Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Khan: Empire of Silver, and Conqueror are works of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A Bantam Dell eBook Edition

Genghis: Birth of an Empire copyright © 2007 by Conn Iggulden

Genghis: Lords of the Bow copyright © 2008 by Conn Iggulden

Genghis: Bones of the Hills copyright © 2009 by Conn Iggulden

Khan: Empire of Silver copyright © 2010 by Conn Iggulden

Conqueror copyright © 2011 by Conn Iggulden

All Rights Reserved.

Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

Delacorte and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

The novels contained in this omnibus were each published separately by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., in 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, and 2011.

Cover art: Mike Bryan

Cover design: Scott Biel

eBook ISBN 978-0-345-53846-8

www.bantamdell.com

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Genghis: Birth of an Empire

Genghis: Lords of the Bow

Genghis: Bones of the Hills

Khan: Empire of Silver

Conqueror

About the Author

GENGHIS

A Delacorte Press Book / May 2007

Published by

Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it, while based on historical events, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2007 by Conn Iggulden

Interior illustrations by Steve Stone

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Iggulden, Conn.

Genghis : birth of an empire / Conn Iggulden.

p. cm.

1. Genghis Khan, 1162–1227—Fiction. 2. Mongols—Kings and rulers—Fiction. 3. Mongols—History—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6109.G47G46 2007

823’.92—dc22

2006102932

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-440-33686-0

v3.0_r1

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Khan: Empire of Silver

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part Two

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Epilogue

Afterword

To my brothers John, David, and Hal

A multitude of rulers is not a good thing. Let there be one ruler, one king.

Homer, The Iliad

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book could not have been written without the people of Mongolia, who allowed me to live among them for a time and who taught me their history over salted tea and vodka while the winter eased into spring.

PROLOGUE

THE SNOW WAS BLINDING as the Mongol archers encircled the Tartar raiding party. Each man guided his pony with his knees, standing on the stirrups to fire shaft after shaft with withering accuracy. They were grimly silent, the hooves of their galloping ponies the only sound to challenge the cries of the wounded and the howling wind. The Tartars could not escape the whirring death that came out of the darkening wings of the battle. Their horses fell groaning to their knees, blood spattering bright from their nostrils.

On an outcrop of yellow-gray rock, Yesugei watched the battle, hunched deep into his furs. The wind was a roaring devil on the plain, tearing at wherever his skin had lost its covering of mutton grease. He did not show the discomfort. He had borne it for so many years he could not have been sure he even felt it anymore. It was just a fact of his life, like having warriors to ride at his word, or enemies to kill.

The Tartars did not lack courage, for all he despised them. Yesugei saw them rally around a young warrior and heard his shouts carry over the wind. The Tartar wore a chain-mail vest that Yesugei envied, lusted after. With curt words of command, the man was preventing the raiders from scattering, and Yesugei saw the moment had come to ride. His arban of nine companions felt it, the best of his tribe, blood brothers and bondsmen. They had earned the precious armor they wore, boiled leather inscribed with the leaping figure of a young wolf.

“Are you ready, my brothers?” he said, feeling them turn to him.

One of the mares whinnied excitedly and his first warrior, Eeluk, chuckled.

“We will kill them for you, little one,” Eeluk said, rubbing her ears.

Yesugei kicked in his heels and they broke effortlessly into a trot toward the screaming, roiling battlefield in the snow. From their height above the fighting, they could all see the full stretch of the wind. Yesugei murmured in awe as he saw the arms of the sky father reach around and around the frail warriors in great white scarves, heavy with ice.

They moved into a gallop without the formation changing and without thought, as each man judged the distances around him as he had for decades. They thought only of how best to cut the enemy from their saddles and leave them cold on the plains.

Yesugei’s arban crashed into the center of the fighting men, making for the leader, who had risen in the last few moments. If he was allowed to live, perhaps he would become a torch for all his tribe to follow. Yesugei smiled as his pony hammered into the first of the enemy. Not today.

The impact broke the back of a Tartar warrior even as he turned to meet the new threat. Yesugei held his mount’s mane in one hand, using his sword in single strikes that left dead men falling like leaves. He refused two blows where the blade of his father might have been lost, instead using the pony to trample the men down and the hilt as a hammer for one unknown soldier. Then he was past and had reached the knotted core of the Tartar resistance. Yesugei’s nine followers were still with him, protecting their khan as they had been sworn to from birth. He knew they were there without looking, guarding his back. He saw their presence in the way the Tartar captain’s eyes flickered to each side of him. He would be seeing his death in their flat, grinning faces. Perhaps he had also become aware of all the bodies around him, stiff with arrows. The raid had been crushed.

Yesugei was pleased when the Tartar rose in his stirrups and pointed a long red blade at him. There was no fear in the eyes, only anger and disappointment that the day had come to nothing. The lesson would be wasted on the frozen dead, but Yesugei knew the Tartar tribes would not miss the significance. They would find the blackened bones when the spring came and they would know not to raid his herds again.

Yesugei chuckled, making the Tartar warrior frown as they stared at each other. No, they would not learn. Tartars could starve to death deciding on a mother’s tit. They would be back and he would ride out to them again, killing even more of their dishonest blood. The prospect pleased him.

He saw that the Tartar who had challenged him was young. Yesugei thought of the son being born to him over the hills to the east and wondered if he too would face a grizzled older warrior across the length of a sword one day.

“What is your name?” Yesugei said.

The battle had finished around them and already his Mongols walked among the corpses, taking anything of use. The wind still roared, but the question was heard and Yesugei saw a frown pass across the face of his young enemy.

“What is yours, yak penis?”

Yesugei chuckled, but his exposed skin was beginning to ache and he was tired. They had tracked the raiding party for almost two days across his land, going without sleep and surviving on nothing more than a handful of wet milk curd each day. His sword was ready to take another life and he raised the blade.

“It does not matter, boy. Come to me.”

The Tartar warrior must have seen something in his eyes that was more certain than an arrow. He nodded, resigned.

“My name is Temujin-Uge,” he said. “My death will be avenged. I am the son of a great house.”

He dug in his heels and his mount surged at Yesugei. The khan’s sword whipped through the air in a single stroke of perfect economy. The body fell at his feet and the pony bolted across the battleground.

“You are carrion, boy,” Yesugei said, “as are all men who steal from my herds.”

He looked around him at his gathered warriors. Forty-seven had left their ger tents to answer his call. They had lost four of their brothers against the ferocity of the Tartar raid, but not one of twenty Tartars would return home. The price had been high, but the winter drove men to the edge in all things.

“Strip the bodies quickly,” Yesugei ordered. “It is too late to return to the tribe. We will camp in the shelter of the rocks.”

Valuable metal and bows were much prized for trade and to replace broken weapons. Except for the chain-mail vest, the pickings were poor, confirming Yesugei’s thought that this was simply a party of young warriors out to skirmish and prove themselves. They had not planned to fight to the death on earth as hard as stone. He draped the bloody metal garment over his saddle horn when it was thrown to him. It was of good quality and would stop a dagger’s blow, at least. He wondered who the young warrior had been to own such a valuable thing, turning his name over in his mind. He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He would trade his share of their ponies for strong drink and furs when the tribes met to trade. Despite the cold in his bones, it had been a good day.

The storm had not eased by the following morning, when Yesugei and his men returned to the camp. Only the outriders moved lightly as they rode, staying alert against sudden attack. The rest were so bundled in furs and weighed down with looted goods that they were shapeless and half frozen, rimed in dirty ice and grease.

The families had chosen their site well, against the lee of a craggy hill of rock and wind-blasted lichen, the gers almost invisible in the snow. The only light was a dim brightening behind boiling clouds, yet the returning warriors were spotted by one of the sharp-eyed boys who watched for attack. It lifted Yesugei’s heart to hear the piping voices warn of his approach.

The women and children of the tribe could hardly be stirring yet, he thought. In such a cold, they dragged themselves from sleep only to light the iron stoves. The time of true rising came an hour or two later, when the great tents of felt and wicker had lost the snap of ice in the air.

As the ponies came closer, Yesugei heard a scream rise like the gray smoke coming from Hoelun’s ger and felt his heart beat faster in anticipation. He had one baby son, but death was always close for the young. A khan needed as many heirs as his tents could hold. He whispered a prayer for another boy, a brother for the first.

He heard his hawk echo the high note inside the ger as he vaulted from the saddle, his leather armor creaking at each step. He barely saw the servant who took the reins, standing impassively in his furs. Yesugei pushed open the wooden door and entered his home, the snow on his armor melting instantly and dripping in pools.

“Ha! Get off!” he said, laughing as his two hounds jumped up in a frenzy, licking and bounding madly around him. His hawk chirruped a welcome, though he thought it was more a desire to be off on the hunt. His first son, Bekter, crawled naked in a corner, playing with curds of cheese as hard as stones. All these things Yesugei registered without his eyes leaving the woman on the furs. Hoelun was flushed with the stove’s heat, but her eyes were bright in the gold lamplight. Her fine, strong face shone with sweat and he saw a trace of blood on her forehead where she had wiped the back of her hand. The midwife was fussing with a bundle of cloth, and he knew from Hoelun’s smile that he had a second son.

“Give him to me,” Yesugei ordered, stepping forward.

The midwife drew back with her wrinkled mouth puckering in irritation. “You will crush him with your big hands. Let him take his mother’s milk. You can hold him later, when he is strong.”

Yesugei could not resist craning for a sight of the little boy as the midwife laid him down, cleaning the small limbs with a rag. In his furs, he loomed over them both and the child seemed to see him, launching a ferocious bout of squalling.

“He knows me,” Yesugei said, with pride.

The midwife snorted. “He is too young,” she muttered.

Yesugei did not respond. He smiled down at the red-faced infant, then, without warning, his manner changed and his arm snapped out. He gripped the elderly midwife around the wrist.

“What is that in his hand?” he asked, his voice hushed.

The midwife had been about to wipe the fingers clean, but under Yesugei’s fierce gaze, she opened the infant’s hand gently, revealing a clot of blood the size of an eye that trembled with the tiniest movement. It was black and shone like oil. Hoelun had raised herself up to see what part of her newborn boy had caught Yesugei’s attention. When she saw the dark lump, she moaned to herself.

“He holds blood in his right hand,” she whispered. “He will walk with death all his life.”

Yesugei drew in a sharp breath, wishing she had not spoken. It was reckless to invite an evil fate for the boy. He brooded in silence for a time, considering. The midwife continued nervously with her wrapping and cleaning, the clot quivering on the blankets. Yesugei reached for it and held it in his own hand, glistening.

“He was born with death in his right hand, Hoelun. That is fitting. He is a khan’s son and death is a companion for him. He will be a great warrior.” He watched as the baby boy was handed over at last to his exhausted mother, suckling ferociously on a nipple as soon as it was presented to him. His mother winced, then bit her lip.

Yesugei’s expression was still troubled as he turned to the midwife.

“Throw the bones, old mother. Let us see if this clot of blood means good or evil for the Wolves.” His eyes were bleak and he did not need to say that the child’s life depended on the outcome. He was the khan and the tribe looked to him for strength. He wanted to believe the words he had used to avert the sky father’s jealousy, but he feared that Hoelun’s prophecy had been the truth.

The midwife bowed her head, understanding that something fearsome and strange had come into the birthing rituals. She reached into a bag of sheep ankle bones by the stove, dyed red and green by the children of the tribe. Depending on how they fell, they could be named horse, cow, sheep, or yak, and there were a thousand games played with them. The elders knew they could reveal more when cast at the right time and place. The midwife drew back her arm to throw, but again Yesugei restrained her, his sudden clasp making her wince.

“He is my blood, this little warrior. Let me,” he said, taking four of the bones from her. She did not resist, chilled by his cold expression. Even the dogs and hawk had grown still.

Yesugei threw the bones and the old midwife gasped as they came to rest.

“Aiee. Four horses is very lucky. He will be a great rider. He will conquer from a horse.”

Yesugei nodded fiercely. He wanted to hold up his son to the tribe, and would have if the storm had not raged around the ger, searching for a way into the warmth. The cold was an enemy, yet it kept the tribes strong. The old did not suffer for long in such bitter winters. The weakling children perished quickly. His son would not be one of those.

Yesugei watched the tiny scrap of a child pulling at his mother’s soft breast. The boy had gold-colored eyes like his own, almost wolf yellow in their lightness. Hoelun looked up at the father and nodded, his pride easing her worry. She was certain the clot was a dark omen, but the bones had gone some way toward calming her.

“Have you a name for him?” the midwife asked Hoelun.

Yesugei replied without a hesitation. “My son’s name is Temujin,” he said. “He will be iron.” Outside, the storm roared on without a sign of ceasing.

CHAPTER 1

ON A SPRING DAY in his twelfth year, Temujin raced his four brothers across the steppes, in the shadow of the mountain known as Deli’un-Boldakh. The eldest, Bekter, rode a gray mare with skill and concentration, and Temujin matched his pace, waiting for a chance to go past. Behind them came Khasar, whooping wildly as he moved up on the two leaders. At ten, Khasar was a favorite in the tribe, as lighthearted as Bekter was sullen and dark. His red-mottled stallion snorted and whickered after Bekter’s mare, making the little boy laugh. Kachiun came next in the galloping line, an eight-year-old not given to the openness that made people love Khasar. Of all of them, Kachiun seemed the most serious, even secretive. He spoke only rarely and did not complain, no matter what Bekter did to him. Kachiun had a knack with the ponies that few others could match, able to nurse a burst of speed when the rest were flagging. Temujin glanced over his shoulder to where Kachiun had positioned himself, his balance perfect. He seemed to be idling along, but they had all been surprised before and Temujin kept a close eye on him.

Already some way behind his brothers, the smallest and youngest of them could be heard calling plaintively for them to wait. Temuge was a boy with too much love for sweet things and laziness, and it showed in his riding. Temujin grinned at the sight of the chubby boy flapping his arms for more speed. Their mother had warned against including the youngest in their wild tournaments. Temuge had barely grown out of the need to be tied to the saddle, but he wailed if they left him behind. Bekter had yet to find a kind word for Temuge.

Their high voices carried far across the spring grass of the plain. They galloped flat out, with each boy perched like a bird on the ponies’ backs. Yesugei had once called them his sparrows and looked on with pride at their skill. Temujin had told Bekter that he was too fat to be a sparrow and had been forced to spend a night hiding out from the older boy’s bad temper.

On such a day, though, the mood of the whole tribe was light. The spring rains had come and the rivers ran full again, winding across plains where dry clay had been only days before. The mares had warm milk for drinking and making into cheese and cool yoghurt. Already, the first touches of green were showing through the bones of the hills, and with it came the promise of a summer and warm days. It was a gathering year, and before the next winter, the tribes would come together in peace to compete and trade. Yesugei had decreed that this year the families of the Wolves would make the trip of more than a thousand miles to replenish their herds. The prospect of seeing the wrestlers and archers was enough to have the boys on their best behavior. The races, though, were what held them rapt and played across their imaginations as they rode. Except for Bekter, the boys had all seen their mother privately, asking Hoelun to put in a word with Yesugei. Each of them wanted to race the long distance or the sprints, to make a name for themselves and be honored.

It went unspoken that a boy who returned to his gers with a title such as “Exalted Rider” or “Master of Horse” might one day win their father’s position when he retired to tend his herds. With the possible exception of fat Temuge, the others could not help but dream. It galled Temujin that Bekter assumed he would be the one, as if a year or two of age made a difference. Their relationship had become strained ever since Bekter had returned from his betrothal year away from the tribe. Though Temujin was still the tallest of the brothers, the older boy had grown in some indefinable way, and Temujin had found the new Bekter a humorless companion.

It had seemed an act at first to Temujin, with Bekter only pretending at maturity. The brooding boy no longer spoke without thinking and seemed to weigh every statement in his mind before he allowed it past his lips. Temujin had mocked his seriousness, but the months of winter had come and gone with no sign of an easing. There were moments when Temujin still found his brother’s pompous moods amusing, but he could respect Bekter’s temper, if not his right to inherit their father’s tents and sword.

