rising. It had been many years since another man had dared to take such a harsh tone with him.

“The plains have emptied of wanderers,” Eeluk continued. “They have come to join you against a common enemy.”

Temujin suddenly understood why Eeluk had brought the Wolves. His mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing, letting Eeluk go on as he thought.

“I have heard many times about the young Wolf who raided the Tartars again and again,” Eeluk said. “Your name is known on the plains now. Your father would be proud of you.”

Temujin almost leapt at him then, fury rising in his throat like red bile. It took a huge effort to master himself, and Eeluk watched him carefully, sensing it.

“I did not know you had joined the Olkhun’ut with the Kerait warriors until I was already moving the Wolves. Still, I think you will need my men if you are to crush the Tartars and drive them back into the north.”

“How many do you have?” Togrul asked.

Eeluk shrugged. “A hundred and forty.” He looked at Temujin. “You know their quality.”

“We do not need them,” Temujin said. “I lead the Olkhun’ut now. We do not need you.”

Eeluk smiled. “It is true that you are not as desperate as I thought you would be. Still, you need every rider you can find, if the numbers I heard are true. Having the Wolves with you will mean more of…your tribe are alive at the end. You know it.”

“And in return? You are not here for nothing,” Temujin said.

“The Tartars have silver and horses,” Eeluk said. “They have women. This army is the movement of many tribes together. They will have things of value.”

“So it is greed that has drawn you forth,” Temujin said, sneering.

Eeluk colored slightly in anger and Tolui shifted at his shoulder, irritated at the insult.

“The Wolves could not face them alone,” Eeluk replied. “We would have had to retreat south as they came. When I heard the Kerait would stand and that your raiders had joined them, I took the chance that you would be able to put aside our history. Nothing I have seen here changes that. You need the Wolves. You need me to stand with you.”

“For a sixth of their riches,” Togrul murmured.

Eeluk glanced at him, masking his distaste at the fleshy khan of the Kerait. “If three khans meet them, any spoils should be divided in thirds.”

“I will not bargain like a merchant,” Temujin said curtly, before Togrul could reply. “I have not yet said I will have you here.”

“You cannot stop me from fighting against the Tartars if I choose to,” Eeluk said softly. “There is no shame in discussing the split, for when they are beaten.”

“I could stop you with a single order,” Temujin said. “I could have the Wolves broken first.” His temper had taken control of him and a small part knew he was raging like a fool, but his calm was a memory. Almost without noticing, he began to rise.

“You would not do that to the families,” Eeluk said with certainty, stopping him. “Even if you could, it would be a waste of lives you need to fight the Tartars. Where is the sense in struggling amongst ourselves? I have been told you are a man of vision, Temujin. Show it now.”

All the men present looked to Temujin to see how he would respond. He felt their gaze and unclenched his cramped fists as he settled himself once more, taking his hand away from where it had fallen to his sword hilt. Eeluk had not moved in response. If he had, he would have died. His enemy’s courage in coming there shamed Temujin, bringing back memories of being a boy amongst men. He knew he needed the warriors Eeluk had brought, if he could only stomach the alliance.

“Will they take my orders, these Wolves? Will you?” he said.

“There can be only one leader in battle,” Eeluk said. “Give us a wing and let me command it. I will ride as hard as any man you have.”

Temujin shook his head. “You will need to know the horn signals, the formations I have made with the others. There is more to this than riding in and killing as many as you can reach.”

Eeluk looked away. He had not known exactly what he would find when he told the Wolves to pack their gers and ride. He had considered the chances of wresting spoils from the battered tribes who faced the Tartars, but in his most secret heart, he had smelled blood on the wind like a true wolf and he could not resist it. There had been nothing on the plains like the army of the Tartars in his lifetime. Yesugei would have ridden against them, and it had scalded Eeluk’s soul to hear that the sons of the old khan were challenging the army coming south.

Still, he had expected to be welcomed by fearful men. Finding the Olkhun’ut already in alliance had changed the value of his warriors. He had been going to demand a full half of the spoils and, instead, he found the sons of Yesugei were coolly arrogant toward him. Yet he had committed himself. He could not simply leave them on the plain and take the Wolves back. His control of the tribe would suffer after seeing him turned away. In the flickering torches, he could see dozens of gers stretching around him into darkness. Just the sight of so many warriors matched his dreams. What could a man achieve with so many at his back? If Yesugei’s sons died in the battle, their men would be lost and frightened. They could swell the ranks of the Wolves.

“My men will follow your orders, through me,” he said at last.

Temujin leaned forward. “But afterwards, when the Tartars have been gutted, we will settle an older debt between us. I claim the Wolves, as the oldest surviving son of Yesugei. Will you meet me with that sword you wear as if it were your own?”

“It is my own,” Eeluk replied, his face tightening.

A hush fell on the camp around them. Togrul glanced at the two men, observing the hatred barely masked by civility. Eeluk forced himself to stillness as he pretended to consider. He had known Temujin would want him dead. He had considered the chance of absorbing surviving raiders into the Wolves, taken from Temujin’s dead hands. Instead, he faced the khan of the Olkhun’ut and the prize was a hundred times greater. Perhaps the spirits were with him as they had not been before.

“When the Tartars are broken, I will meet you,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “I will welcome the chance.”

Temujin stood suddenly, causing many hands to reach for their swords. Eeluk sat like stone and looked up at him, but Temujin’s gaze was elsewhere.

Hoelun walked slowly toward the gathering, as if in a trance. Eeluk turned to see who had captured Temujin’s attention, and when he saw Yesugei’s wife, he too rose with Tolui to face her.

Hoelun was pale and Eeluk saw how she ran the point of her tongue over her bottom lip, a sliver of red like a snake’s warning. As he met her eyes, she rushed forward, holding up her arm to strike.

Kachiun stepped between them before she could reach the khan of the Wolves. He held his mother firmly as she swiped her hand out like a claw, straining for Eeluk’s face. The nails did not touch him and Eeluk said nothing, sensing Temujin standing ready at his back. Hoelun struggled, her gaze finding her eldest son.