Temujin watched Bekter as he rode, careful not to let a gap grow between them. It was too fine a day to worry about the distant future, and Temujin daydreamed about all four brothers, brothers—all five with Bekter, even—sweeping the board of honors at the tribal gathering. Yesugei would swell with pride and Hoelun would grip them one by one and call them her little warriors, her little horsemen. Even Temuge could be entered at six years of age, though the risks of a fall were huge. Temujin frowned to himself as Bekter glanced over his shoulder, checking his lead. Despite their subtle maneuvering, Yesugei had not yet given permission for any of them to take part as the spring came.

Hoelun was pregnant again and close to the end of her time. The pregnancy had been hard on her and quite different from the ones before. Each day began and ended with her retching over a bucket until her face was speckled with spots of blood under the skin. Her sons were on their best behavior while they waited for Yesugei to cease his worried pacing outside the gers. In the end, the khan had grown tired of their stares and careful silence, sending them off to run the winter out of the horses. Temujin had continued to chatter and Yesugei had picked him up in one powerful hand and tossed him at a stallion with a white sock. Temujin had twisted in the air to land and launch into a gallop in one movement. Whitefoot was a baleful, snappy beast, but his father had known he was the boy’s favorite.

Yesugei had watched the others mount without a sign of his pride on his broad, dark face. Like his father before him, he was not a man to show emotion, especially not to sons he could make weak. It was part of a father’s responsibility to be feared, though there were times when he ached to hug the boys and throw them up into the air. Knowing which horses they preferred showed his affection, and if they guessed at his feelings from a glance or a light in his eye, that was no more than his own father had done years before. He valued those memories in part for their rarity and could still recall the time his father had finally grunted approval at his knots and ropework with a heavy load. It was a small thing, but Yesugei thought of the old man whenever he yanked a rope tight, his knee hard into the bales. He watched his boys ride into the bright sunshine, and when they could no longer see him, his expression eased. His father had known the need for hard men in a hard land. Yesugei knew they would have to survive battle, thirst, and hunger if they were to reach manhood. Only one could be khan of the tribe. The others would either bend the knee or leave with just a wanderer’s gift of goats and sheep. Yesugei shook his head at the thought, gazing after the dust trail of his sons’ ponies. The future loomed over them, while they saw only the spring and the green hills.

The sun was bright on his face as Temujin galloped. He reveled in the lift in spirit that came from a fast horse straining under him, the wind in his face. Ahead, he saw Bekter’s gray mare recover from a stumble on a loose stone. His brother reacted with a sharp blow to the side of the mare’s head, but they had lost a length and Temujin whooped as if he were about to ride past. It was not the right moment. He loved to lead, but he also enjoyed pressuring Bekter, because of the way it annoyed him.

Bekter was already almost the man he would be, with wide, muscular shoulders and immense stamina. His betrothal year with the Olkhun’ut people had given him an aura of worldly knowledge he never failed to exploit. It irritated Temujin like a thorn under his skin, especially when his brothers pestered Bekter with questions about their mother’s people and their customs. Temujin too wanted to know, but he decided grimly that he would wait to find out on his own, when Yesugei took him.

When a young warrior returned from his wife’s tribe, he was given the status of a man for the first time. When the girl came into her blood, she would be sent after him with an honor guard to show her value. A ger would be ready for her and her young husband would wait at its door to take her inside.

For the Wolves, it was tradition for the young man to challenge his khan’s bondsmen before he was fully accepted as a warrior. Bekter had been eager and Temujin remembered watching in awe as Bekter had walked up to the bondsmen’s fire, close to Yesugei’s ger. Bekter had nodded to them and three men had stood to see if his time with the Olkhun’ut had weakened him. From the shadows, Temujin had watched, with Khasar and Kachiun silent at his side. Bekter had wrestled all three of the bondsmen, one after the other, taking terrible punishment without complaint. Eeluk had been the last, and the man was like a pony himself, a wall of flat muscle and wide arms. He had thrown Bekter so hard that blood had run from one of his ears, but then to Temujin’s surprise, Eeluk had helped Bekter up and held a cup of hot black airag for him to drink. Bekter had almost choked at the bitter fluid mingling with his own blood, but the warriors had not seemed to mind.

Temujin had enjoyed witnessing his older brother beaten almost senseless, but he saw too that the men no longer scorned him around the fires at night. Bekter’s courage had won him something intangible but important. As a result, he had become a stone in Temujin’s path.

As the brothers raced across the plains under a spring sun, there was no finishing line, as there would be at the great gathering of tribes. Even if there had been, it was too soon after winter to really push their mounts. They all knew better than to exhaust the ponies before they had a little summer fat and good green grass in their bellies. This was a race away from chores and responsibilities, and it would leave them with nothing but arguments about who had cheated, or should have won.

Bekter rode almost upright, so that he seemed peculiarly motionless as the horse galloped under him. It was an illusion, Temujin knew. Bekter’s hands on the reins were guiding subtly, and his gray mare was fresh and strong. He would take some beating. Temujin rode as Khasar did, low on the saddle, so that he was practically flat against the horse’s neck. The wind seemed to sting a little more and both boys preferred the position.

Temujin sensed Khasar moving up on his right shoulder. He urged the last breath of speed from Whitefoot, and the little pony snorted with something like anger as it galloped. Temujin could see Khasar’s pony out of the corner of his eye, and he considered veering slightly, as if by accident. Khasar seemed to sense his intention and lost a length as he moved away, leaving Temujin grinning. They knew each other too well to race, he sometimes thought. He could see Bekter glance back and their eyes met for a second. Temujin raised his eyebrows and showed his teeth.

“I am coming,” he called. “Try to stop me!”

Bekter turned his back on him, stiff with dislike. It was something of a rarity to have Bekter come riding with them, but as he was there, Temujin could see he was determined to show the “children” how a warrior could ride. He would not take a loss easily, which was why Temujin would strain every muscle and sinew to beat him.

Khasar had gained on both of them, and before Temujin could move to block him, he had almost drawn level. The two boys smiled at each other, confirming that they shared the joy of the day and the speed. The long, dark winter was behind, and though it would come back too soon, they would have this time and take pleasure in it. There was no better way to live. The tribe would eat fat mutton and the herds would birth more sheep and goats for food and trade. The evenings would be spent fletching arrows or braiding horsetails into twine; in song or listening to stories and the history of the tribes. Yesugei would ride against any young Tartars who raided their herds, and the tribe would move lightly on the plains, from river to river. There would be work, but in summer the days were long enough to give hours free to waste, a luxury they never seemed to find in the cold months. What was the point in wandering away to explore when a wild dog might find and bite you in the night? That had happened to Temujin when he was only a little older than Kachiun, and the fear had stayed with him.

It was Khasar who saw that Temuge had fallen, glancing back in case Kachiun was staging a late rush for the grass crown. Khasar claimed to have the sharpest eyes of the tribe, and he saw that the sprawled speck was not moving, making a decision in an instant. He whistled high-low to Bekter and Temujin, letting them know he was pulling out. Both boys looked back and then farther to where Temuge lay in a still heap. Temujin and his older brother shared a moment of indecision, neither willing to give the race to the other. Bekter shrugged as if it did not matter and reined his mare into a wide circle back the way they had come. Temujin matched him exactly and they galloped as a pair behind the others, the leaders become the led. It was Kachiun now who rode first amongst them, though Temujin doubted the boy even thought of it. At eight, Kachiun was closest in age to Temuge and had spent many long evenings teaching him the names of things in the gers, demonstrating an unusual patience and kindness. Perhaps as a result, Temuge spoke better than many boys of his age, though he was hopeless with the knots Kachiun’s quick fingers tried to show him. The youngest of Yesugei’s sons was clumsy, and if any of them had been asked to guess at the identity of a fallen rider, they would have said “Temuge” without a moment’s hesitation.

Temujin jumped from his saddle as he reached the others. Kachiun was already on the ground with Khasar, lifting the supine Temuge into a sitting position.

The little boy’s face was very pale and bruised-looking. Kachiun slapped him gently, wincing as Temuge’s head lolled.

“Wake up, little man,” Kachiun told his brother, but there was no response. Temujin’s shadow fell across them and Kachiun deferred to him immediately.

“I didn’t see him fall,” he said, as if his seeing would have helped.

Temujin nodded, his deft hands feeling Temuge for broken bones or signs of a wound. There was a lump on the side of his head, hidden by the black hair. Temujin prodded at it.

“He’s knocked out, but I can’t feel a break. Give me a little water for him.”

He held out a hand and Khasar pulled a leather bottle from a saddlecloth, drawing the stopper with his teeth. Temujin dribbled the warm liquid into Temuge’s open mouth.

“Don’t choke him,” Bekter advised, reminding them he was still mounted, as if he supervised the others.

Temujin didn’t trouble to reply. He was filled with dread as to what their mother Hoelun would say if Temuge died. They could hardly give her such news while her belly was filled with another child. She was weak from sickness and Temujin thought the shock and grief might kill her, yet how could they hide it? She doted on Temuge and her habit of feeding him the sweet yoghurt curds was part of the reason for his chubby flesh.

Without warning, Temuge choked and spat water. Bekter made an irritable sound with his lips, tired of the children’s games. The rest of them beamed at each other.

“I dreamed of the eagle,” Temuge said.

Temujin nodded at him. “That is a good dream,” he said, “but you must learn to ride, little man. Our father would be shamed in front of his bondsmen if he heard you had fallen.” Another thought struck him and he frowned. “If he does hear, we may not be allowed to race at the gathering.”

Even Khasar lost his smile at that, and Kachiun pursed his mouth in silent worry. Temuge smacked his lips for more water and Temujin passed him the bottle.

“If anyone asks about your lump, tell them we were playing and you hit your head—understand, Temuge? This is a secret. The sons of Yesugei do not fall.”

Temuge saw that they were all watching his response, even Bekter, who frightened him. He nodded vigorously, wincing at the pain.

“I hit my head,” he said, dazedly. “And I saw the eagle from the red hill.”

“There are no eagles on the red hill,” Khasar replied. “I was trapping marmots there only ten days ago. I would have seen a sign.”

Temuge shrugged, which was unusual in itself. The little boy was a terrible liar and, when challenged, he would shout, as if by growing louder they would be forced to believe him. Bekter was in the process of turning his pony away when he looked thoughtfully at the little boy.

“When did you see the eagle?” Bekter said.

Temuge shrugged. “I saw him yesterday, circling over the red hill. In my dream, he was larger than a normal eagle. He had claws as large as—”

“You saw a real eagle?” Temujin interrupted. He reached out and held his arm. “A real bird, this early in the season? You saw one?” He wanted to be certain it was not one of Temuge’s idiotic stories. They all remembered the time he had come into the ger one night claiming to have been chased by marmots who rose up on their hind legs and spoke to him.

Bekter’s expression showed he shared the same memory. “He is dizzy from the fall,” he said.

Temujin noticed how Bekter had taken a firmer hold on the reins. As slowly as he might approach a wild deer, Temujin rose to his feet, risking a glance to where his own pony cropped busily at the turf. Their father’s hawk had died and he still mourned the loss of the greathearted bird. Temujin knew Yesugei dreamed of hunting with an eagle, but sightings were rare and the nests were usually on cliffs sheer enough and high enough to defeat the most determined climber. Temujin saw that Kachiun had reached his pony and was ready to go. A nest could have an eagle chick for their father to keep. Perhaps Bekter wanted one for himself, but the others knew that Yesugei would be overcome with gratitude to the boy who brought him the khan of birds. The eagles ruled the air as the tribes ruled the land, and they lived almost as long as a man. Such a gift would mean they all could ride in the races that year, for certain. It would be seen as a good omen that an eagle had come to their father, strengthening his position with the families.

Temuge had made it to his feet, touching his head and wincing at the speck of blood that showed on his fingers. He did seem dazed, but they believed what he had said. The race of the morning had been a lighthearted thing. This one would be real.

Temujin was the first to move, fast as a dog snapping. He leapt for Whitefoot’s back, calling “Chuh!” as he landed and startling the ill-tempered beast into a snorting run. Kachiun flowed onto his horse with the neatness and balance that marked all his movement, Khasar only an instant behind him, laughing aloud with excitement.

Bekter was already lunging forward, his mare’s haunches bunching under him as he kicked in and went. In just a few heartbeats, Temuge was left standing alone on the plain, staring bemusedly after the cloud of dust from his brothers. Shaking his head to clear his blurred vision, he took a moment to vomit a milky breakfast onto the grass. He felt a little better after that and clambered up onto the saddle, heaving his pony’s head from its grazing. With a last pull at the grass, the pony snorted and he too was off, jolting and bouncing behind his brothers.

CHAPTER 2

THE SUN WAS HIGH in the sky before the boys reached the red hill. After the initial wild gallop, each one of them had settled into a mile-eating trot their sturdy ponies could keep up for hours at a time. Bekter and Temujin rode together at the front in mutual truce, Khasar and Kachiun just behind. They were all tired by the time they sighted the great rock the tribes called the red hill, an immense boulder hundreds of feet high. It was surrounded by a dozen others of lesser size, like a wolf mother with her cubs. The boys had spent many hours climbing there the previous summer and knew the area well.

Bekter and Temujin scanned the horizon restlessly, looking for signs of other riders. The Wolves claimed no hunting rights to land this far away from the gers. Like so much else on the plains, the stream water, the milk, the furs and meat, everything belonged to whoever had the strength to take it, or better still, the strength to keep it. Khasar and Kachiun saw no further than the excitement of finding an eagle chick, but the two older boys were ready to defend themselves or run. Both carried knives and Bekter had a quiver and a small bow across his back that could be quickly strung. Against boys from another tribe, they would acquit themselves well, Temujin thought. Against fully grown warriors, they would be in serious danger and their father’s name would not help them.

Temuge was again a speck behind the other four, persevering despite the sweat and buzzing flies that seemed to find him delicious. To his miserable eye, his brothers in their neat pairs seemed like a different breed, like hawks to his lark, or wolves to his dog. He wanted them to like him, but they were all so tall and competent. He was even clumsier in their presence than on his own, and he could never seem to speak the way he wanted to, except sometimes to Kachiun, in the quiet of the evenings.

Temuge dug his heels in viciously, but his pony sensed his lack of skill and rarely raised itself even to a trot, never mind a gallop. Kachiun had said he was too tenderhearted, but Temuge had tried beating the pony mercilessly when he was out of sight of his brothers. It made no difference to the lazy beast.

If he had not known his brothers’ destination, he would have been lost and left behind in the first hour. Their mother had told them never to leave him, but they did it anyway and he knew complaining to her would earn him cuffs around the ears from all of them. By the time the red hill came into sight, Temuge was feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. Even from a distance, he could hear Bekter and Temujin arguing. Temuge sighed, shifting his buttocks where they had begun to ache. He felt in his pockets for more of the sweet milk curds and found the end of an old one. Before the others could see, he stuffed the little white stick into his cheek, hiding his blissful enjoyment from their sharp sight.

The four brothers stood by their ponies, staring at Temuge as he ambled closer.

“I could carry him faster than that,” Temujin said.

The ride to the red hill had become a race again in the last mile, and they had arrived at full gallop, leaping off and tumbling in the dust. Only then had it occurred to them that someone had to stay with the ponies. They could be hobbled by wrapping reins around their legs, but the boys were far from their tribe and who knew what thieves were ready to ride in and snatch them away? Bekter had told Kachiun to stay at the bottom, but the boy was a better climber than the other three and refused. After a few minutes of argument, they had all nominated one of the others and Khasar and Kachiun had come to blows, with Khasar sitting on his younger brother’s head while he struggled in silent fury. Bekter had cuffed them apart with a curse when Kachiun went a dark purple. Waiting for Temuge to get there was the only sensible solution and, in truth, more than one of them had taken a good look at the sheer face of the red hill and had second thoughts about racing his brothers up it. Perhaps more worrying than the bare rock was the complete lack of an eagle sign. It was too much to expect droppings, or even the sight of a circling bird guarding the nest or hunting. In the absence of any proof, they could not help but wonder again if Temuge had been lying, or spinning a wild tale to impress them.

Temujin felt his stomach begin to ache. He had missed the morning meal and, with a hard climb ahead, he didn’t want to risk becoming weak. While the others watched Temuge approach, he picked up a handful of reddish dust and made it into a paste with a dribble of water from the saddle bottle. Whitefoot bared his teeth and whinnied, but did not resist as Temujin tied his reins to a scrub bush and drew his knife.

It was the work of a moment to nick a vein in the pony’s shoulder and clamp his mouth to it. The blood was hot and thin and Temujin felt it restore his energy and warm his empty belly like the best black airag. He counted six mouthfuls before he took his lips away and pressed a bloody finger over the wound. The paste of dust and water helped the clotting, and he knew there would be just a small scab by the time he returned. He grinned, showing red teeth to his brothers and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel his strength return now that his stomach was full. He checked the blood was clotting on Whitefoot’s shoulder, watching a slow dribble reach down the leg. The pony didn’t seem to feel it and resumed cropping the spring grass. Temujin brushed a fly away from the blood trail and patted the animal on its neck.

Bekter too had dismounted. Seeing Temujin feed himself, the older boy knelt and directed a thin trail of warm milk into his mouth from his mare’s teat, smacking his lips in noisy appreciation. Temujin ignored the display, though Khasar and Kachiun looked up hopefully. They knew from experience that if they asked they would be refused, but if they ignored their thirst, Bekter might condescend to allow a warm mouthful to each boy.

“Drink, Khasar?” Bekter said, raising his head sharply.

Khasar did not wait to be asked twice and ducked his head like a foal to where Bekter held the dark teat, shining with milk. Khasar sucked greedily at the spray, getting some of it over his face and hands. He snorted, choking, and even Bekter smiled before he beckoned Kachiun over.

Kachiun looked at Temujin, seeing how stiffly he stood. The little boy narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. Bekter shrugged, releasing the teat with just a glance at Temujin before he stretched his back and watched the youngest of their brothers clamber down from his pony.

Temuge dismounted with his usual caution. For a boy of only six summers, it was a long way to the ground, though other children in the tribe would leap from the saddle with all the fearlessness of their older brethren. Temuge could not manage such a simple thing, and all his brothers winced as he landed and staggered. Bekter made a clicking sound in his throat, and Temuge’s face darkened under their scrutiny.

“This is the place?” Temujin asked.

Temuge nodded. “I saw an eagle circling here. The nest is somewhere near the top,” he said, squinting upwards.

Bekter grimaced. “It was probably a hawk,” he muttered, following Temuge’s gaze.

Temuge flushed even deeper. “It was an eagle! Dark brown and larger than any hawk who ever lived!”

Bekter shrugged at the outburst, choosing the moment to spit a wad of milky phlegm onto the ground.

“Maybe. I’ll know when I find the nest.”

Temujin might have replied to the challenge, but Kachiun had tired of their bickering and strode past them all, pulling at the waist cloth that held his padded deel in place. He let the coat fall, revealing just a bare-armed tunic and linen leggings, as he took his first handholds on the rocks. The soft leather of his boots gripped almost as well as his bare feet. The others stripped down as he had, seeing the sense in leaving the heaviest cloth on the ground.

Temujin moved twenty paces around the base before he saw another place to begin, spitting on his hands and taking a grip. Khasar grinned in excitement and threw his reins at Temuge, startling the little boy. Bekter found his own place and set his strong hands and feet in clefts, lifting himself up with a small grunt.

In a few moments, Temuge was alone again. At first, he was miserable and his neck ached from staring up at the climbing figures. When they were no larger than spiders, his stomach made its presence felt. With a last look at his more energetic brothers, he strolled over to steal a stomachful of milk from Bekter’s mare. There were some advantages to being last, he had discovered.

After a hundred feet, Temujin knew he was high enough for the fall to kill him. He listened over his panting breath for his brothers, but there was no sound or sight of them in any direction. He clung by fingertips and boots, leaning out as far as he could to see a route higher. The air seemed colder and the sky was achingly clear above his head, without a cloud to spoil the illusion of climbing toward a blue bowl. Small lizards scurried away from his questing fingers and he almost lost his grip when one was trapped, squirming, under his hand. When his heart had stopped hammering, he brushed its broken body from the ledge where it had been enjoying the sun, watching it twist in the wind as it fell.

Far below, Temujin saw Temuge pulling at the teats of Bekter’s mare and hoped he had enough sense to leave some. Bekter would thrash him if he found the milk gone, and the greedy little boy probably deserved it.

The sun was hard on the back of his neck, and Temujin felt a line of sweat touch his eyelashes, making him blink against the sting. He shook his head, hanging from just his hands as his feet scrabbled for a new place to rest. Temuge could have killed one of them with his stories of eagles, but it was too late for doubts. Temujin was not even sure he could get back down the sheer slope. At such a height, he had to find a place to rest, or he would fall.

The blood in his stomach gurgled as he moved, reminding him of its strength and making him belch its bitter smell. Temujin bared his teeth as he pulled himself higher. He could feel a worm of fear in his stomach, and it began to make him angry. He would not be afraid. He was a son of Yesugei, a Wolf. He would be khan one day. He would not be afraid and he would not fall. He began to murmur the words to himself, over and over as he climbed, staying close to the rock as the wind grew in force, tugging at him. It also helped to imagine Bekter’s irritation if Temujin reached the top first.

A gust made his stomach drop with a sudden feeling that he would be plucked and thrown from the high rock, smashing into the ground by Temuge. He found that his fingers were shaking with each new grip, the first sign of weakness. He took strength from his anger and went on.

It was hard to guess how far he had come, but Temuge and the ponies were only specks below and his arms and legs burned with effort. Temujin came to a ridge where he could stand out of the wind and gasped there, recovering. He could see no way to go farther at first, and craned around a shelf of rock. He would surely not be stuck there while the others found easier routes up? Only Kachiun was a better climber and Temujin knew he should take time to rest his aching muscles. He took a deep breath of the warm air, enjoying the view for miles around. He felt as if he could see all the way to the gers of their tribe and wondered if Hoelun had given birth. Surely many hours had passed since they had arrived at the red hill?

“Are you stuck?” he heard above him.

Temujin swore aloud as he saw Kachiun’s face peering over the ledge. The boy met his gaze with the beginnings of a smile crinkling his eyes. Temujin shuffled along the ledge until he grasped a decent handhold. He had to hope it would lead to another above. With Kachiun looking on, he controlled his breathing and showed the cold face of the warrior. He had to jump up to reach for a second grip, and, for a moment, fear overwhelmed him. On the ground it would have been nothing, but on the ground he would have fallen only a little way. With the wind moaning around the crags, Temujin did not dare think of the emptiness at his back.

His arms and legs blurred as he shoved himself up by sheer strength and energy. To stop moving was to begin to fall, and Temujin roared as he made it to where Kachiun was kneeling, calmly watching his progress.

“Ha! Khans of the mountain do not get stuck,” he told Kachiun, triumphantly.

His brother digested this in silence.

“The hill breaks apart just above us,” he said. “Bekter has taken the south col to the peak.”

Temujin was impressed at his brother’s calm. He watched as Kachiun walked to the edge of the red boulder he’d climbed in panic, going close enough to have the wind pull at his braided hair.

“Bekter does not know where the eagles are, if they are here at all,” Temujin told him.

Kachiun shrugged again. “He took the easier path. I don’t think an eagle would build a nest where it could be so easily reached.”

“There’s another way, then?” Temujin asked. As he spoke, he scrambled up a shallow slope to get a better view of the summits of the red hill. There were two, as Kachiun had said, and Temujin could see Bekter and Khasar on the one to the south. Even from a distance, both boys could identify the powerful figure of their eldest brother, moving slowly but steadily. The northern peak that loomed above Temujin and Kachiun was a spike of rock even more daunting than the initial sheer slope they had climbed.

Temujin clenched his fists, feeling the heaviness in his arms and calves.

“Are you ready?” Kachiun asked him, nodding toward the northern face.

Temujin reached out and caught his serious little brother around the back of the head in a quick clasp. He saw that Kachiun had lost a fingernail from his right hand. There was a crust of blood running right along his forearm to the sinewy muscles there, but the boy showed no sign of his discomfort.

“I am ready,” Temujin said. “Why did you wait for me?”

Kachiun grunted softly, taking a fresh hold on the rock. “If you fell, Bekter would be khan one day.”

“He might be a good one,” Temujin said, grudgingly. He did not believe it, but he remembered how Bekter had wrestled his father’s bondsmen. There were aspects of the adult world he did not yet fully understand, and Bekter had at least the attitudes of a warrior.

Kachiun snorted at that. “He rides like a stone, Temujin. Who can follow a man who sits so badly?”

Temujin smiled as he and Kachiun began to climb.

It was a fraction easier with two of them working together. More than once, Temujin used his strength to support Kachiun’s foot as the boy swarmed up the face like an agile spider. He climbed as well as he rode, but his young body was showing signs of exhaustion and Temujin saw he was growing pale as they put another hundred feet behind them. Both boys were panting and their arms and legs seemed too heavy to move.

The sun had crossed the highest point of the sky and begun its trail toward the west. Temujin eyed its position whenever he could find a place to snatch a moment of relief from the strain. They could not be caught on the face in the dark, or both of them would fall. More worrying was the sight of a looming ridge of clouds in the distance. A summer storm would tear them all off the red hill, and he feared for his brothers as Kachiun slipped and almost took them both to their deaths.

“I have you. Find another hold,” Temujin grunted, his breath coming like fire from his open mouth. He could not remember being so tired and still the summit seemed impossibly far. Kachiun managed to take his weight off Temujin’s arm, looking back for a moment at the bleeding scuff marks his boot had left on Temujin’s bare skin. Kachiun followed his brother’s gaze out over the plains and stiffened as he saw the clouds. The wind was difficult to judge as it gusted around the crags, but both boys had the feeling it was coming straight at them.

“Come on, keep moving. If it starts to rain, we’re all dead,” Temujin growled at him, pushing his brother upwards. Kachiun nodded, though he closed his eyes for a moment and seemed dazed. It was easy to forget how young he was at times. Temujin felt a fierce, protective pride for the little boy and vowed not to let him fall.

The southern peak was still visible as they climbed, though there was no sign of either Bekter or Khasar. Temujin wondered if they had reached the top and were even then on their way back down with an eagle chick safe under a tunic. Bekter would be insufferable if he brought one of the great birds back to their father’s tents, and the thought was enough to lend a little extra energy to Temujin’s tired muscles.

Neither boy understood at first what the high-pitched sounds meant. They had never heard the cries of young eagles, and the wind was a constant companion with its own sound over the rocks. The clouds had spread to fill the sky and Temujin was more concerned about finding a place for shelter. The thought of getting down with every handhold slick with rain made his heart sink. Even Kachiun could not do it, he was certain. One of them would fall, at least.

The threat of dark clouds could not completely hold the attention of the two boys as they dragged themselves up to a cleft stuffed with twigs and feathers. Temujin could smell the scent of rotting meat before he was able to bring his eyes up to the level of the nest. At last he realized that the whistling sound was from a pair of young eagles, watching the climbers with feral interest.

The adult birds must have mated early, as the chicks were neither scrawny nor helpless. Both still carried their lighter feathering, with only touches of the golden brown that would carry them soaring over mountains in search of prey. Their wings were stubby and ugly looking, though both boys thought they had never seen anything quite so beautiful. The claws seemed too large for the young birds, great yellow toes ending in darker spikes that looked already capable of tearing flesh.

Kachiun had frozen in wonder on the ledge, hanging from his fingertips. One of the birds took his stillness as some sort of challenge and hissed at him, spreading its wings in a show of courage that made Kachiun beam in pleasure.

“They are little khans,” he said, his eyes shining.

Temujin nodded, unable to speak. Already he was wondering how to get both birds down alive with a storm on the way. He scanned the horizon at the sudden worrying thought that the adult eagles might be driven home before the clouds. At such a precarious height, an attacking eagle would be more than a match for two boys trying to shepherd fledglings to the ground.

Temujin watched as Kachiun drew himself up into a crouch on the very edge of the nest, seemingly oblivious to the precarious position. Kachiun reached out a hand, but Temujin snapped a warning. “The clouds are too close for us to get down now,” he said. “Leave them in the nest and we can take them in the morning.”

As he spoke, a rumble of thunder growled across the plains, and both boys looked toward the source. The sun was still bright over them, but in the distance they could see rain sheeting down in twisting dark threads, the shadow racing toward the red hill. At that height, it was a scene to inspire awe as well as fear.

They shared a glance and Kachiun nodded, dropping back from the nest edge to the one below.

“We’ll starve,” he said, putting his sore finger in his mouth and sucking at the crust of dried blood.

Temujin nodded, resigned. “Better that than falling,” he said. “The rain is nearly here and I want to find a place where I can sleep without dropping off. It will be a miserable night.”

“Not for me,” Kachiun said, softly. “I have looked into the eyes of an eagle.”

With affection, Temujin cuffed the little boy, helping him traverse the ridge to where they could climb farther up. A cleft between two slopes beckoned. They could wedge themselves in as far as possible and rest at last.

“Bekter will be furious,” Kachiun said, enjoying the idea.

Temujin helped him up into the cleft and watched him wriggle his way in deeper, disturbing a pair of tiny lizards. One of them ran to the edge and leapt in panic with its legs outstretched, falling for a long time. There was barely room for both boys, but at least they were out of the wind. It would be uncomfortable and frightening after dark, and Temujin knew he would be lucky to sleep at all.

“Bekter chose the easy way up,” he said, taking Kachiun’s hand and pulling himself in.

CHAPTER 3

THE STORM BATTERED the red hill for all the hours of darkness, clearing only as dawn came. The sun shone strongly once more from an empty sky, drying the sons of Yesugei as they emerged from their cracks and hiding places. All four had been caught too high to dare a descent. They had spent the night in shivering wet misery; drowsing, then jerking awake with dreams of falling. As the dawn light reached the twin peaks of the red hill, they were yawning and stiff, with dark circles under their eyes.

Temujin and Kachiun had suffered less than the other pair because of what they had found. As soon as there was light enough to see, Temujin began to scramble out of the cleft to collect the first of the young eagles. He almost lost his grip when a dark shape swept in from the west, an adult eagle that seemed as large as he was.

The bird was not happy to find two trespassers so close to its young. Temujin knew the females were larger than the males, and he assumed the creature had to be the mother, as it screamed and raged at them. The chicks went unfed as the great bird took off again and again to float on the wind and look into the rock cleft that sheltered the two boys. It was terrifying and wondrous to be so high and stare into the black eyes of the bird, hanging unsupported on outstretched wings. Its claws opened and clutched convulsively, as if it imagined tearing into their flesh. Kachiun shuddered at the sight, lost in awe and fear that the huge bird would suddenly spear in at them, pulling them out as it might have done with a marmot in its hole. They had no more than Temujin’s pitiful little knife to defend themselves against a hunter that could break the back of a dog with a single heavy strike.

Temujin watched the brown-gold head turn back and forth in agitation. He guessed the bird could remain there all day, and he did not enjoy the thought of being exposed on the ledge below the nest. One blow from a claw there and he would be torn loose. He tried to remember anything he had ever heard about the wild birds. Could he shout to frighten the mother away? He considered it, but he did not want to summon Bekter and Khasar up to the lonely peak, not until he had the chicks wrapped in cloth and close to his chest.

At his shoulder, Kachiun clung to the sloping red rock in the cleft. Temujin saw he had prized out a loose stone and was weighing it in his hand.

“Can you hit it?” Temujin asked.

Kachiun only shrugged. “Maybe. I’d have to be lucky to knock it down, and this is the only one I could find.”