“How can you let him live after what he did to us?” she demanded, fighting Kachiun’s grip.

Temujin shook his head. “He is a guest in my camp, Mother. When we have fought the Tartars, I will have the Wolves from him, or he will have the Olkhun’ut.”

Eeluk turned to him then and Temujin smiled bitterly.

“Is that not what you want, Eeluk? I do not see more gers in your camp than when you left us on the plains to die. The sky father has abandoned the Wolves under your hand, but that will change.”

Eeluk chuckled and flexed his shoulders. “I have said all I came to say. When we ride, you will know a better man holds your wing. After that, I will have a hard lesson for you and I will not let you live a second time.”

“Go back to your gers, Eeluk,” Temujin said. “I will begin training your men at dawn.”

As the Tartars came south into the green plains, smaller tribes fled before their numbers. Some never paused as they sighted the host Temujin had assembled, skirting them so that they appeared as dark moving specks drifting across the hills far away. Others added their number to his warriors, so that the army grew daily in a trickle of furious riders. Temujin had sent messengers to the Naimans, the Oirats, any of the great tribes who could be found. Either they could not be reached or they would not come. He understood their reluctance, even as he scorned it. The tribes had never fought together in all their history. To have bound even three into a single force was astonishing. They had trained together until he thought they were as ready as they could ever be. Yet in the evenings he had been called time and again to forbid blood feuds, or punish fighting bands as they remembered grievances from generations before.

He had not visited the gers of the Wolves. Not one of the old families had spoken up for his mother when she was left to die with her children. There had been a time when he would have given anything to walk amongst the people he had known as a boy, but as Hoelun had discovered before him, they were not the same. While Eeluk ruled them, it would not bring him peace.

On the twentieth dawn after the arrival of the Olkhun’ut, the scouts came racing in to report the Tartar army on the horizon, less than a day’s march away. With them came another family of wanderers, driven before them like goats. Temujin blew the signal to assemble and there was quiet in the camps as the warriors kissed their loved ones goodbye and mounted their horses. Many of them chewed packages of hot mutton and bread to give them strength, pressed into their hands by daughters and mothers. The wings formed, with Eeluk’s Wolves taking the left and Kachiun and Khasar leading the Olkhun’ut on the right. Temujin held the Kerait in the center, and as he looked right and left along the line of horsemen, he was satisfied. Eight hundred warriors waited for his signal to ride against their enemies. The forges of the Kerait and Olkhun’ut had been fired night and day, and almost a third of them wore armor copied from the sets Wen Chao had given them. Their horses were protected by leather aprons studded with overlapping plates of iron. Temujin knew the Tartars had seen nothing like them. He waited while the women moved back, seeing Arslan reach down and kiss the young Tartar girl he had captured, then taken for a wife. Temujin looked around, but there was no sign of Borte. The birth was overdue and he had not expected her to come out of the gers. He remembered Hoelun telling him that Yesugei had ridden out on the night of his own birth, and he smiled wryly at the thought. The circle turned, but the stakes had grown. He had done everything he could and it was not hard to imagine his father watching his sons. Temujin caught the eye of Khasar and Kachiun, then found Temuge in the second rank to his left. He nodded to them and Khasar grinned. They had come a long way from the cleft in the hills where every day survived was a triumph.

When they were ready, the shaman of the Olkhun’ut rode to the front on a mare of pure white. He was thin and ancient, his hair turned the color of his mount. Every eye was on him as he chanted, raising his hands to the sky father. He held the fire-cracked shoulder blade of a sheep, and he gestured with it as if it were a weapon. Temujin smiled to himself. The shaman of the Kerait had not been as thirsty for war, and Temujin had chosen the right man for the ritual.

As they watched, the shaman dismounted and pressed himself on the earth, embracing the mother who ruled them all. The chant was thin on the breeze, but the ranks of warriors sat in perfect stillness, waiting for the word. At last, the old man peered at the black lines on the bone, reading them as he ran his gnarled fingers along the fissures.

“The mother rejoices,” he called. “She yearns for the Tartar blood we will release into her. The sky father calls us on in his name.” He broke the shoulder blade in his hands, showing surprising strength.

Temujin filled his lungs and bellowed along the line. “The land knows only one people, my brothers,” he shouted. “She remembers the weight of our steps. Fight well today and they will run before us.”

They raised their bows in a great roar, and Temujin felt his pulses beat faster. The shaman mounted his mare and passed back through the ranks. Out of superstitious fear, none of the warriors would meet the eye of the old man, but Temujin nodded to him, bowing his head.

On the edges of the lines, riders carried small drums and they began to beat them, the noise matching his thumping heart. Temujin raised his arm and then dropped it to the right. He caught Khasar’s eye as his brother trotted clear with a hundred of the best Olkhun’ut warriors. Every one of them wore the armored panels. At the charge, Temujin hoped they would be unstoppable. They rode away from the main force, and as he watched them Temujin prayed they would meet again.

When the line was silent and Khasar’s hundred were almost a mile away, Temujin dug in his heels and the Kerait, Wolves, and Olkhun’ut went forward together, leaving the women and children, leaving the safety of the camp behind.

Chapter 33

THOUGH THEY HAD ALL KNOWN the enemy they faced, it was still a shock to see the vast expanse of the Tartar force. They moved like a slow stain across the land, a dark mass of riders, carts, and gers. Temujin and his brothers had scouted them five hundred miles to the north and still it was disturbing. Yet they did not falter. The men who rode with the sons of Yesugei knew they were ready for the battle. If there was fear in the ranks, it did not show as they kept the cold face. Only the constant checking of arrows revealed the strain as they heard the Tartar warning horns sound in the distance.