Temujin cursed under his breath. The adult eagle had disappeared for a time, but the birds were skilled hunters and he was not tempted to be lured out of his safe haven. He blew air out of his mouth in frustration. He was starving, with a difficult climb down ahead of him. He and Kachiun deserved better than to leave empty-handed.

He remembered Bekter’s bow, far below with Temuge and the ponies, and cursed himself for not having thought to bring it. Not that Bekter would have let him lay a hand on the double-curved weapon. His elder brother was as pompous about that as he was about all the trappings of a warrior.

“You take the stone,” Kachiun said. “I’ll get back up to the nest, and if she comes, you can knock her away.”

Temujin frowned. It was a reasonable plan. He was an excellent shot and Kachiun was the better climber. The only problem was that it would be Kachiun who had taken the birds, not him. It was a subtle thing, perhaps, but he wanted no other claim on them before his own.

“You take the stone. I’ll get the chicks,” he replied.

Kachiun turned his dark eyes on his older brother, seeming to read his thoughts. He shrugged. “All right. Have you cloth to bind them?”

Temujin used his knife to remove strips from the edge of his tunic. The garment was ruined, but the birds were a far greater prize and worth the loss. He wrapped a length around each palm to have them ready, then craned out of the cleft, searching for a moving shadow, or a speck circling above. The bird had looked into his eyes and known what he was trying to do, he was certain. He had seen intelligence there, as much as any dog or hawk, perhaps more.

He felt his stiff muscles twinge as he climbed out into the sunlight. Once more he could hear thin screeching from the nest, the chicks desperate for food after a night alone. Perhaps they too had suffered without their mother’s warm body to protect them from the storm. Temujin worried that he could hear only one call and that the other might have perished. He glanced behind him in case the adult eagle was soaring in to hammer him against the rock. There was nothing there and he pulled himself onto the high ledge, dragging up his legs until he crouched as Kachiun had the previous evening.

The nest was deep in a hollow, wide and steep-sided, so that the active young birds could not clamber out and fall before they could fly. As they caught sight of his face, both of the scrawny young eagles scuttled away from him, wagging their featherless wings in panic and cawing for help. Once more, he scanned the blue sky and said a quick prayer to the sky father to keep him safe. He eased forward, his right knee pressing into the damp thatch and old feathers. Small bones crunched under his weight and he smelled a nauseating gust from ancient prey.

One of the birds cowered from his reaching fingers, but the other tried to bite him with its beak, raking his hand with talons. The needle claws were too small to do more than lightly score his skin, and he ignored the sting as he held the bird up to his face and watched as it writhed.

“My father will hunt for twenty years with you,” he murmured, freeing a strip from one hand and trussing the bird by wing and leg. The second had almost climbed out of the nest in panic, and Temujin was forced to drag it back by one yellow claw, causing it to wail and struggle. He saw that the young feathers had a tinge of red amidst the gold.

“I would call you the red bird, if you were mine,” he told it, pushing them both down inside his tunic. The birds seemed quieter against his skin, though he could feel claws scrabble at him. He thought his chest would look as if he’d fallen in a thorn bush by the time he was down.

Temujin saw the adult eagle coming as a flicker of darkness above his head. It was moving faster than he would have believed possible, and he only had time to raise an arm before he heard Kachiun yell and their single stone thumped into the bird’s side, knocking it off its strike. It screamed in rage as real as he’d ever heard from an animal, reminding Temujin that this was a hunter, with a hunter’s instincts. He saw the bird try to flap its huge wings, scrabbling at the ledge for balance. Temujin could do nothing but crouch in that confined space and try to protect his face and neck from the lunging claws. He heard it screech in his ear and felt the wings beat against him before the bird fell, calling in anger all the way. Both boys watched the eagle spiral down and down, barely in control of the descent. One wing was still, but the other seemed to twist and flutter in the updraft. Temujin breathed more slowly, feeling his heart begin to slow. He had the bird for his father and perhaps he would be allowed to train the red bird for himself.

Bekter and Khasar had joined Temuge with the ponies by the time Temujin made his slow way down. Kachiun had stayed with him, aiding where he could so that Temujin never had to scramble for a hold, or risk his precious cargo. Even so, when he finally stood on the flat ground and looked up to the heights, they seemed impossibly far away; already strange, as if other boys had climbed them.

“Did you find the nest?” Khasar asked, seeing their answer in their pride.

Kachiun nodded. “With two eagle chicks in it. We fought off the mother and took them both.”

Temujin let his young brother tell the story, knowing that the others would not understand what it had been like to crouch with the world under his feet and death beating against his shoulders. He had not been afraid, he’d found, though his heart and body had reacted. He had experienced a moment of exhilaration on the red hill, and it disturbed him too much to talk of it, at least for the moment. Perhaps he would mention it to Yesugei when the khan was in a mellow mood.

Temuge too had spent a miserable night, though he had been able to shelter with the ponies and had occasional squirts of warm milk to sustain him. It didn’t occur to the other four to thank him for his sighting of the eagle. Temuge hadn’t climbed with them. All he had from his brothers was a hard clip from Bekter when he discovered that Temuge had emptied the mare’s teats during the night. The little boy howled as they set off, but the others had no sympathy. They were all parched and starving, and even the usually sunny Khasar frowned at him for his greed. They had soon left him behind as they trotted together across the green plain.

The boys saw their father’s warriors long before they were in sight of the gers of the tribe. Almost as soon as they were out of the shadow of the red hill, they were spotted, the high-pitched horn calls carrying a long way.

They did not show their nervousness, though the presence of riders could only mean their absence had been noticed. Unconsciously, they rode a little closer together as they recognized Eeluk galloping toward them and saw that he did not smile in greeting.

“Your father sent us out to find you,” Eeluk said, addressing the words to Bekter.

Temujin bristled automatically. “We’ve spent nights out before,” he replied.

Eeluk turned his small, black eyes on him and ran a hand over his chin. He shook his head. “Not without warning, not in a storm, and not with your mother giving birth,” he said, speaking sharply as if to scold a child.

Temujin saw Bekter was flushing with shame and refused to let the emotion trouble him. “You have found us, then. If our father is angry, that is between him and us.”

Eeluk shook his head again, and Temujin saw the flash of spite in his eyes. He had never liked his father’s bondsman, though he could not have said why. There was malice in Eeluk’s voice as he went on.

“Your mother almost lost the child through worrying about the rest of you,” he said.

His eyes demanded Temujin lower his gaze, but instead the boy felt a slow anger building. Riding with eagles next to his chest gave him courage. He knew his father would forgive them anything once he saw the birds. Temujin raised a hand to stop the others, and even Bekter reined in with him, unable just to ride on. Eeluk too was forced to turn his pony back to them, his face dark with irritation.

“You will not ride with us, Eeluk. Go back,” Temujin said. He saw the warrior stiffen and shook his head, deliberately. “Today we ride only with eagles,” Temujin said, his face revealing nothing of his inner amusement.

His brothers grinned around him, enjoying the secret and the frown that troubled Eeluk’s hard features. The man looked to Bekter and saw that he was staring into nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Then he snorted. “Your father will beat some humility into your thick skins,” he said, his face mottling with anger.

Temujin looked calmly at the older man, and even his pony was absolutely still.

“No. He will not. One of us will be khan one day, Eeluk. Think of that and go back, as I told you. We will come in alone.”

“Go,” Bekter said, suddenly, his voice deeper than any of his brothers’.

Eeluk looked as if he had been struck. His eyes were hidden as he spun his mount, guiding only with his knees. He did not speak again, but at last he nodded sharply and rode away, leaving them alone and shaking with an odd release of tension. They had not been in danger, Temujin was almost certain. Eeluk was not fool enough to draw steel on Yesugei’s sons. At worst, he might have thrashed them and made them walk back. Still, it felt as if a battle had been won, and Temujin sensed Bekter’s gaze on his neck the whole way to the river and his father’s people.

They smelled the tang of urine on the wind before they saw the gers. After a winter spent in the shadow of Deli’un-Boldakh, the scent had sunk into the soil in a great ring around the families. There was only so far a man was willing to walk in the dark, after all. Still, it was home.

Eeluk had dismounted near their father’s ger, obviously waiting to see them punished. Temujin enjoyed the skulking man’s interest in them and kept his head high. Khasar and Kachiun took their lead from him, though Temuge was distracted by the smell of cooking mutton and Bekter assumed his usual sullen expression.

Yesugei came out as he heard their ponies whinny a welcome to the others in the herd. He wore his sword on his hip and a deel robe of blue and gold that reached down to his knees. His boots and trousers were clean and well brushed, and he seemed to stand even taller than usual. His face showed no anger, but they knew he prided himself on the mask that all warriors had to learn. For Yesugei it was no more than the habit of a lifetime to assess his sons as they rode up to him. He took note of the way Temujin protected something at his chest and the barely controlled excitement in all of them. Even Bekter was struggling not to show pleasure, and Yesugei began to wonder what his boys had brought back.

He saw too that Eeluk hovered nearby, pretending to brush down his pony. This from a bondsman who let his mare’s tail grow thick with mud and thorns. Yesugei knew Eeluk well enough to sense his sour mood was directed at the boys rather than himself. He would have shrugged if he had not adopted a warrior’s stillness. As it was, he dismissed Eeluk’s concerns from his mind.

Khasar and Kachiun dismounted in such a way that Temujin was hidden for a moment. Yesugei watched closely and saw in a flash that Temujin’s tunic was moving. His heart began to beat faster in anticipation. Still, he would not make it too easy for them.

“You have a sister, though the birth was harder for your absence. Your mother was almost blood lost with fear for you.”

They did lower their gazes at that. He frowned, tempted to thrash each one of them for their selfishness.

“We were at the red hill,” Kachiun murmured, quailing under his father’s gaze. “Temuge saw an eagle there and we climbed for the nest.”

Yesugei’s heart soared at the news. There could only be one thing squirming at Temujin’s breast, but he hardly dared hope for it. No one in the tribe had caught an eagle for three generations or more, not since the Wolves had come down from the far west. The birds were more valuable than a dozen fine stallions, not least for the meat they could bring from hunting.

“You have the bird?” Yesugei said to Temujin, taking a step forward.

The boy could not hold back his excitement any longer, and he grinned, standing proudly as he fished around inside his tunic.

“Kachiun and I found two,” he said.

His father’s cold face broke at this and he showed his teeth, very white against his dark skin and wispy beard.

Gently, the two birds were brought out and placed in their father’s hands, squalling as they came into the light. Temujin felt the loss of their heat next to his skin as soon as they were clear. He looked at the red bird with an owner’s eyes, watching every movement.

Yesugei could not find words. He saw that Eeluk had come closer to see the chicks, and he held them up, his face alight with interest. He turned to his sons.

“Go in and see your mother, all of you. Make your apologies for frightening her and welcome your new sister.”

Temuge was through the door of the ger before his father had finished speaking, and they all heard Hoelun’s cry of pleasure at seeing her youngest son. Kachiun and Khasar followed, but Temujin and Bekter remained where they were.

“One is a little smaller than the other,” Temujin said, indicating the birds. He was desperate not to be dismissed. “There is a touch of red to his feathers and I have been calling him the red bird.”

“It is a good name,” Yesugei confirmed.

Temujin cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “I had hoped to keep him, the red bird. As there are two.”

Yesugei looked blankly at his son. “Hold out your arm,” he said.

Temujin raised his arm to the shoulder, puzzled. Yesugei held the pair of trussed chicks in the crook of one arm and used the other to press against Temujin’s hand, forcing his arm down.

“They weigh as much as a dog, when they are grown. Could you hold a dog on your wrist? No. This is a great gift and I thank you for it. But the red bird is not for a boy, even a son of mine.”

Temujin felt tears prickle his eyes as his morning’s dreams were trampled. His father seemed oblivious to his anger and despair as he called Eeluk over.

To Temujin’s eye, Eeluk’s smile was sly and unpleasant as he came to stand by them.

“You have been my first warrior,” Yesugei said to the man. “The red bird is yours.”

Eeluk’s eyes widened with awe. He took the bird reverently, the boys forgotten. “You honor me,” he said, bowing his head.

Yesugei laughed aloud. “Your service honors me,” he replied. “We will hunt with them together. Tonight we will have music for two eagles come to the Wolves.” He turned to Temujin. “You will have to tell old Chagatai all about the climb, so that he can write the words for a great song.”

Temujin did not reply, unable to stand and watch Eeluk holding the red bird any longer. He and Bekter ducked through the low doorway of the ger to see Hoelun and their new sister, surrounded by their brothers. The boys could hear their father outside, shouting to the men to see what his sons had brought him. There would be a feast that night and yet, somehow, they were uncomfortable as they met each other’s eyes. Their father’s pleasure meant a lot to all of them, but the red bird was Temujin’s.

That evening, the tribe burned the dry dung of sheep and goats and roasted mutton in the flames and great bubbling pots. The bard, Chagatai, sang of finding two eagles on a red hill, his voice an eerie combination of high and low pitch. The young men and women of the tribe cheered the verses, and Yesugei was pressed into showing the birds again and again while they called piteously for their lost nest.

The boys who had climbed the red hill accepted cup after cup of black airag as they sat around the fires in the darkness. Khasar went pale and silent after the second drink, and after a third, Kachiun gave a low snort and fell slowly backwards, his cup tumbling onto the grass. Temujin stared into the flames, making himself night-blind. He did not hear his father approach and he would not have cared if he had. The airag had heated his blood with strange colors that he could feel coursing through him.

Yesugei sat down by his sons, drawing his powerful legs up into a crouch. He wore a deel robe lined with fur against the night cold, but underneath, his chest was bare. The black airag gave him enough heat and he had always claimed a khan’s immunity from the cold.

“Do not drink too much, Temujin,” he said. “You have shown you are ready to be treated as a man. I will complete my father’s duty to you tomorrow and take you to the Olkhun’ut, your mother’s people.” He saw Temujin look up and completely missed the significance of the pale golden gaze. “We will see their most beautiful daughters and find one to warm your bed when her blood comes.” He clapped Temujin on the shoulder.

“And I will stay with them while Eeluk raises the red bird,” Temujin replied, his voice flat and cold. Some of the tone seeped through Yesugei’s drunkenness and he frowned.

“You will do as you are told by your father,” he said. He struck Temujin hard on the side of his head, perhaps harder than he had meant to. Temujin rocked forward, then came erect once again, staring back at his father. Yesugei had already lost interest, looking away to cheer as Chagatai stirred his old bones in a dance, his arms cutting the air like an eagle’s wings. After a time, Yesugei saw that Temujin was still watching him.

“I will miss the gathering of tribes, the races,” Temujin said, as their eyes met, fighting angry tears.

Yesugei regarded him, his face unreadable. “The Olkhun’ut will travel to the gathering, just as we will. You will have Whitefoot. Perhaps they will let you race him against your brothers.”

“I would rather stay here,” Temujin said, ready for another blow.

Yesugei didn’t seem to hear him. “You will live a year with them,” he said, “as Bekter did. It will be hard on you, but there will be many good memories. I need not say that you will take note of their strength, their weapons, their numbers.”

“We have no quarrel with the Olkhun’ut,” Temujin said.

His father shrugged. “The winter is long,” he replied.

CHAPTER 4

TEMUJIN’S HEAD THROBBED in the weak dawn light as his father and Eeluk loaded the ponies with food and blankets. Hoelun was moving around outside, her baby daughter suckling inside her coat. She and Yesugei talked in low voices and, after a time, he bent down to her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. It was a rare moment of intimacy that did nothing to dispel Temujin’s black mood. That morning, he hated Yesugei with all the steady force a twelve-year-old boy can muster.

In grim silence, Temujin continued to grease his reins and check every last strap and knot on the halter and stirrups. He would not give his father an excuse to criticize him in front of his younger brothers. Not that they were anywhere to be seen. The ger was very quiet after the drinking the night before. The golden eagle chick could be heard calling for food, and it was Hoelun who ducked through the door to feed it a scrap of bloody flesh. The task would be hers while Yesugei was away, but it hardly distracted her from making sure her husband was content and had all he needed for the trip.

The ponies snorted and called to each other, welcoming another day. It was a peaceful scene and Temujin stood in the middle like a sullen growth, looking for the smallest excuse to lash out. He did not want to find himself some cow-like wife. He wanted to raise stallions and ride with the red bird, known and feared. It felt like a punishment to be sent away, for all he knew that Bekter had gone before and come back. By the time Temujin returned, Bekter’s betrothed could well be in a ger with her new husband and his brother would be a man to the warriors.

The problem of Bekter was part of the reason for Temujin’s sour mood. It had become his habit to prod the older boy’s pride and see to it that he did not become too clearly their father’s favorite. In his absence, Temujin knew Bekter would be treated as the heir. After a year had passed, his own right to inherit might be almost forgotten.

Yet what else could he do? He knew Yesugei’s views on disobedient sons. If he refused to travel, he would be certain of a beating, and if he continued to be stubborn, he could find himself thrown out of the tribe. Yesugei often threatened such a thing when the brothers were too noisy or fought too roughly with each other. He never smiled when he made his threats, and they did not think he was bluffing. Temujin shuddered at the thought. To be a nameless wanderer was a hard fate. No one to watch the herds while you slept, or to help you climb a hill. On his own, he would starve, he was almost certain, or more likely be killed raiding a tribe for supplies.

His earliest memories were of cheerful shoving and bickering with his brothers in the gers. His people were never alone and it was difficult even to imagine what that would be like. Temujin shook his head a fraction as he watched his father load the mounts. He knew better than to show anything but the cold face. He listened as Eeluk and Yesugei grunted in rhythm, pulling the ropes as tight as they could possibly get. It was not a heavy load for just the two of them.

Temujin watched as the men finished, then stepped past Eeluk and checked each knot on his own pony one last time. His father’s bondsman seemed to stiffen, but Temujin did not care about his hurt feelings. Yesugei had told him often enough that a man must not depend on the skill of lesser men. Even then, Temujin did not dare to check Yesugei’s knots. His father’s temper was too uncertain. He might find it amusing, or simply knock his son flat for his impudence.

Temujin frowned at the thought of the ride ahead, with just his father for company and none of his brothers to break the silences. He shrugged to himself. He would endure it as he had found he could endure any other discomfort. What was this but another trial? He had waited out storms, from both Yesugei and the sky father. He had suffered thirst and hunger until he was tempted to bite himself for the taste of his own blood. He had lived through winters where the herds froze to death and one summer that burned the skin, so that they had all had fat yellow blisters. His father had borne those things without complaint or sign of weakness, demonstrating limitless stamina. It lifted those around him. Even Eeluk lost his sour face in Yesugei’s presence.

Temujin was standing as stiff and pale as a silver birch sapling when Hoelun ducked under the pony’s neck and embraced her son. He could feel the tiny child at her breast wriggle as he smelled sweet milk and mutton grease. When she released him, the tiny little girl began to squawk, red in the face at the unwanted interruption. Temujin watched Hoelun tuck her flat breast back under the questing mouth. He could not look his mother in the eye and she glanced at where Yesugei stood nearby, proud and silent as he stared off into the distance. Hoelun sighed.

“Stop it, Yesugei,” she said loudly.

Her husband jerked, his head coming round with a flush darkening his cheeks. “What are you—?” he began.

She interrupted him. “You know exactly what I mean. You haven’t a kind word for the boy, and you expect to ride the next three days in silence?”

Yesugei frowned, but Hoelun wasn’t finished with him.

“You took the boy’s bird and gave it to that ugly bondsman of yours. Did you expect him to laugh and thank you for it?”

Yesugei’s pale gaze flickered over Eeluk and his son, gauging the reaction to the speech.

“He is too young,” he muttered.

Hoelun hissed like a pot on the stove. “He is a boy about to be betrothed. He is young and too proud, just as his stubborn father is. He is so much like you that you cannot even see it.”

Yesugei ignored this, and Temujin did not know what to say as his mother looked back at him.

“He listens, though he pretends not to, Temujin,” she murmured. “He is like you in that.” She reached up to take his cheek in her strong fingers. “Do not be wary of the families of my people. They are good-hearted, though you must keep your eyes down around the young men. They will test you, but you must not be afraid.”

Temujin’s yellow eyes flashed. “I am not afraid,” he said. She waited and his defiant expression altered subtly. “All right, I am listening as well,” he said.

She nodded and from a pocket brought a bag of sweet milk curds, pressing it into his hand.

“There is a bottle of black airag in the saddlebag against the cold. These are for the journey. Grow strong and be kind to whichever girl is chosen for you.”

“Kind?” Temujin replied. For the first time since his father had told him he was going, he felt a twinge of nervousness in his stomach. Somewhere there was a stranger who would be his wife and bear his children. He could not imagine what she might look like, or even what he wanted in such a woman.

“I hope she is like you,” he said thoughtfully.

Hoelun beamed and hugged him with a brief clasp that set his little sister crying indignantly. “You are a good boy, Temujin. You will make her a fine husband,” she said.

To his astonishment, he saw tears gleaming in her eyes. She rubbed at them even as he felt an answering pang. His defenses were crumbling and she saw his fear that he would be humiliated in front of Yesugei and Eeluk. Men on their way to be betrothed did not bawl with their mothers.

Hoelun gripped her son briefly around the neck, then turned away, exchanging a last few murmured words with her husband. The khan of the Wolves sighed visibly, nodding in reply as he mounted. Temujin leapt nimbly into his own saddle.

“Temujin!” he heard.

He smiled as he turned his white-footed pony with a gentle pressure on the reins. His sleepy brothers had roused themselves at last and come out to see him off. Temuge and Khasar clustered around his stirrups, adoration in their faces. Kachiun winced against the light as he took a moment to inspect a fraying front hoof. They were a noisy, lively group and Temujin felt the tightness in his chest begin to ease.

Bekter came out of the ger, his flat face impassive. Temujin regarded him, seeing a sparkle of triumph in the empty gaze. Bekter too had thought how much easier his life would be without Temujin there. It was hard not to worry for the younger ones, but Temujin would not shame them by voicing his concern. The bones had been thrown and the future laid out for all of them. A strong man could bend the sky to suit him, but only for himself, Temujin knew. They were on their own.

He raised a hand in final farewell to his mother and urged Whitefoot into a snorting trot at his father’s side. He did not think he could bear to look back, so he did not. The sounds of the waking tribe and the whinnying calls of horses faded quickly, and after a short time there was just the thud of hooves and jingling harnesses, and their people were left behind.

Yesugei rode in silence as the sun rose ahead of them. Hoelun’s people were closer than they had been in three years, and it would be a journey of only a few days alone with his son. By the end of it, he would know whether the boy had it in him to rule the tribe. He had known with Bekter, after only the first day. His oldest boy was no wild flame, it was true, but the tribe needed a steady hand and Bekter was growing into a fine man.

Yesugei frowned to himself as he rode. Some part of his mind scanned the land around them for a sight of an enemy or an animal. He could never become lost while every hill was sharp in his mind, and every clipped goat ear showed him the local tribes, like a pattern stretching over the land.

He had enjoyed the ride with Bekter, though he had taken pains not to show it. It was hard to know how a boy became a leader of men, but Yesugei was certain it was not through being spoiled or kept soft. He raised his eyes to the sky father at the thought of fat Temuge back in the gers. If the little boy had not had so many strong brothers, Yesugei would have taken him away from his mother’s influence, perhaps to be fostered with another tribe. Perhaps he still would, on his return.

Yesugei shifted in the saddle, unable to maintain his usual drifting thoughts while Temujin rode at his side. The boy was too obviously aware of his surroundings, his head jerking at every new sight. Bekter had been a peaceful companion, but something about Temujin’s silence chafed on his father.

It did not help that the route to the Olkhun’ut took them near the red hill, so that Yesugei was forced to consider his son’s part in fetching the eagle chicks. He felt Temujin’s eyes on him as he looked at the sharp slopes, but the stubborn boy would not give him an opening.

Yesugei grunted in exasperation, unsure why his temper was growling on such a fine, blue day.

“You were lucky to reach the nest at that height,” he said.

“It was not luck,” Temujin replied.

Yesugei cursed inwardly. The boy was as prickly as a thorn bush.

“You were lucky not to fall, boy, even with Kachiun helping you.”

Temujin narrowed his eyes. His father had seemed too drunk to be listening to Chagatai’s songs. Had he spoken to Kachiun? Temujin was not sure how to react, so he said nothing.

Yesugei watched him closely, and after a time, he shook his head and thought of Hoelun. He would try again, for her sake, or he might never hear the end of it.

“It was a fine climb, I heard. Kachiun said you were nearly torn off the rock by the eagle coming back to the nest.”

Temujin softened slightly, shrugging. He was absurdly pleased that his father had shown an interest, though his cold face hid it all.

“He forced it down with a stone,” he replied, giving measured praise with care. Kachiun was his favorite brother by far, but he had learned the good sense of hiding likes and dislikes from others, almost an instinct by the end of his twelfth year.

Yesugei had fallen silent again, but Temujin searched his thoughts for something to break the silence before it could settle and grow firm.

“Did your father take you to the Olkhun’ut?” he said.

Yesugei snorted, eyeing his son. “I suppose you are old enough now to hear. No, I found your mother with two of her brothers when I was out riding. I saw that she was beautiful and strong.” He sighed, and smacked his lips, his eyes gazing into the past.

“She rode the sweetest little mare, the color of storm water at dawn. Her legs were bare and very brown.”

Temujin had not heard the story before and rode a little closer.

“You raided her from the Olkhun’ut?” he said. It should not have surprised him, he knew. His father enjoyed hunting and raiding and his eyes shone when he recalled his battles. If the season was warm and food was plentiful, he sent defeated warriors back to their families on foot, with red welts on their skin from the flats of swords. In the winter, when food was scarce, it was death to be caught. Life was too hard for kindness in the dark months.

“I chased her brothers away like a couple of young goats,” Yesugei said. “I was hardly old enough to be out on my own, but I waved my sword above my head and I yelled at them.”

Caught up in the memory, he put his head back and gave out an ululating whoop, ending in laughter.

“You should have seen their faces. One of them tried to attack me, but I was the son of a khan, Temujin, not some little dog to be cowed and sent running. I put an arrow through his hip and ran him off.”

He sighed to himself.

“Those were very good days. I thought I would never feel the cold in my bones, back then. I had an idea that I would be given nothing in my life, that everything I had would be taken by my wits and my strength.” He looked at his son, and his expression contained a regret Temujin could only guess at. “There was a time, boy, when I would have climbed for the red bird myself.”

“If I had known, I would have come back and told you,” Temujin began, trying to understand this great bear of a man.

Yesugei shook his head, chuckling. “Not now! I am too heavy to be dancing around on tiny ledges and cracks. If I tried it now, I think I would crash to earth like a falling star. What is the point in having sons if they cannot grow strong and test their courage? That is one truth I remember from my father, when he was sober. Courage cannot be left like bones in a bag. It must be brought out and shown the light again and again, growing stronger each time. If you think it will keep for the times you need it, you are wrong. It is like any other part of your strength. If you ignore it, the bag will be empty when you need it most. No, you were right to climb for the nest, and I was right to give the red bird to Eeluk.”

There was no hiding the sudden stiffness that came into Temujin’s bearing. Yesugei made a purring sound in frustration, deep in his throat like a growl.

“He is my first warrior, and deadly, boy, you should believe it. I would rather have Eeluk at my side than any five of the tribe—any ten of the Olkhun’ut. His children will not rule the families. His sword will never be as good as mine, do you understand? No, you are only twelve. What can you understand of what I say to you?”

“You had to give him something,” Temujin snapped. “Is that what you mean?”

“No. It was not a debt. I honored him with the red bird because he is my first warrior. Because he has been my friend since we were boys together and he has never complained that his family were beneath mine amongst the Wolves.”

Temujin opened his mouth to snap a reply. The red bird would be soiled by Eeluk’s dirty hands, with their thick yellow skin. The bird was too fine for the ugly bondsman. He did not speak, and instead he practiced the discipline that gave him the cold face and showed the world nothing. It was his only real defense against his father’s searching gaze.

Yesugei saw through it, and snorted.

“Boy, I was showing the cold face when you were the sky father’s dream,” he said.

As they made camp that night by a winding stream, Temujin set about the chores that would help sustain them the following day. With the hilt of his knife, he broke chunks of hard cheese from a heavy block, passing the pieces into leather bags half filled with water. The wet mixture would sit under their saddles, churned and heated by the ponies’ skin. By noon, he and his father would have a warm drink of soft curds, bitter and refreshing.

Once that task was done, Temujin set about finding sheep droppings, pulling them apart in his fingers to see if they were dry enough to burn cleanly and well. He collected a pile of the best ones and drew a stick of flint across an old knife to light strands of them, building the sparks into a tongue of flame and then a fire. Yesugei cut pieces of dried mutton and some wild onions with sheep fat, the delicious smell making their mouths water. Hoelun had given them bread that would soon be hard, so they broke the flat loaves and soaked them in the stew.

They sat across from each other to eat, sucking the meat juices from their fingers between mouthfuls. Temujin saw his father’s gaze fall on the pack that contained the black airag and fetched it for him. He watched patiently as the khan took a deep swig.

“Tell me about the Olkhun’ut,” Temujin said.

His father’s mouth curled in an unconscious sneer. “They are not strong, though there are many of them, like ants. I sometimes think I could ride in there and kill all day before they brought me down.”

“They don’t have warriors?” Temujin said incredulously. His father was not above making up some outlandish story, but he seemed serious.

“Not like Eeluk. You’ll see. They use the bow rather than the sword, and they stand far off from their enemy, never coming close unless they have to. Shields would make a mockery of them, though they would kill the ponies easily enough. They are like wasps stinging, but if you ride in amongst them, they scatter like children. That is how I took your mother. I crept up, then I leapt on them.”

“How will I learn to use a sword, then?” Temujin demanded.

He had forgotten his father’s reaction to that tone and barely avoided the hand that came to smack a little humility into him. Yesugei went on as if nothing had happened.

“You will have to practice on your own, boy. Bekter had to, I know that. He said they didn’t let him touch a bow or one of their knives from the first day to the day he left. Cowards, all of them. Still, their women are very fine.”

“Why do they trade with you, with daughters for your sons?” Temujin asked, wary of another blow. Yesugei was already arranging his deel for sleep, lying back on the sheep-nibbled grass.

“No father wants unwed daughters cluttering the ger. What would they do with them, if I did not come with a son every now and then? It is not so uncommon, especially when the tribes meet. They can strengthen their blood with the seed of other tribes.”

“Does it strengthen us?” Temujin asked.

His father snorted without opening his eyes.

“The Wolves are already strong.”

CHAPTER 5

YESUGEI’S SHARP EYES spotted the Olkhun’ut scouts at exactly the moment they saw him. The deep notes of their horns carried back to the tribes, rousing the warriors to defend their herds and women.

“You will not speak unless they speak to you,” Yesugei warned his son. “Show them the cold face, no matter what happens. Understand?”

Temujin did not respond, though he swallowed nervously. The days and nights with his father had been a strange time for him. In all his life, he could not remember having Yesugei’s attention for so long, without his brothers crashing across the khan’s field of vision and distracting him. At first, Temujin had thought it would be a misery to be stuck together for the journey. They were not friends, and could not be, but there were moments when he caught a glint of something in his father’s eyes. In anyone else, it might have been pride.

In the far distance, Temujin saw dust rise from the dry ground as young warriors leapt onto their ponies, calling for weapons. Yesugei’s mouth became a thin, hard line and he sat tall in his saddle, his back straight and unbending. Temujin copied him as best he could, watching the dust cloud grow as dozens of warriors came swarming out toward the lonely pair.

“Do not turn, Temujin,” Yesugei snapped. “They are boys playing games, and you will shame me if you give honor to them.”