Temujin rode through a green valley, his mare made strong on good spring grass. Again and again, he bellowed orders to check the more impetuous of his leaders. Eeluk was the worst of them and his left wing crept ahead and had to be reined in until Temujin half believed it was a deliberate flouting of his orders. Ahead, they saw the Tartars boil around the gers, their thin shouts lost in the distance. The sun was bright and Temujin could feel the warmth on his back like a blessing. He checked his own arrows yet again, finding them ready in the quiver as they had been before. He wanted to hit the Tartars at full gallop, and knew he must leave the acceleration until the last possible instant. The Tartars had been coming south for at least three moons, riding every day. He hoped they would not be as fresh as his own warriors, nor as hungry to kill.

At a mile away, he eased his weight forward, raising the beat of the hooves below him to a canter. His men followed perfectly, though once more Eeluk was straining to be first into the killing. Temujin blew on the signal horn and caught Eeluk’s furious glance at him as they eased back into line. The noise of hooves filled his ears and Temujin could hear the excited cries of his warriors around him, their eyes tight against the increasing pressure of the wind. He fitted the first arrow to his string, knowing that the air would soon be full of them. Perhaps one would find his throat and send him dying to the ground below in a last embrace. His heart pounded and he lost his fear in the concentration. The first arrows came whining in from the Tartars, but he did not give the signal to gallop. It had to be perfect. As the armies grew closer, he chose his moment.

Temujin dug in his heels, calling “Chuh!” to his mount. The mare responded with a surge of speed, almost leaping forward. Perhaps she felt the excitement as they did. The line matched him and Temujin drew back on the bow with a heave of all his strength. For a few moments, it was as if he held the weight of a grown man by just three fingers, but he was steady. He felt the rhythm of the gallop coursing through him, and there was the moment of perfect stillness when the mare flew without touching the ground.

The Tartars were already in full gallop. Temujin risked a glance at his men. Two ranks pounded across the plain and all seven hundred were ready with their bows drawn. He showed his teeth against the strain in his shoulders and loosed his first shaft.

The noise that followed was a single snap of sound that echoed from the hills around them. Arrows flew into the blue sky and seemed to hang there for an instant before they plunged down into the Tartar ranks. Many were lost in the ground, disappearing right up to the feathers. Many more ripped into flesh and tore their riders from the world in a single blow.

Before Temujin could see what had happened, the reply came and arrows rose above him. He had never seen so many and felt a shadow pass over his line from the distant sun. The Tartar arrows moved slowly as he watched them, trying not to wince in anticipation. Then they seemed to move faster and he could hear them coming with an insectile buzzing. His fingers scrabbled for a second arrow and his men loosed again before the Tartar shafts struck their line in a hammer blow.

At full gallop, men vanished from the saddle, their cries lost far behind in an instant. Temujin felt something crash against his thigh and shoulder, ricocheting away. It had not pierced the armor and he yelled in triumph, almost standing in the stirrups as he sent arrow after arrow at his enemies. His eyes blurred in the wind, so that he could not see details, but he picked his men and killed with savage abandon.

It could only have been moments before they met the first of the Tartar riders, but it seemed to take forever. As they closed, Temujin dropped his bow onto a saddle hook so that it would be there for him. It was just one of the ideas he and his officers had devised. He drew the sword that Arslan had made for him, hearing the razor rasp as it cleared the scabbard. Every heartbeat was an age and he had time. He yanked at the horn on a cord around his neck and raised it to his lips, blowing three times. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw the wings move forward and he took a two-handed grip on the sword as he galloped on, balanced and ready.

They hit the Tartars with a crash of sound. Horses came together at full speed, with neither rider giving way, so that they were spun out of the saddle in thunder. The armies hammered into one another, arrows fired into faces and necks at close range. Death came quickly and both armies lost dozens of men in a single instant. Temujin could see the armor was working and he roared again in challenge, calling the enemy to him. One Tartar warrior went past him in a blur, but Temujin had cut him before he was gone. Another fired a shaft at such close range that it punched through the armor, the tip cutting into Temujin’s chest and making him cry out. He could feel the arrowhead moving, tearing his skin with every jerk. He brought his sword round in an arc and took the head of the archer.

Blood drenched him, dribbling between the iron plates of his armor. The charge had smashed the first line of Tartars, but there were so many of them that they did not break. The fighting lines had begun to falter into smaller groups of wildly hacking men, loosing arrows from numb fingers until their bows were useless and they turned to blades. Temujin looked for his brothers, but they were lost in the press of men. He killed again and again, his mare jerking forward with just the touch of his knees. A bellowing Tartar came at him, his open mouth already filled with blood. Temujin sank his blade into his chest, yanking viciously to free it. Another came from his side with a hatchet, chopping it against the armored layers. The blow did not penetrate, but Temujin was knocked sideways by the force. He felt muscles in his thighs tear as he struggled to stay mounted, but the man had gone on.

Eeluk’s Wolves were smashing their way through on the left. Some of them had dismounted and walked together into the midst of the Tartars, firing arrow after arrow. They wore leather armor under their deels and many of them bristled with broken shafts. Some had red droplets around their mouths, but they still fought on, pressing closer and closer to the Tartar center. Temujin could see Eeluk riding with them, his face wet with blood as he chopped down with the sword that had once belonged to Yesugei.

Horses lay dying and kicking wildly, a danger to anyone who came too close. Temujin guided his mare around one, seeing an Olkhun’ut warrior trapped beneath. He met the man’s eyes and cursed, leaping from the saddle to pull him clear. As he reached the ground, another arrow hammered into his chest, stopped by the iron. It sent him onto his back, but he scrambled up, heaving at the man until he was able to regain his feet. A quiver full of arrows lay on the ground nearby, and Temujin grabbed at it before mounting again, reaching for his bow. He kicked in his heels once more, putting all his strength into the draw. The Tartars seemed hardly to have noticed their losses, and still they did not break. He called to them, daring them to face him, and his warriors saw him remount. They took heart, cutting and killing with renewed energy. It could not last, he knew. He saw the Olkhun’ut pressing forward on his right, though they did not have the numbers to encircle the enemy. When their arrows were spent, they threw spinning hatchets into the press of the enemy, killing many before reaching for their swords.