“I understand,” Temujin replied. “But if you sit like a stone, they will know you are aware of them. Would it not be better to talk to me, to laugh?”

He felt Yesugei’s glare and knew a moment of fear. Those golden eyes had been the last sight of more than a few young tribesmen. Yesugei was preparing himself for enemies, his instincts taking over his muscles and reactions. As Temujin turned to return the stare, he saw his father summon an effort of will and visibly relax himself. The galloping Olkhun’ut did not seem so close and the day had grown a little brighter somehow.

“I will look a fool if they sweep us off the ponies in pieces,” Yesugei said, forcing a stiff grin that would not have been out of place on a corpse.

Temujin laughed at his effort in genuine amusement. “Are you in pain? Try throwing your head back as you do it.”

His father did as Temujin suggested and his effort reduced them both to helpless laughter by the time the Olkhun’ut riders arrived. Yesugei was red-faced and wiping tears from his eyes as the yelling warriors skidded to a halt, allowing their mounts to block the pair of strangers. The drifting cloud of dust arrived with them, passing through the group on the wind and making them all narrow their eyes.

The milling group of warriors fell silent as Temujin and Yesugei mastered themselves and appeared to notice the Olkhun’ut for the first time. Temujin kept his face as blank as possible, though he could barely hide his curiosity. Everything was subtly different from what he was used to. The bloodlines of their horses were superb and the warriors themselves wore light deels of gray with gold thread markings over trousers of dark brown. They were somehow cleaner and neater looking than his own people, and Temujin felt a vague resentment start in him. His gaze fell on one who must surely have been the leader. The other riders deferred to him as he approached, looking to him for orders.

The young warrior rode as well as Kachiun, Temujin saw, but he was almost a man grown, with only the lightest of tunics and bare brown arms. He had two bows strapped to his saddle, with a good throwing axe. Temujin could see no swords on any of the others, but they too carried the small axes and he wondered how they would be used against armed men. He suspected that a good sword would reduce their hatchets to kindling in just a stroke or two—unless they threw them.

His examination of the Olkhun’ut was being returned. One of the men nudged his pony close to Yesugei. A grimy hand stretched out to finger the cloth of his deel.

Temujin barely saw his father move, but the man’s palm was striped with red before he could lay a finger on Yesugei’s belongings. The Olkhun’ut rider yelped and pulled back, his pain turning to anger in an instant.

“You take a great risk riding here without your bondsmen, khan of the Wolves,” the young man in a tunic said suddenly. “Have you brought us another of your sons for the Olkhun’ut to teach him his manhood?”

Yesugei turned to Temujin and again there was that odd light in his eye.

“This is my son, Temujin. Temujin, this is your cousin Koke. His father is the man I shot in the hip on the day I met your mother.”

“And he still limps,” Koke agreed, without smiling.

His pony seemed to move without a signal and he came in range to clap Yesugei on the shoulder. The older man allowed the action, though there was something about his stillness that suggested he may not have. The other warriors relaxed as Koke moved away. He had shown he was not afraid of the khan, and Yesugei had accepted that he did not rule where the Olkhun’ut pitched their gers.

“You must be hungry. The hunters brought in fat spring marmots this morning—will you eat with us?”

“We will,” Yesugei answered for both of them.

From that moment they were protected by guest rights and Yesugei lost the stiffness that suggested he’d rather be holding a sword. His dagger had vanished back into his fur-lined robe. In comparison, Temujin’s stomach felt as if it had dropped out. He had not fully appreciated how lonely he would feel surrounded by strangers, and even before they reached the outer tents of the Olkhun’ut, he was watching his father closely, dreading the moment when he would ride away and leave his son behind.

The gers of the Olkhun’ut were a different shade of white-gray from those Temujin knew. The horses were held in great corrals outside the gathering of tents, too many for him to count. With cattle, goats, and sheep busy munching grass on every nearby hill, he could see the Olkhun’ut were prosperous and, as Yesugei had said, strong in numbers. Temujin saw little boys the age of his brothers racing along the outskirts of the camp. Each held a small bow and seemed to be firing directly into the ground, yelling and cursing alternately. It was all strange, and he wished Kachiun and Khasar were there with him.

His cousin Koke jumped down from his pony, giving the reins to a tiny woman with a face as wrinkled as a leaf. Temujin and Yesugei dismounted at the same time, and their ponies were taken away to be watered and fed. The other riders scattered through the camp, returning to their own gers or gathering in groups to talk. Strangers in the tribe were not common and Temujin could feel hundreds of eyes on him as Koke led the two Wolves through the midst of his people, striding ahead.

Yesugei grunted in displeasure at being forced to walk behind the young man. The khan walked even slower in response, pausing to inspect the decorative knotwork on the ger of a lesser family. With a frown on his face, Koke was forced to wait for his guests, or arrive at his destination without them. Temujin might have applauded the subtle way his father had turned the little game of status to his advantage. Instead of hurrying along after the younger man, they had made the trip a tour of the Olkhun’ut gers. Yesugei even spoke to one or two of the people, but never with a question they might not have answered, only with a compliment or a simple remark. The Olkhun’ut stared after the pair of Wolves, and Temujin sensed his father was enjoying the tensions as much as a battle.

By the time they stopped outside a ger with a bright blue door, Koke was irritated with them both, though he could not exactly have said why.

“Is your father well?” Yesugei said.

The young warrior was forced to pause as he ducked into the ger. “He is as strong as ever,” Koke replied.

Yesugei nodded. “Tell him I am here,” he said, looking blandly at his nephew by marriage.

Koke colored slightly before disappearing into the darkness within. Though there were eyes and ears all around them, Temujin and Yesugei had been left alone.

“Observe the courtesies when we go in,” Yesugei murmured. “These are not the families you know. They will notice every fault and rejoice in it.”

“I understand,” Temujin replied, barely moving his lips. “How old is my cousin Koke?”

“Thirteen or fourteen,” Yesugei replied.

Temujin looked up with interest. “So he is alive only because you shot his father in the hip and not the heart?”

Yesugei shrugged. “I did not shoot for the hip. I shot to kill, but I had only an instant to loose the shaft before your mother’s other brother threw an axe at me.”

“Is he here as well?” Temujin asked, looking round.

Yesugei chuckled. “Not unless he managed to put his head back on.”

Temujin fell silent as he considered this. The Olkhun’ut had no reason to love his father and many to hate him, yet he sent his sons to them for wives. The certainties he had known among his own people were vanishing, and he felt lost and fearful. Temujin drew on his determination with an effort, composing his features into the cold face. Bekter had withstood his year with the tribe, after all. They would not kill him and anything else was bearable, he was almost certain.

“Why has he not come out?” he murmured to his father.

Yesugei grunted, breaking off from staring at some young Olkhun’ut women milking goats.

“He makes us wait because he thinks I will be insulted. He made me wait when I came with Bekter two years ago. No doubt he will make me wait when I come with Khasar. The man is an idiot, but all dogs bark at a wolf.”

“Why do you visit him first, then?” Temujin said, dropping his voice even lower.

“The blood tie brings me safe amongst them. It galls them to welcome me, but they give your mother honor by doing it. I play my part, and my sons have wives.”

“Will you see their khan?” Temujin asked.

Yesugei shook his head. “If Sansar sees me, he will be forced to offer his tents and women for as long as I am here. He will have gone hunting, as I would if he came to the Wolves.”

“You like him,” Temujin said, watching his father’s face closely.

“The man has honor enough not to pretend he is a friend when he is not. I respect him. If I ever decide to take his herds, I will let him keep a few sheep and a woman or two, perhaps even a bow and a good cloak against the cold.”

Yesugei smiled at the thought, gazing back at the girls tending their bleating flock. Temujin wondered if they knew the wolf was already amongst them.

The inside of the ger was gloomy and thick with the smell of mutton and sweat. As Temujin ducked low to pass under the lintel, it occurred to him for the first time just how vulnerable a man was as he went into another family’s home. Perhaps the small doors had another function apart from keeping out the winter.

The ger had carved wooden beds and chairs around the edges, with a small stove in the middle. Temujin felt vaguely disappointed at the ordinary look of the interior, though his sharp eyes noticed a beautiful bow on the far wall, double curved and layered in horn and sinew. He wondered if he would have the chance to practice his archery with the Olkhun’ut. If they forbade him weapons for the full turn of seasons, he might well lose the skills he had worked so hard to gain.

Koke stood with his head respectfully bowed, but another man rose as Yesugei came to greet him, standing a head shorter than the khan of the Wolves.

“I have brought another son to you, Enq,” Yesugei said formally. “The Olkhun’ut are friends to the Wolves and do us great honor with strong wives.”

Temujin watched his uncle in fascination. His mother’s brother. It was strange to think of her growing up around this very ger, riding a sheep, perhaps, as the babies sometimes did.

Enq was a thin spear of a man, his flesh tight on his bones, so that the lines of his shaven skull could be easily seen. Even in the dark ger, his skin shone with grease, with just one thick lock of gray hair hanging from his scalp between his eyes. The glance he gave Temujin was not welcoming, though he gripped Yesugei’s hand in greeting and his wife prepared salted tea to refresh them.

“Is my sister well?” Enq said as the silence swelled around them. She has given me a daughter,” Yesugei replied. “Perhaps you will send an Olkhun’ut son to me one day.”

Enq nodded, though the idea did not seem to please him.

“Has the girl you found for my elder son come into her blood?” Yesugei asked.

Enq grimaced over his tea. “Her mother says that she hasn’t,” he replied. “She will come when she is ready.” He seemed about to speak again and then shut his mouth tight, so that the wrinkles around his lips deepened.

Temujin perched himself on the edge of a bed, taking note of the fine quality of the blankets. Remembering what his father had said, he took the bowl of tea he was offered in his right hand, his left cupping his right elbow in the traditional style. No one could have faulted his manners in front of the Olkhun’ut.

They settled themselves and drank the liquid in silence. Temujin began to relax.

“Why has your son not greeted me?” Enq asked Yesugei slyly.

Temujin stiffened as his father frowned. He put aside the bowl and rose once more. Enq stood with him, and Temujin was pleased to find he was the man’s equal in height.

“I am honored to meet you, Uncle,” he said. “I am Temujin, second son to the khan of Wolves. My mother sends you her greetings. Are you well?”

“I am, boy,” Enq replied. “Though I see you have yet to learn the courtesies of our people.”

Yesugei cleared his throat softly and Enq closed his mouth over whatever he had been going to add. Temujin did not miss the flash of irritation in the older man’s eyes. He had been plunged into an adult world of subtlety and games, and once more he began to dread the moment when his father would leave him behind.

“How is your hip?” Yesugei murmured.

Enq’s thin mouth tightened as he forced a smile. “I never think of it,” he replied.

Temujin noticed that he moved stiffly as he took his seat once more, and felt a private pleasure. He did not have to like these strange people. He understood that this too was a test, like everything else Yesugei set his sons. He would endure.

“Is there a wife for him in the gers?” Yesugei asked.

Enq grimaced, draining the dregs of his tea bowl and holding it out to be refilled.

“There is one family who have not been able to find a match for their daughter. They will be pleased to have her eating someone else’s meat and milk.”

Yesugei nodded. “I will see her before I leave you. She must be strong and able to bear children for the Wolves. Who knows, one day she could be mother to the tribe.”

Enq nodded, sipping at the salty liquid as if in deep concentration. Temujin wanted nothing more than to be away from the man’s sour smell and his gloomy ger, but he forced himself to remain still and listen to every word. His future hung on the moment, after all.

“I will bring her to you,” Enq said, but Yesugei shook his head.

“Good blood comes from a good line, Enq. I will see her parents before I leave.”

Reluctantly, Enq nodded. “Very well. I had to take a piss anyway.”

Temujin rose, standing back as his uncle ducked through the door. He could hear the noisy spatter of liquid begin almost immediately. Yesugei chuckled deep in his throat, but it was not a friendly sound. In silent communication, he reached out and gripped Temujin around the back of the neck, then both of them stepped out into the bright sunshine.

The Olkhun’ut seemed to be burdened with an insatiable curiosity about their visitors. As Temujin’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw many dozens of them had gathered around Enq’s ger, though Yesugei hardly spared them a glance. Enq strode through the crowd, sending two yellow dogs skittering out of his way with a kick. Yesugei strolled after him, meeting his son’s eyes for a moment. Temujin returned the gaze coolly until Yesugei nodded, reassured in some way.

Enq’s stiffness was far more visible as they walked behind him, every step revealing his old injury. Sensing their scrutiny, his face became flushed as he led them through the clustered gers and out to the edges of the encampment. The chattering Olkhun’ut followed them, unashamed in their interest.

A thunder of hooves sounded behind their small party, and Temujin was tempted to look back. He saw his father glance and knew that if there was a threat, the khan would have drawn his sword. Though his fingers twitched at the hilt, Yesugei only smiled. Temujin listened to the hoofbeats getting closer and closer until the ground trembled under their feet.

At the last possible moment, Yesugei moved with a jerk, reaching up in a blur to snatch a rider. The horse galloped on wildly, bare of reins or saddle. Freed of its burden, it bucked twice and then settled, dropping its head to nibble at dry grass.

Temujin had spun round at his father’s movement, seeing the big man lowering a child to the ground as if the weight were nothing.

It might have been a girl, but it was not easy to be sure. The hair was cut short and the face was almost black with dirt. She struggled in Yesugei’s arms as he put her down, spitting and wailing. He laughed and turned to Enq with raised eyebrows.

“The Olkhun’ut grow them wild, I see,” Yesugei said.

Enq’s face was twisted with what may have been amusement. He watched as the grubby little girl ran away screeching. “Let us continue to her father,” he said, flashing a glance at Temujin before he limped away.

Temujin stared after the running figure, wishing he had taken a better look.

“Is she the one?” he said aloud. No one answered him.

The horses of the Olkhun’ut were out on the ragged edge of the tribe, whinnying and tossing their heads in the excitement of spring. The last of the gers sat on a piece of dusty ground by the corrals, baked and bare of any ornament. Even the door was unpainted wood, suggesting the owners owned nothing more than their lives and their place in the tribe. Temujin sighed at the thought of spending his year with such a poor family. He had hoped at least to be given a bow for hunting. From the look of the ger, his wife’s family would be hard-pressed even to feed him.

Yesugei’s face was blank, and Temujin tried hard to copy it in front of Enq. He had already resolved not to like the thin uncle who had given them such a reluctant welcome. It was not difficult.

The father of the girl came out to meet them, smiling and bowing. His clothes were black with old grease and dirt, layer upon layer that Temujin suspected would remain on his skin regardless of season. He showed a toothless mouth when he smiled, and Temujin watched as he scratched at a dark spot in his hair, flicking some nameless parasite away with his fingers. It was hard not to be revolted after the clean ger his mother had kept all his life. The smell of urine was a sharp tang in the air, and Temujin could not even see a latrine pit nearby.

He took the man’s dark hand when it was offered and went inside to drink yet another bowl of the salty tea, moving to the left after his father and Enq. His spirits sank further at the broken wood beds and lack of paint. There was an old bow on the wall, but it was a poor thing and much mended. The old man woke his wife with a hard slap and set her to boiling a kettle on the stove. He was clearly nervous in the presence of strangers and muttered to himself constantly.

Enq could not hide his cheerful mood. He smiled around at the bare felt and wooden lattice, repaired in a hundred places.

“We are honored to be in your home, Shria,” he said to the woman, who bowed her head briefly before pouring the salt tea into shallow bowls for them. Enq’s good humor was growing visibly as he addressed her husband. “Bring your daughter, Sholoi. The boy’s father has said he wants to see her.”

The wiry little man showed his toothless gums again and went out, pulling his beltless trousers up at every second step. Temujin heard a high voice yelling and the old man’s curt reply, but he pretended not to, covering his dismay with the bowl of tea and feeling his bladder grow full.

Sholoi brought the grubby girl back in, struggling all the way. Under Yesugei’s gaze, he struck her three times in quick succession, on the face and legs. Tears sprang into her eyes, though she fought them with the same determination as she had fought her father.