Temujin heard the thunder of hooves before he saw Khasar coming in with his reserve. They had ridden around the battle site in a great circle, hidden by the hills. From the back of his mare, Temujin was able to see the solid line riding at reckless speed, with Khasar leading them. The Tartars in the flank tried to face them, but they were too tightly packed. Over the noise of galloping hooves, Temujin heard many of them scream, trapped amongst their own.

The armored horses and men hit the Tartar flank like a spear thrust, sinking deeply into them over a trail of bloody dead. Horses and men alike were hit by Tartar arrows, but they hardly slowed until they had cut right through to the center of the enemy, sending them reeling and crying out.

Temujin felt the Tartars give against him and he could not speak for the fierce excitement that filled his chest. He cantered into a mass of men, his mare shuddering in pain as arrows struck the leather and iron that protected her heaving chest. His quiver was empty once more and Temujin used Arslan’s sword to hack any living thing he faced.

He looked for his officers and saw that they had gathered the lines and were moving on as one. Kachiun and Arslan had forced the Olkhun’ut to follow Khasar’s wild rush into the center, yelling as they fought. Many had lost their mounts, but they kept together and took futile cuts on the armor while they killed with every strike. The Tartars heard their voices at their backs, and a ripple of panic went through them.

The battle slowed as men tired. Some of them had exhausted themselves with killing, so that they stood on both sides with their chests heaving and their breath ragged. Many of those fell easily to fresher men, their faces despairing as they felt their strength give way at last. The grass under their feet was red with wet flesh and littered with bodies, some still flailing weakly as they tried to ignore the coldness coming for them. The breeze blew through the fighting knots of men, taking the smell of the slaughterhouse into exhausted lungs. The Tartars began to falter at last, falling back step by step.

Eeluk threw himself against a cluster of them like one who had lost his mind. He was so covered in blood as to look like some wild-eyed death spirit. He used his great strength to smash men from their feet with his fists and elbows, trampling over them. His Wolves came with him and the Tartars barely raised their swords as terror took away their courage. Some of them ran, but others tried to rally the rest, pointing their swords back at the families around the gers behind.

Still mounted, Temujin could see the pale faces of women and children watching their men fight. He cared nothing for them. The sky father rewarded the strong with luck. The weak would fall.

“We have them!” he roared, and his men responded, seeing him ride with them. They were weary, but they took strength from his presence in their midst and the killing went on. Temujin’s fingers were slippery with blood as he grasped the horn around his neck, sounding three times to encircle the enemy. He left a print of his palm on the polished surface, but did not see it as Eeluk and Kachiun moved forward. The quivers were all empty, but the swords still swung and the Tartars broke at last, running back for the gers before they could be completely hemmed in. They would make a last stand there, Temujin saw. He welcomed it.

He saw his men begin to rush after them and blew a falling note to slow the charge. They walked over the dead toward the Tartar gers. Those who had run numbered fewer than two hundred, all who remained alive. Temujin did not fear them now. To his irritation, he saw Eeluk’s men were lost in the killing and had not heeded his call. For an instant, he considered letting them face the men at the gers alone, but he could not stand to see Eeluk slaughtered so easily. The Tartars would have bows there and shafts. Whoever faced them would have to come through a withering storm. Perhaps Eeluk had been right not to delay. Temujin set his jaw and blew a single blast for the advance. He rode over the breaking bones of the dead to lead them.

A ragged volley of arrows came from the gers. Some fell short as the women took up bows, but others had enough force to steal lives from men even as they rejoiced in their victory. Temujin heard his army pant as they ran and kicked their mounts on. They would not be stopped and the arrows whipped through them uselessly, making men stagger as they hit the iron plates of their armor. Temujin leaned into the wind as the gap closed, ready to finish what they had begun.

When it was over, the last stand of the Tartars could be read by the way the dead sprawled in clusters. They had held a line for a time before Khasar’s horsemen had crashed through them. Temujin looked around as the three tribes searched for loot on the carts, for once acting with a single mind. They had fought and won together and he thought it would be hard to go back to their old distrust, at least of men they knew.

Wearily, Temujin dismounted and grimaced as he pulled at the ties that held his chest piece. A dozen of the iron plates had been torn away, and many that remained were buckled. Three broken shafts stood out from the layers. Two of them hung limply down, but the third stood straight and that was the one he wanted out of him. He found he could not pull the armored cloth clear. As he tried, something wrenched in his muscles, causing a wave of dizziness.

“Let me help you,” Temuge said, at his shoulder.

Temujin glanced at his youngest brother and waved to be left alone. He did not feel like speaking and, as the battle fever passed, his body was revealing all the knocks and aches he had taken. As he stood there, he wanted nothing more than to cast off the heavy armor and sit down, but he could not even do that.

Temuge came closer and Temujin ignored him as his fingers probed the broken plate and the shaft sticking in him, rising and falling with his breath.

“It cannot be deep,” Temuge murmured. “If you can stay still, I’ll get it out of you.”

“Do it then,” Temujin replied, past caring. He ground his teeth as Temuge sawed through the shaft with his knife, then reached under the armored cloth to grip the other side. With a slow pull, he removed the chest protector and let it fall as he examined the wound. The silk had not torn, but it had been carried deep into Temujin’s pectoral muscle. Blood seeped from around the tip, but Temuge looked pleased.

“A little farther and you would be dead. I can get this out, I think.”

“You’ve seen this done?” Temujin said, looking down at him. “You have to twist the arrow as it comes.”

To his surprise, Temuge grinned. “I know. The silk has trapped it. Just stand still.”

Taking a deep breath, Temuge took a grip on the slippery wooden shaft, digging his nails into the wood to give him purchase. Temujin grunted in pain as the arrowhead tightened in him. His chest shuddered involuntarily, like a horse shrugging off flies.

“The other way,” he said.

Temuge colored. “I have it now,” he replied, and Temujin felt the twitching muscle relax as the arrow turned in his flesh. It had been spinning as it hit him. With Temuge’s deft fingers twisting it the other way, it came out easily, followed by a dribble of clotted blood.

“Keep something pressed against it for a while,” Temuge said. His voice was quietly triumphant and Temujin nodded to him, clapping him on the shoulder.

“You have a steady hand,” he said.

Temuge shrugged. “It wasn’t in me. If it had been, I would have cried like a child.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Temujin said. He reached out and gripped his brother behind the neck before turning away. Without warning, his expression changed so rapidly that Temuge spun to see what he had seen.

Eeluk was standing on top of one of the Tartar carts, holding a skin of airag in one hand and a bloody sword in the other. Even from a distance, he looked vital and dangerous. The sight of him brought life back to Temujin’s limbs, banishing his exhaustion. Temuge watched as Eeluk shouted something to his Wolves.

“I don’t remember him,” Temuge murmured, as they stared across the bloody grass. “I try to, but it was a long time ago.”

“Not to me,” Temujin snapped. “I see his face whenever I sleep.” He drew his sword slowly and Temuge turned to him, frightened at what he saw in his brother’s face. They could hear the men laugh around the carts, and some of them cheered Eeluk as he shouted down to them.

“You should wait until you have rested,” Temuge said. “The wound was shallow, but it will have weakened you.”

“No. This is the time,” Temujin replied, walking forward.

Temuge almost went with him, but he saw Kachiun and Khasar exchange glances and move to join their brother. Temuge did not want to see another death. He could not bear the thought that Temujin would be killed, and fear churned his stomach and made him light-headed. If Eeluk fought and won, everything they had achieved would be lost. Temuge watched Temujin walk steadily away and suddenly he knew he had to be there. They were the sons of Yesugei and it was time. He took one faltering step, and then he was hurrying after his brother.

Eeluk was roaring with laughter at something someone had called to him. It had been a glorious victory against the Tartar invader. He had fought with courage and the men had followed where he led them, right into the heart of the battle. He was not flattering himself when he accepted their cheering. He had played his part and more, and now the riches of the Tartars waited to be enjoyed. The women under the carts would be part of the celebration, and he would take many new girls back to the Wolves to bear sons for his bondsmen. The tribe would grow and word would spread that the Wolves had been part of the great battle. He was intoxicated by the pleasures of life as he stood there, letting the wind dry his sweat. Tolui was wrestling with a couple of the Wolf bondsmen, laughing as they tried to throw him. All three of them collapsed in a heap and Eeluk chuckled, feeling his skin tighten as dried blood cracked. He laid down his sword and rubbed both of his heavy hands over his face, scouring away the dried muck of battle. When he looked up, he saw Temujin and his brothers coming for him.

Eeluk grimaced before he bent and picked up his sword once again. The cart was high, but he leapt to the ground rather than clamber down with his back to them. He landed well and faced the sons of Yesugei with a smile twitching at his mouth. He and Temujin were the only khans to witness their victory. Though the Kerait had fought well, their fat leader was safe in his gers five miles to the south. Eeluk took a deep breath and steadied himself as he looked around. His Wolves had seen him jump down and they were drifting in, drawn to their khan. The Olkhun’ut too had broken off their looting with the Kerait and came in pairs and threes to stand close and watch what was to come. Word of the bad blood between their leaders had spread, and they did not want to miss the fight. The women under the carts wailed unheeded as the warriors walked over the grass to where Eeluk and Temujin stood in silence.

“It was a great victory,” Eeluk said, looking around at the gathering men. A hundred of his Wolves had survived the battle, and they were no longer smiling as they saw the threat. Yet they were vastly outnumbered and Eeluk knew it could only be settled between the two men who had brought them to that place.

“This is an old debt,” Eeluk shouted to them. “Let there be no reprisals.” His eyes were bright as he looked at Temujin standing before him. “I did not ask for blood between us, but I am khan of the Wolves and I am not unwilling.”

“I claim my father’s people,” Temujin said, his gaze passing over the ranks of warriors and bondsmen. “I see no khan where you stand.”

Eeluk chuckled, raising his sword. “Then I will make you see,” he said. He saw Temujin had removed part of his armor, and Eeluk held up a palm. Temujin stood ready, unmoving as Eeluk untied the boiled-leather shields that had kept him alive in the battle. Temujin raised his arms and his brothers did the same for him, so that both men stood in just tunics, leggings, and boots, with dark sweat patches drying in the breeze. Both of them hid their weariness and worried that the other seemed fresh.

Temujin raised his sword and eyed the blade Eeluk held as if the weight were nothing. He had seen Eeluk’s face in a thousand training bouts with Arslan and Yuan. The reality was different and he could not summon the calm he desperately needed. Eeluk seemed somehow to have grown in height. The man who had abandoned the family of Yesugei to die was hugely strong, and without his armor, his frame was intimidating. Temujin shook his head, as if to clear it of fear.

“Come to me, carrion,” he murmured, and Eeluk’s eyes narrowed.

Both men exploded into movement from utter stillness, darting forward with quick steps. Temujin parried the first blow at his head, feeling his arms shudder under the impact. His chest ached where the arrow had torn his muscle, and he struggled to control a rage that would kill him with its wildness. Eeluk pressed him hard, swinging his blade like a cleaver with huge force so that Temujin either had to leap aside or bear a staggering blow. His right arm was growing numb as he caught and turned each impact. The men of three tribes gave them space in a great ring, but they did not call out or cheer. Temujin saw their faces as a blur as he circled his enemy, switching gaits to reverse back on himself as Eeluk swiped at air.

“You are slower than you used to be,” Temujin told him.

Eeluk did not reply, his face growing hot. He lunged, but Temujin batted the blade aside and hammered his elbow against Eeluk’s face. Eeluk struck back instantly, his fist thumping into Temujin’s unprotected chest in a straight blow.