“This is Borte,” Enq said slyly. “She will make your son a good and loyal wife, I am certain.”

“She looks a little old,” Yesugei said doubtfully.

The girl writhed away from her father’s grip and went to sit on the other side of the ger, as far from them as she could possibly get.

Enq shrugged. “She is fourteen, but there has been no blood. Perhaps because she is thin. There have been other suitors, of course, but they want a placid girl instead of one with fire in her. She will make a fine mother for Wolves.”

The girl in question picked up a shoe and threw it at Enq. Temujin was close enough to snatch it out of the air, and she stared malevolently at him.

Yesugei crossed the ger and something about him made her go still. He was large for his own people and larger still for the Olkhun’ut, who tended toward delicacy. He reached out and touched her gently under the chin, lifting her head.

“My son will need a strong wife,” he said, looking into her eyes. “I think she will be beautiful when she has grown.”

The little girl broke her unnatural stillness and tried to slap at his hand, though he was too fast for her. Yesugei smiled, nodding to himself.

“I like her. I accept the betrothal.”

Enq hid his displeasure behind a weak smile.

“I am pleased to have found a good match for your son,” he said.

Yesugei stood and stretched his back, towering over them all.

“I will return for him in a year, Enq. Teach him discipline, but remember that one day he will be a man and he may come back to pay his debts to the Olkhun’ut.”

The threat was not lost on Enq and Sholoi, and the former clenched his jaw rather than reply before he had mastered himself.

“It is a hard life in the gers of the Olkhun’ut. We will give you back a warrior as well as a wife for him.”

“I do not doubt it,” Yesugei replied.

He bent almost double to exit through the small door and, in sudden panic, Temujin realized his father was leaving. It seemed to take forever for the older men to follow, but he forced himself to sit until only the wizened wife was left and he could leave. By the time he stood blinking against the light, his father’s pony had been brought. Yesugei mounted easily, looking down on them all. His steady gaze found Temujin at last, but he said nothing and, after a moment, he dug in his heels, trotting away.

Temujin stared after his father as he rode, returning to his brothers, his mother, everything he loved. Though he knew he would not, Temujin hoped Yesugei would glance back before he was out of sight. He felt tears threaten and took a deep breath to hold them back, knowing it would please Enq to see weakness.

His uncle watched Yesugei leave and then he closed one nostril with a finger, blowing the contents of the other onto the dusty ground.

“He is an arrogant fool, that one, like all the Wolves,” he said.

Temujin turned quickly, surprising him. Enq sneered.

“And his pups are worse than their father. Well, Sholoi beats his pups as hard as he beats his daughters and his wife. They all know their place, boy. You’ll learn yours while you are here.”

He gestured to Sholoi and the little man took Temujin’s arm in a surprisingly powerful grip. Enq smiled at the boy’s expression.

Temujin held silent, knowing they were trying to frighten him. After a pause, Enq turned and walked away, his expression sour. Temujin saw that his uncle limped much worse when Yesugei was not there to see it. In the midst of his fear and loneliness, that thought gave him a scrap of comfort. If he had been treated with kindness, he may not have had the strength. As things stood, his simmering dislike was like a draft of mare’s blood in his stomach, nourishing him.

Yesugei did not look back as he passed the last riders of the Olkhun’ut. His heart ached at leaving his precious son in the hands of weaklings like Enq and Sholoi, but to have given Temujin even a few words of comfort would have been seen as a triumph for those who looked for such things. When he was riding alone across the plain and the camp was far behind, he permitted himself a rare smile. Temujin had more than a little fierceness in him, perhaps more than any other of his sons. Where Bekter might have retreated into sullenness, he thought Temujin might surprise those who thought they could freely torment a khan’s son. Either way, he would survive the year and the Wolves would be stronger for his experiences and the wife he would bring home. Yesugei remembered the fat herds that roamed around the gers of his wife’s tribe. He had found no true weaknesses in the defenses, but if the winter was hard, he could picture a day when he would ride amongst them once more, with warriors at his side. His mood lightened at the thought of seeing Enq run from his bondsmen. There would be no smiles and sly glances from the thin little man then. He dug in his heels to canter across the empty landscape, his imagination filled with pleasant thoughts of fire and screaming.

CHAPTER 6

TEMUJIN CAME ABRUBTLY from sleep when a pair of hands yanked him off his pallet and onto the wooden floor. The ger was filled with that close darkness that prevented him from even seeing his own limbs, and everything was unfamiliar. He could hear Sholoi muttering as he moved around, and assumed it was the old man who had woken him. Temujin felt a surge of fresh dislike for Borte’s father. He scrambled up, stifling a cry of pain as he cracked his shin on some unseen obstacle. It was not yet dawn and the camp of the Olkhun’ut was silent all around. He did not want to start the dogs barking. A little cold water would splash away his sleepiness, he thought, yawning. He reached out to where he remembered seeing a bucket the evening before, but his hands closed on nothing.

“Awake yet?” Sholoi said somewhere near.

Temujin turned toward the sound and clenched his fists in the darkness. He had a bruise along the side of his face from where the old man had struck him the evening before. It had brought shameful tears to his eyes, though he’d seen that Enq had spoken the truth about life in that miserable home. Sholoi used his bony hands to enforce every order, whether he was moving a dog out of his path, or starting his daughter or wife to some task. The shrewish-looking wife seemed to have learned a sullen silence, but Borte had felt her father’s fists more than a few times on that first evening, just for being too close in the confined space of the ger. Under the dirt and old cloth, Temujin thought she must have been covered in bruises. It had taken two sharp blows from Sholoi before he too kept his head down. He’d felt her eyes on him then, her gaze scornful, but what else could he have done? Killed the old man? He didn’t think he would live long past Sholoi’s first shout for help, not surrounded by the rest of the tribe. He thought they would take a particular delight in cutting him if he gave them cause. His last waking thought the night before had been the pleasant image of dragging a bloody Sholoi behind his pony, but it was just a fantasy born of humiliation. Bekter had survived, he reminded himself, sighing, wondering how the big ox had managed to hold his temper.

He heard a creak of hinges as Sholoi opened the small door, letting in enough cold starlight for Temujin to edge around the stove and past the sleeping forms of Borte and her mother. Somewhere nearby were two other gers with Sholoi’s sons and their grubby wives and children. They had all left the old man years before, leaving only Borte. Despite his rough ways, Sholoi was khan in his own home, and Temujin could only bow his head and try not to earn too many cuffs and blows.

He shivered as he stepped outside, crossing his arms in his thick deel so that he was hugging himself. Sholoi was emptying his bladder yet again, as he seemed to need to do every hour or so in the night. Temujin had woken more than once as Sholoi stumbled past him, and he wondered why he had been pulled from the blankets this time. He felt a deep ache in his stomach from hunger and looked forward to something hot to start the day. With just a little warm tea, he was certain he would be able to stop his hands shaking, but he knew Sholoi would only cackle and sneer if he asked for some before the stove was even lit.

The herds were dark figures under the starlight as Temujin emptied his own urine into the soil, watching it steam. The nights were still cold in spring and he saw there was a crust of ice on the ground. With a south-facing door, he had no trouble finding east, to look for the dawn. There was no sign of it and he hoped Sholoi did not rise at such an early hour every day. The man may have been toothless, but he was as knotted and wiry as an old stick, and Temujin had the sinking feeling that the day would be long and hard.

As he tucked himself in, Temujin felt Sholoi’s grip on his arm, pushing at him. The old man held a wooden bucket, and as Temujin took it, he picked up another, pressing it into his free hand.

“Fill them and come back quick, boy,” he said.

Temujin nodded, turning toward the sound of the nearby river. He wished Khasar and Kachiun could have been there. He missed them already and it was not hard to imagine the peaceful scene as they awoke in the ger he had known all his life, with Hoelun stirring them to begin their chores. The buckets were heavy as he headed back, but he wanted to eat and he did not doubt Sholoi would starve him if he gave him an opportunity.

The stove had been lit by the time he returned, and Borte had vanished from her blankets. Sholoi’s grim little wife, Shria, was fussing around the stove, nursing the flames with tapers before shutting the door with a clang. She had not spoken a word to him since his arrival. Temujin looked thirstily at the pot of tea, but Sholoi came in just as he put the buckets down and guided him back out into the quiet darkness with a two-fingered grip on his biceps.

“You’ll join the felters later, when the sun’s up. Can you shear?”

“No, I’ve never had…” Temujin began.

Sholoi grimaced. “Not much good to me, boy, are you? I can carry my own buckets. When it’s light you can collect sheep turds for the stove. Can you ride herd?”

“I’ve done it,” Temujin replied quickly, hoping he would be given his pony to tend the Olkhun’ut sheep and cattle. That would at least take him away from his new family for a while each day. Sholoi saw his eagerness and his toothless mouth curled like a wet, grubby fist.

“Want to run back to your mother, boy, is that it? Frightened of a little hard work?”

Temujin shook his head. “I can tan leather and braid rope for bridles and saddles. I can carve wood, horn, and bone.” He found himself blushing, though he doubted Sholoi could see in the starlit darkness. He heard the old man snort.

“I don’t need a saddle for a horse I don’t have, do I? Some of us weren’t born into pretty silks and furs.”

Temujin saw the old man’s blow coming and slipped it, turning his head. Sholoi wasn’t fooled and thumped at him until he fell sideways into the darker patch where the urine had eaten at the frost. As he scrambled to get up, Sholoi kicked his ribs and Temujin lost his temper. He sprang up fast and stood wavering, suddenly unsure. The old man seemed determined to humiliate him with every word, and he couldn’t understand what he wanted.

Sholoi made a whistling sound of exasperation and then spat, reaching for him with his gnarled fingers. Temujin edged backwards, completely unable to find a response that would satisfy his tormentor. He ducked and protected himself from a rain of blows, but some of them found their mark. Every instinct told him to strike back and yet he was not sure Sholoi would even feel it. The old man seemed to have grown and become fearsome in the dark, and Temujin could not imagine how to hit him hard enough to stop the attack.

“No more,” he cried out. “No more!”

Sholoi chuckled, holding the edge of Temujin’s deel in his unbreakable grip and panting as if he had run a mile in the noon sun.

“I’ve broken ponies better than you, boy. With more spirit, too. You’re no better than I thought you were.”

There was a world of scorn in his voice, and Temujin realized he could see the old man’s features. The sun’s first light had come into the east, and the tribe was stirring at last. Both of them sensed they were being watched at the same time, and when they turned, Borte was there, staring.

Temujin flushed with shame more painful than the actual blows. He felt Sholoi’s hands fall away under Borte’s silent scrutiny, and the old man seemed discomfited somehow. Without another word, he pushed past Temujin and disappeared into the fetid darkness of the ger.

Temujin felt an itching drip of blood come from his nostril onto his top lip, and he smeared it with an angry gesture, sick of all of them. The movement seemed to startle Sholoi’s daughter and she turned her back on him, running away into the dawn gloom. For a few precious moments he was on his own, and Temujin felt lost and miserable. His new family were little better than animals from what he had seen, and it was only the beginning of the first day.

Borte ran through the gers, dodging obstacles and flying past a barking dog as it tried to chase her. A few swift turns and it was left behind to yap and snarl in impotent fury. She felt alive when she ran, as if nothing in the world could touch her. When she stood still, her father could reach her with his hands, or her mother take a whip of silver birch to her back. She still carried the stripes from knocking over a pail of cool yoghurt two days before.

The breath rushed cleanly in and out of her lungs, and she wished the sun would stay frozen on the distant horizon. If the tribe remained asleep, she could find a little quiet and happiness away from their stares. She knew how they talked of her and there were times when she wished she could be like the other girls in the tribe. She had even tried it when her mother had cried over her once. One day was enough to become tired of sewing and cooking and learning how to ferment the black airag for the warriors. Where was the excitement in that? She even looked different from the other girls, with a thin frame and nothing more than tiny buds of breasts to spoil the rack of ribs that was her chest. Her mother complained she did not eat enough to grow, but Borte had heard a different message. She did not want big cow bosoms that would hang down for a man to milk her. She wanted to be fast like a deer and skinny like a wild dog.

She snorted as she ran, reveling in the pleasure of feeling the wind. Her father had given her to the Wolf puppy without a second thought. The old man was too stupid to ask her whether she would have him or not. No. He would not have cared either way. She knew how hard her father could be, and all she could do was run and hide from him, as she had a thousand times before. There were women in the Olkhun’ut who let her spend the night in their gers if old Sholoi was raging. Those were dangerous times, though, if their own men had been at the fermented milk. Borte always watched for the slurred voices and sweet breath that meant they would come grasping at her after dark. She had been caught once like that and it would not happen again, not while she carried her little knife, at least.

She raced past the final gers of the tribe and made a decision to reach the river without being conscious of it. The dawn light revealed the snaking black line of the water, and she felt the speed was still there in her legs. Perhaps she could leap it and never come down, like a heron taking off. She laughed at the thought of running like those ungainly birds, all legs and pumping wings. Then she reached the riverbank and her thighs bunched and released. She flew and, for a moment of glory, she looked up into the rising sun and thought she would not have to come down. Her feet caught the far edge of the shadowed riverbank, and she tumbled onto grass still stiff with frost, breathless at her own flights of imagination. She envied the birds who could drift so far from the land beneath them. How they must delight in the freedom, she thought, watching the sky for their dark shapes rising into the dawn. Nothing would give her more pleasure than to simply be able to spread wings and leave her mother and father behind like ugly specks on the ground. They would be small beneath her, she was sure, like insects. She would fly all the way to the sun, and the sky father would welcome her. Until he too raised his hand against her, and she had to fly again. Borte was not too sure about the sky father. In her experience, men of any stripe were too similar to the stallions she saw mounting the mares of the Olkhun’ut. They were hot enough before and during the act, with their long poles waving around beneath them. Afterwards, they cropped the grass as if nothing had happened, and she saw no tenderness there. There was no mystery to the act after living in the same ger as her parents all her life. Her father took no account of his daughter’s presence if he decided to pull Shria to him in the evenings.

Lying on the cold ground, Borte blew air through her lips. If they thought the Wolf puppy would mount her in the same way, she would leave him with a stump where his manhood had been. She imagined carrying it away with her like a red worm and him being forced to chase and demand it back. The image was amusing and she giggled to herself as her breathing calmed at last. The tribe was waking. There was work to be done around the gers and with the herds. Her father would have his hands full with the khan’s son, she thought, but she should stay close in case he still expected her to work on the untanned hides, or lay out the wool for felting. Everyone would be involved until the sheep were all sheared, and her absence would mean another turn with the birch whip if she let the day go.

She sat up in the grass and pulled a stalk to chew on. Temujin. She said it again aloud, feeling the way it made her mouth move. It meant a man of iron, which was a good name, if she hadn’t seen him flinch under her father’s hand. He was younger than her and a little coward, and this was the one she would marry? This was the boy who would give her strong sons and daughters who could run as she could?

“Never,” she said aloud, looking into the running water. On impulse, she leaned over the surface and stared at the blurry vision of her face. It could have been anyone, she thought. Anyone who cut their own hair with a knife and was as dirty as any herder. She was no beauty, it was true, but if she could run fast enough, none of them could catch her anyway.

Under the noon sun, Temujin wiped sweat from his eyes, his stomach rumbling. Borte’s mother was as sour and unpleasant as her husband, with eyes as sharp. He dreaded the thought of having a wife so ugly and sullen. For breakfast, Shria had given him a bowl of salt tea and a curd of cheese as long as his thumb and as hard as a bit of bone. He had put it into his cheek to suck, but it had barely begun to soften by noon. Sholoi had been given three hot pouches of unleavened bread and spiced mutton, slapping the greasy packages back and forth between his hands to ward off the morning chill. The smell had made Temujin’s mouth water, but Shria had pinched his stomach and told him he could stand to miss a few meals. It was an insult, but what was one more?