Pain soared through him and Temujin saw Eeluk had aimed for the bloody spot on his tunic. He growled aloud as he came in, his fury fed by the agony. Eeluk met his wild swing and punched again at the bloody muscle, starting a thin red stream that stained the tunic over older streaks. Temujin cried out and took a step back, but when Eeluk came with him, he stepped outside the line of his father’s sword and chopped hard into Eeluk’s arm below the elbow. With a less powerful man, he might have taken it off, but Eeluk’s forearms writhed with muscle. Even then, the wound was terrible and blood spurted from it. Eeluk did not look down at his useless hand, though blood dripped through his knuckles and fell in fat drops.

Temujin nodded to him, showing his teeth. His enemy would weaken and he did not want it to be quick.

Eeluk came forward once more, his sword a blur. The clash of metal sent tremors right through Temujin each time they struck, but he exulted, feeling Eeluk’s strength fade. As they fell back Temujin took a gash along his thigh that made his right leg buckle, so that he remained in place while Eeluk circled. Both men were panting by then, losing the last reserves of energy they had recovered after the battle. The tiredness was crushing their strength until it was only will and hate that kept them facing each other.

Eeluk used Temujin’s bad leg against him, launching an attack, then stepping swiftly aside before Temujin could adjust. Twice the blades rang just clear of Temujin’s neck, and Eeluk caught the replies with ease. Yet he was faltering. The wound on his arm had not ceased its bleeding, and as he stepped away, he suddenly staggered, his eyes losing focus. Temujin glanced down at Eeluk’s arm to see the blood still pulsing out. He could hear it spattering on the dust whenever Eeluk was still, and now there was a paleness to his skin that had not been there before.

“You are dying, Eeluk,” Temujin said.

Eeluk did not respond as he came in again, gasping with every breath. Temujin swayed aside from the first of his blows and let the second cut him along his side, so that Eeluk came in close. He struck back like a snake and Eeluk was sent staggering away, his legs weakening. A hole had appeared high in his chest and blood gouted from it. Eeluk bent over the wound, trying to brace himself on his knees. His left hand would not respond and he almost lost his sword as he struggled for breath.

“My father loved you,” Temujin said, watching him. “If you had been loyal, you would have stood here with me now.”

Eeluk’s skin had gone a sick white as he heaved for air and strength.

“Instead, you dishonored his trust,” Temujin continued. “Just die, Eeluk. I have no more use for you.”

He watched as Eeluk tried to speak, but blood touched his lips and no sound came out. Eeluk went down onto one knee and Temujin sheathed his sword, waiting. It seemed to take a long time as Eeluk clung to life, but he slumped at last, sprawling sideways on the ground. His chest became still and Temujin saw one of the Wolves walk out from where they watched. Temujin tensed for another attack, but he saw it was the bondsman Basan, and he hesitated. The man who had saved Temujin from Eeluk once before came to stand over the body, looking down on it. Basan’s expression was troubled, but without speaking, he reached down to pick up the wolf’s-head sword and straightened. As Temujin and his brothers watched, Basan held out the blade hilt first and Temujin took it, welcoming its weight to his hand like an old friend. He thought for a moment that he might pass out himself before he felt his brothers hold him upright.

“I waited a long time to see that,” Khasar murmured under his breath.

Temujin stirred from his apathy, remembering how his brother had kicked Sansar’s corpse.

“Treat the body with dignity, brother. I need to win over the Wolves and they won’t forgive us if we treat him badly. Let them take him up to the hills and lay him out for the hawks.” He looked around at the silent ranks from three tribes. “Then I want to go back to the camp and claim what is mine. I am khan of the Wolves.”

He tasted the words in a whisper and his brothers gripped him tighter on hearing them, their faces showing nothing to those who watched.

“I’ll see to it,” Khasar said. “You must have your wound bound before you bleed to death.”

Temujin nodded, overcome with exhaustion. Basan had not moved and he thought he should speak to the Wolves as they stood stunned around them, but it would wait. They had nowhere else to go.

Chapter 34

MORE THAN TWO HUNDRED WARRIORS had been lost in the battle against the Tartars. Before Temujin’s forces left the area, the skies were filled with circling hawks, vultures, and ravens, the hillsides writhing with wings as they stalked amongst the corpses, fighting and screeching. Temujin had given orders that no difference would be made between Kerait, Olkhun’ut, and Wolves. The shamans of three tribes overcame their dislike of each other and chanted the death rites while the warriors watched the birds of prey gliding overhead. Even before the chanting had finished, ragged black vultures had landed, their dark eyes watching the living as they hopped onto dead men.

They left the Tartars where they had fallen, but it was not until late in the day that the carts began to move back to their main camp. Temujin and his brothers rode in the lead, with the Wolf bondsmen at his back. If he had not been the son of the old khan, they could well have killed him as soon as Eeluk fell, but Basan had handed him his father’s sword and they had not moved. Though they did not exult as the Olkhun’ut and Kerait did, they were steady and they were his. Tolui rode stiffly with them, his face showing the marks of a beating. Khasar and Kachiun had taken him quietly aside in the night, and he did not look at them as he rode.

As they reached Togrul’s camp, the women came out to greet their husbands and sons, searching faces desperately until they saw their loved ones had survived. Voices cried out in pleasure and grief alike, and the plain was alive with cheering and noise.

Temujin trotted his battered mare to where Togrul had come out and was standing with Wen Chao. The khan of the Kerait had kept some guards to protect the families, and those men would not meet Temujin’s gaze as it swept over them. They had not ridden with him.

Temujin dismounted.

“We have broken their back, Togrul. They will not come south again.”

“Where is the khan of the Wolves?” Togrul asked, looking out across the milling warriors and their families.

Temujin shrugged. “He stands before you,” he said. “I have claimed the tribe.”

Wearily, Temujin turned away to give orders to his brothers, and he did not see Togrul’s changing expression. They could all smell mutton sizzling on the breeze, and the returning warriors cheered at the scent. They were starving after the day before and nothing would be accomplished until they had fed and drunk their fill.

Wen Chao saw Yuan riding toward him, a bloody rag tied tightly round his shin. Temujin was heading toward the ger of his wife, and Wen Chao waited patiently until Yuan had dismounted and gone down on one knee.

“We have had no details of the battle, Yuan. You must tell us what you saw.”

Yuan kept his gaze on the ground.

“Your will, master,” he replied.

As the sun set, the hills were lit in bars of gold and shadow. The feasting had continued until the men were drunk and sated. Togrul had been part of it, though he had not cheered Temujin with the others, even when the bondsmen of the Wolves had brought their families out to take an oath of loyalty to the son of Yesugei. Togrul had seen Temujin’s eyes fill with tears as they knelt before him, and he had felt a simmering resentment start. It was true he had not fought with them, but had he not played a part? It could not have been won without the Kerait, and it had been Togrul who had called Temujin out of the icy north. He had not been blind to the way his Kerait had mingled with the others until there was no telling them apart. They looked on the young khan with awe, a man who had gathered the tribes under his command and won a crushing victory against an ancient enemy. Togrul saw every glance and bowed head and felt fear worm its way into his gut. Eeluk had fallen and Sansar before him. It was not hard to imagine knives coming in the night for Togrul of the Kerait.

When the feasting was over, he sat in his ger with Wen Chao and Yuan, talking long into the night. As the moon rose he took a deep breath and felt the fumes of black airag hanging heavily in his lungs. He was drunk, but he needed to be.

“I have done everything I promised, Wen Chao,” he reminded the ambassador.

Wen’s voice was soothing. “You have. You will be a khan of vast estates and your Kerait will know peace. My masters will be pleased to hear of such a victory. When you have divided the spoils, I will come with you. There is nothing for me here, not anymore. Perhaps I will have the chance to enjoy my final years in Kaifeng.”

“If I am allowed to leave,” Togrul spat suddenly. His flesh shuddered with indignation and worry and Wen Chao tilted his head to look at him, like a listening bird.

“You fear the new khan,” he murmured.

Togrul snorted. “Why would I not, with a trail of dead men behind him? I have guards around this ger, but in the morning who knows how long it will be before…” He trailed off, his fingers writhing together as he thought. “You saw them cheer him, my own Kerait among them.”

Wen Chao was troubled. If Temujin killed the fat fool the following morning, any reprisal would fall on Wen as much as anyone. He considered what to do, very aware of Yuan’s impassive face as they sat in the shadows.

When the silence became oppressive, Togrul drank a huge draft of airag, belching to himself.

“Who knows who I can trust any longer?” he said, his voice taking on a whining tone. “He will be drunk tonight and he will sleep heavily. If he dies in his ger, there will be no one to stop me leaving in the morning.”

“His brothers would stop you,” Wen Chao said. “They would react in fury.”

Togrul felt his vision swimming and he pressed his knuckles into his eyes.

“My Kerait number half the army around us. They owe nothing to those brothers. If Temujin were dead, I would be able to take them clear. They cannot stop me.”

“If you try and fail, all our lives would be forfeit,” Wen Chao warned. He was worried Togrul would blunder around in the dark and get Wen killed just as the chance of returning to the Chin court had become real after his years in the wilderness. He realized his own safety was threatened either way, but it seemed a better chance to wait for the morning. Temujin owed him nothing, but the odds were good that Wen would be allowed to go home.

“You must not risk it, Togrul,” he told the khan. “Guest rights protect you both and there will be only destruction if you risk it all from fear.” Wen sat back, watching his words sink in.

“No,” Togrul said, chopping a hand through the air. “You saw them cheering him. If he dies tonight, I will take my Kerait away before dawn. By sunrise, they will be long behind us and in chaos.”

“It is an error…” Wen Chao began. To his utter astonishment, it was Yuan who interrupted him.

“I will lead men to his ger, my lord,” Yuan said to Togrul. “He is no friend of mine.”

Togrul turned to the Chin soldier and clasped his hand in both of his own fleshy palms.

“Do it, Yuan, swiftly. Take the guards around his ger and kill him. He and his brothers drank more than I did. They will not be ready for you, not tonight.”

“And his wife?” Yuan asked. “She sleeps with him and she will wake and cry out.”

Togrul shook his head against the fumes of airag. “Not unless you must. I am not a monster, but I will live through tomorrow.”

“Yuan?” Wen Chao snapped. “What foolishness is this?”

His first officer turned his face to him, dark and brooding in the shadows. “He has risen fast and far in a short time, this man. If he dies tonight, we will not see him at our borders in a few years.”

Wen considered the future. It would still be better to let Temujin wake. If the young khan chose to kill Togrul, at least Wen would not have to bear the man’s company back to the borders of his own lands. Surely Temujin would let the Chin ambassador leave? He was not certain, and as he hesitated, Yuan stood and bowed to both men, striding out the door. Caught in indecision, Wen Chao said nothing as he went. He faced Togrul with a worried frown, listening to Yuan talk to the guards outside. It did not take long before they went away into the darkness of the vast camp, too far to call back.

Wen decided to call for his bearers. No matter what happened, he wanted to be gone at sunrise. He could not shake the prickling feeling of danger and fear in his chest. He had done everything the first minister could have dreamed. The Tartars had been crushed and at last he would know the peace and sanctuary of the court once more. No longer would the smell of sweat and mutton be with him every waking hour. Togrul’s drunken fear could still snatch it all away, and he frowned to himself as he sat with the khan, knowing he would get no rest that night.

Temujin was deep in sleep when the door to his ger creaked open. Borte lay at his side, troubled in her sleep. She was huge with the child inside her and so hot that she threw off the furs that kept out the winter chill. A dim glow from the stove gave an orange light to the ger. As Yuan entered with two other men, neither of the sleeping pair stirred.

The two guards carried drawn swords and they took a step past Yuan as he gazed down on Temujin and Borte. He reached out and pressed his forearms against his companions, halting them as if they had run into a wall.

“Wait,” he hissed. “I will not kill a sleeping man.”

They exchanged glances, unable to comprehend the strange soldier. They stood in silence as Yuan took a breath and whispered to the sleeping khan.

“Temujin?”

His own name called Temujin from troubled dreams. He opened his eyes blearily, finding his head throbbing. When he turned his head, he saw Yuan standing there, and for a moment, they merely looked at each other. Temujin’s hands were hidden beneath the furs and, when he moved, Yuan saw he held his father’s sword. The young man was naked, but he sprang out of the bed and threw the scabbard to one side. Borte opened her eyes at the movement and Yuan heard her gasp in fear.

“I could have killed you,” Yuan said quietly to the naked man before him. “A life for a life, as you once granted me mine. There is no debt between us now.”

“Who sent you? Wen Chao? Togrul? Who?” Temujin shook his head, but the room seemed to lurch. He struggled to clear his mind.

“My master had no part in this,” Yuan continued. “We will leave in the morning and return home.”

“It was Togrul, then,” Temujin said. “Why does he turn on me now?”

Yuan shrugged. “He fears you. Perhaps he is right to. Remember that your life was mine to take tonight. I have dealt honorably with you.”

Temujin sighed, his pounding heart beginning to ease. He felt dizzy and sick and wondered if he would vomit. Sour airag churned in his stomach and, despite the few hours of sleep, he was still exhausted. He did not doubt Yuan could have killed him cleanly if he had wished. For a moment, he considered calling his warriors from their gers and dragging Togrul out. Perhaps it was simple weariness, but he had seen too much of death and Eeluk’s blood still itched on his skin.

“Before the sun is up, you will leave,” he said. “Take Wen Chao and Togrul with you.” Temujin looked at the two men who had entered with Yuan. They stood stunned at this development, unable to meet his eye. “His guards can accompany him. I do not want them here after what they tried to do.”

“He will want the Kerait,” Yuan said.

Temujin shook his head. “If he wishes, I can summon them all and tell them of this act of cowardice. They will not follow a fool. The tribes are mine, Yuan, the Kerait with them.” He stood a little straighter as he spoke, and Yuan saw the wolf’s-head sword glint in the dim light of the stove.

“Tell him I will not take his life if he leaves before dawn. If I find him here, I will challenge him in front of his warriors.” His gaze was dark and hard as he regarded the Chin soldier.

“Every family riding on the sea of grass will acknowledge me as khan. Tell your master Wen Chao that, when you return to him. He is safe from me now, but I will see him again.”

The Chin lands were a thousand miles away. Even the tribes gathered in Temujin’s name were a tiny part of the armies Yuan had seen. He did not fear the man’s ambition.

“The camp will wake as we leave,” Yuan said.

Temujin looked at him, then clambered back into bed without bothering to respond. He saw Borte was wide-eyed in fear and reached out to smooth her hair back from her face. She allowed his touch, hardly seeming to feel it.

“Just go, Yuan,” Temujin said softly. He was about to pull the furs over his body again when he paused. “And thank you.”

Yuan ushered the two guards back into the chill night air. When they had left the ger behind, he stopped them again and sensed them turn to him questioningly in the darkness. They did not see the knife he drew from his belt, and even if they had, they were no match for a man who had been first sword in Kaifeng. Two quick blows left them on their knees, and he waited until they had fallen and were still. He had disobeyed his orders, but he felt lighthearted and now there were no witnesses to tell Wen Chao what he had done. The camp was silent, frozen under the stars. The only sound was his own crunching footsteps as he returned to his master to tell him that Temujin had been too well guarded. Yuan glanced back only once at the khan’s ger as he walked away under the moonlight, fixing it in his mind. He had paid his debt.

When the moon was dipping down toward the hills, Temujin woke a second time as Khasar entered the ger. Before he was fully alert, Temujin had grabbed his father’s sword and sprung up. Borte stirred, moaning in her sleep, and Temujin turned to her, reaching out to stroke her cheek.

“It is all right, it is just my brother,” he murmured. Borte murmured something, but this time she did not come out of her sleep. Temujin sighed, looking down at her.

“I see you have been dreaming of attractive women,” Khasar said, chuckling.

Temujin blushed, pulling the furs around his waist as he sat down on the bed.

“Keep your voice down before you wake her,” he whispered. “What do you want?” He saw Kachiun enter behind Khasar and wondered if he would ever have peace that night.

“I thought you might like to know that there are two bodies outside on the ground.”

Temujin nodded sleepily. He had expected it. Khasar frowned at his lack of reaction.

“Togrul and Wen Chao seem to be readying themselves to ride,” Khasar said, still amused. “Their guards have gathered horses and that ridiculous box Wen Chao uses. Do you want me to stop them?”

Temujin placed his father’s sword back on the furs, thinking.

“How many men are they taking with them?” he asked.

“Perhaps three dozen,” Kachiun said from the doorway, “including Togrul’s wife and daughters. With Yuan and the Chin guards, it makes a large group. Togrul has a cart for his bulk. Do you know something we don’t?”

“Togrul sent men to kill me, but he chose Yuan,” Temujin said.

Khasar let out a hiss of indignation. “I can get the Wolves out after him before he’s gone a mile. They’re closest and they have no allegiance to Togrul.” He watched in surprise as Temujin shook his head.

“Let them go. We have the Kerait. I would have had to kill him anyway.”

Kachiun whistled softly under his breath. “How many more will you bring in, brother? It was not that long ago that you were khan of a few raiders in the north.”

Temujin did not reply for a long time. At last he raised his head, talking without looking at his brothers.

“I will be khan of them all. We are one people and one man can lead them. How else can we take the cities of the Chin?”

Khasar looked at his brother and a slow smile spread across his face.

“There are tribes who took no part in the battle against the Tartars,” Kachiun reminded them both. “The Naimans, the Oirats…”

“They cannot stand alone against us,” Temujin said. “We will take them one by one.”

“Are we to be Wolves again, then?” Khasar asked, his eyes bright.

Temujin thought for a time.

“We are the silver people, the Mongols. When they ask, tell them there are no tribes. Tell them I am khan of the sea of grass, and they will know me by that name, as Genghis. Yes, tell them that. Tell them that I am Genghis and I will ride.”