While Sholoi greased leathers and checked the hooves of every Olkhun’ut pony, Temujin had carried great bales of fleeces to where the women of the tribe were laying them out on felting mats of ancient cloth. Each one was heavier than anything he had ever carried before, but he had managed to stagger with them across the camp, attracting the stares and excited chatter of small children. His calves and back had begun to burn before the second trip was over, but he was not allowed to stop. By the tenth bale, Sholoi had ceased greasing to watch his faltering progress, and Temujin saw some of the men grinning and muttering bets to each other. The Olkhun’ut would bet on anything, it seemed, but he was past caring when he fell at last, his legs limp under him. No one came to help him up and he thought he’d never been so desperately unhappy as in that moment of silence while the Olkhun’ut watched him rise. There was no pity or humor on a single one of the hard faces, and when he finally stood, he felt their dislike feed his spirit, raising his head. Though the sweat stung his eyes and every panting breath seemed to scorch him, he smiled at them. To his pleasure, some of them even turned away under his gaze, though most narrowed their eyes.

He knew someone was approaching from the way the expressions of the others changed. Temujin stood with the bale balanced on a shoulder and both arms up to steady it. He did not enjoy the feeling of vulnerability as he turned to see who had caught the eye of the crowd. As he recognized his cousin, he saw that Koke was enjoying the moment. His fists hung loosely at his side, but it was easy to imagine them thumping into his unprotected stomach. Temujin tried to tense his belly, feeling it quiver in exhaustion. The bale weighed down heavily on him and his legs were still strangely weak. He showed Koke the cold face as he approached, doing his best to disconcert the boy on his home ground.

It didn’t work. Koke came first, but there were other boys of the same age behind him, bright-eyed and dangerous looking. Out of the corner of his eye, Temujin saw the adults nudge each other and laugh. He groaned to himself and wished he had a knife to wipe the arrogance off their faces. Had Bekter suffered in this way? He had never mentioned it.

“Pick that bale up, boy,” Koke said, grinning.

As Temujin opened his mouth to answer, he felt a push that overbalanced the bale and he almost went with it. He staggered into Koke and was shoved roughly away. He had been in too many fights with his brothers to let that go and threw a straight punch that rocked Koke’s head back. In moments, they were rolling on the dusty ground, the fallen bale forgotten. The other boys did not cheer, but one of them rushed in and kicked Temujin in the stomach, winding him. He cried out in anger, but another one kicked him in the back as he struggled away from Koke and tried to rise. Koke was bleeding from his nose, though the blood was hardly more than a trickle, already clotting in the dust. Before Temujin regained his feet, Koke grappled him again, pressing his head into the earth while two more boys sat on his chest and legs, flattening him with their weight. Temujin was too tired to throw them off after so long carrying the bales. He struggled madly, but the dust filled every breath and soon he was choking and clawing at them. He had one of the other boys around the throat and Koke was punching at his head to make him let go. After that, he lost a little time and the noise seemed to go away.

He did not wake exactly, nor had he slept, but he came back as if he were surfacing from a dream when a bucket was upended over his head. Temujin gasped at the cold water running down him in streams of diluted blood and muddy filth. Sholoi held him upright and Temujin saw that the old man had sent the boys scurrying away at last, still jeering and laughing at their victim. Temujin looked into Sholoi’s eyes and saw nothing but irritation as the old man clicked his fingers in front of his face to catch his attention.

“You must fetch more water now that I’ve emptied this bucket,” he heard Sholoi say as if from far away. “After that, you will help beat the fleeces until we eat. If you work hard, you will have meat and hot bread to give you strength.” He looked disgusted for a moment. “I think he’s still dizzy. He needs a thicker skull, this one, like his brother. That boy had a head like a yak.”

“I hear you,” Temujin said irritably, shaking off the last of his weakness. He snatched the bucket, not troubling to hide his anger. He could not see Koke or the others, but he vowed to finish the fight they had started. He had endured the work and the scorn of the Olkhun’ut, but a public beating was too much. He knew he could not rush blindly at the other boy. He was enough of a child to want to, but enough of a warrior to wait for his moment. It would come.

As Yesugei rode between peaks in a vast green valley, he saw the moving specks of riders in the far distance and set his mouth in a firm line. From so far away, he could not tell if the Olkhun’ut had sent warriors to shadow him back to his gers, or whether it was a raiding party from a tribe new to the area. His hope that they were herdsmen was quickly dashed as he looked around at the bare hillsides. There were no lost sheep nearby and he knew with a grim feeling that he was vulnerable if the group turned to chase him.

He watched their movement out of the corner of his eye, careful not to show them a tiny white face staring in their direction. He hoped they would not trouble to follow a single horseman, but he snorted to himself as he saw them turn, noting the rise of dust as they kicked their mounts into a gallop. The farthest outriders of his Wolves were still two days away, and he would be pushed to lose the raiders on such open land. He started his gelding galloping, pleased that it was strong and well rested. Perhaps the following men had tired horses and would be left behind.

Yesugei did not glance over his shoulder as he rode. In such a wide valley, he could see for five or six miles and be seen in turn. The chase would be a long one, but without a wealth of luck, they would catch him unless he found shelter. His eyes traveled feverishly along the hills, seeing the trees on the high ridges, like distant eyelashes. They would not hide him, he thought. He needed a sheltered valley where woods stretched across the bones of the earth, layering it in ancient leaves and gray pine needles. There were many such places, but he had been spotted far from any of them. With irritation growling deep in his chest, he rode on. When he did look back, the riders were closer and he saw there were five of them in the pursuit. Their blood would be up for the chase, he knew. They would be excited and yelling, though their cries were lost far behind him. He showed his teeth in the wind as he rode. If they knew whom they were chasing, they would not be so rash. He touched his hand to the hilt of his sword, where it lay across the horse’s hindquarters, slapping the skin. The long blade had belonged to his father and was held by a thong of leather, to keep it safe while he rode. His bow was tied securely to his saddle, but he could string it in moments. Under his deel, the old shirt of chain mail he had won in a raid was a comforting weight. If they pressed him, he would butcher the lot of them, he told himself, feeling the twinges of an old excitement. He was the khan of Wolves and he feared no man. They would pay dearly for his skin.

CHAPTER 7

TEMUJIN WINCED as the raw wool snagged his red fingers for the hundredth time. He had seen it done before in the camp of the Wolves, but the work was usually left to older boys and young women. It was different with the Olkhun’ut and he could see that he had not been singled out. The smallest children carried buckets full of water to sprinkle on each layer of the woolen fleeces, keeping them constantly moist. Koke and the other boys tied the fleeces onto upright skins on frames and beat them with long, smooth sticks for hours until the sweat ran off them in streams. Temujin had done his part, though the temptation to crack his stick into Koke’s grinning face had been almost overwhelming.

After the fleeces had been thrashed into softness, the women used the width of their outstretched arms to measure out one ald, marking the fleeces with chalk. When they had their width, they stretched them on the felting cloths, smoothing and teasing the snags and loose fibers until they resembled a single white mat. More water helped to weigh the rough felt down in layers, but there was real skill in finding the exact thickness. Temujin had watched his hands redden and grow sore as the day wore on, working with the others while Koke mocked him and had the women giggling at his discomfort. It did not matter, Temujin had discovered. Now that he had decided to wait for his moment, Temujin found he could bear the insults and the sneers. In fact, there was a subtle pleasure in knowing that the time would come when no one else was around and he would give Koke back a little of what he deserved. Or more than a little, he thought. With his hands smarting and painful scratch lines up to his elbows, it made a pleasant picture in his mind.

When the mats were smooth and regular, an Olkhun’ut pony was backed up and the great expanse of white wool rolled onto a long cylinder, worn perfectly smooth with the labor of generations. Temujin would have given a great deal to be the one who dragged it for miles away from those people. Instead, the job went to laughing Koke, and Temujin realized he was popular in the tribe, perhaps because he made the women smile at his antics. There was nothing for Temujin to do but keep his head down and wait for the next break of mare’s milk and a pouch of vegetables and mutton. His arms and back ached as if someone had stuck a knife in him and twisted it with every movement, but he endured, standing with the others to heave the next batch of beaten fleeces onto the felting cloth.

He was not the only one to suffer, he had noticed. Sholoi seemed to supervise the process, though Temujin did not think he owned sheep himself. When one small boy ran too close and sent dust over the raw fleeces, Sholoi grabbed his arm and beat him unmercifully with a stick, ignoring his screaming until there was nothing but whimpering. The fleeces had to be kept clean or the felt would be weak, and Temujin was careful not to make the same mistake. He knelt on the very edge of the matting and allowed no small stone or drift of dust to spoil his patch.

Borte had worked across from him for part of the afternoon, and Temujin had used the opportunity to take a good look at the girl his father had accepted for him. She seemed skinny enough to be a collection of bones, with a mop of black hair that hung over her eyes and a cake of snot under her nose. He found it difficult to imagine a less attractive girl, and when she caught him glaring, she cleared her throat to spit before she remembered the clean fleeces and swallowed it. He shook his head in amazement at her, wondering what his father could have seen to like. It was just possible that Yesugei’s pride had forced him to accept what he was given, thus shaming small men like Enq and Sholoi. Temujin had to face the fact that the girl who would share his ger and give him children was as wild as a plains cat. It seemed to fit his experience of the Olkhun’ut so far, he thought miserably. They were not generous. If they were willing to give a girl away, it would be one they wanted rid of, where she would cause trouble for another tribe.

Shria smacked his arms with her felting stick, making him yelp. Of course, the other women all chuckled and one or two even imitated the sound, so that he flushed with fury.

“Stop dreaming, Temujin,” Borte’s mother said, as she had a dozen times before.

The work was dull and repetitive and the women either kept up a stream of chatter or worked almost in a trance, but that was a luxury not allowed to the newcomer. The slightest inattention was punished and the heat and sun seemed endless. Even the drinking water brought round to the workers was warm and salty and made him gag. He seemed to have been smashing his stick into stinking wool, or removing lice from it, or rolling it or carrying it forever. He could hardly believe it was still his first day.

Somewhere to the south, his father was riding home. Temujin could imagine the dogs leaping around him and the pleasure of teaching the twin eagles to hunt and return to the wrist. His brothers would be part of the training, he was sure, allowed to hold bits of meat aloft on trembling fingers. Kachiun would not flinch as the red bird took the lure, he was certain. He envied them the summer they would have.

Shria smacked him again and he reached up with lightning speed to pull the stick from her hands, laying it gently on the ground by him. She gaped at him for an instant before reaching for it, but he put his knee on its length and shook his head, feeling light-headed as his heart hammered. He saw her eyes flicker to Sholoi, who was standing nearby, watching over a new batch of the wet fleeces as they were lowered to the ground. Temujin waited for her to screech and then, to his astonishment, she shrugged, holding out her hand for the stick. It was an awkward moment, but he made a choice and handed it back to her, ready to duck. She hefted it in her hands for a moment, clearly undecided, then simply turned her back and walked away from him. He kept her firmly in his vision for a while longer as his fingers resumed the smoothing and tugging, but she didn’t return, and after a while, he was lost in the work once more.

It was Enq, his uncle, who brought a pot filled with fermented milk to give them the strength to finish. As the sun touched the hills in the west, each of them had a ladleful of the clear liquid known as black airag, which looked like water, but burned. It was hotter than the milky tea in the gers, and Temujin choked on his, coughing. He wiped his mouth and then gasped with pain as the liquid found his broken skin and stung like fire. Koke was off rolling the felt behind his pony, but Sholoi saw his discomfort and laughed until Temujin thought he would have a seizure and die right in front of him. He hoped it would happen, but the old man survived to wring tears from his eyes and wheeze his way back to the pot for another ladleful. It was difficult not to resent the second cup for one who had done practically nothing, but no one else seemed to mind. The light slowly faded and the last felting mat was rolled into a cylinder and tied behind another horse.

Before anyone could object, Borte leapt into the saddle, surprising Sholoi as he stood holding the reins. No words passed between them, but the old man’s toothless mouth worked as if he had found a bit of gristle that he couldn’t reach. After a moment’s indecision, he slapped the rump of the pony and sent her out into the gloom to roll the felt into flatness and strength. It would keep the winter chill out of the gers, and make heavy rugs and horse blankets. The rough cuts would be used for babies too young to use a latrine pit without falling in. Temujin sat on his heels and stretched his back, closing his eyes against the aches. His right hand had gone numb, which worried him. He used his left to massage the blood into the fingers, but when it came, the pain brought tears to his eyes. He had never worked so hard, he thought, and wondered if it would make him stronger.

Sholoi came over as he dragged himself to his feet, and Temujin started slightly as he registered the old man’s presence. He hated his own nervousness, but there had been too many sudden blows for him not to be wary. The draft of fermented milk made him belch sourly as Sholoi took him in the two-fingered grip he was beginning to know well, pointing him back toward the ger.

“Eat now and sleep. Tomorrow you’ll cut wood for winter.”

Temujin was too tired to respond and followed him in a daze of exhaustion, his limbs and spirit heavy.

Yesugei had found a place to camp that seemed safe enough. The valley where he’d sighted the group of riders had come to an end, and he’d galloped straight through a short pass between hills, hoping to find some shelter that would confuse his trail. He knew it would not be hard to track him on the dusty ground, but he could not go on all night and risk breaking his pony’s leg in a marmot hole. Instead, he forced the courageous little gelding up a steep slope to the patchy tree line, dismounting to lead with reins and constant encouragement. It was a hard and dangerous climb and the horse’s eyes were white-rimmed with fear when its hooves slipped on the loose mulch. Yesugei had moved fast, wrapping the reins around the bole of a tree and hanging on desperately until the gelding found its footing. Even then, his shoulder and chest muscles ached terribly by the time he reached the top and the gelding was blowing noisily enough to be heard a mile away. He did not think they would follow him into the trees as the darkness came. All he had to do was stay out of sight and they could search in vain for a trail that disappeared in the mat of dead pine needles. He would have chuckled at the thought if he had been able to see them, but he could not. His prickling neck told him his pursuers were still somewhere close, looking and listening for some sign of him. He worried that his mount would whinny to their horses and give his position away, but the animal was too tired after the climb and the hard ride. With a little luck, and a night without a fire, they would abandon the search and go on their way the following morning. It did not matter if he came back to the gers of the Wolves a day late, after all.

High on the crest of the hill, he pulled a pair of stunted bushes together and tied the reins, watching with amusement as the pony eased itself down onto its knees and found that it could not lie flat as the reins grew taut. He left the saddle on its back in case he had to move quickly, loosening the belly rope a couple of notches along the braiding. The gelding snorted at the attention and made itself comfortable as best it could. After a while, he saw it close its eyes and doze, its soft muzzle falling open to reveal solid yellow teeth.

Yesugei listened for a sign that his pursuers had not given up. It would be hard for them to come close without alerting him on such broken ground. He untied the leather strap that kept his sword in the scabbard and then drew it in one smooth movement, examining the blade. It was good steel and enough of a prize on its own to make him a target for thieves. If Eeluk had been with him, he would have challenged the men on the plain, but five was probably too many for him, unless they were unblooded boys who could be scared with a shout and a few quick cuts. His father’s blade was as sharp as ever, which was all to the good. He could not risk them hearing him stroke it with his stone that evening. Instead, he took a few gulps from his leather water bottle, with a grimace at its lightness. The gelding would be thirsty come the morning. If the streams nearby had run dry, he would have a hard day, whether the riders saw him or not. He shrugged to himself at the thought. He had lived through worse.

Yesugei stretched and yawned, smiling at the sleeping pony as he pulled dried mutton from his saddlebags and chewed on it, grunting in pleasure at the spicy taste. He missed Hoelun and his boys and wondered what they would be doing at that moment.

As he laid himself down and pulled his hands back inside his deel for sleep, he hoped Temujin had the spirit to endure Hoelun’s people. It was difficult to know whether the boy had the strength at such a young age. Yesugei would not have been surprised to find that Temujin had run away, though he hoped he would not. It would be a difficult shame to live down, and the story would spread around the tribes in less than a season. Yesugei sent a silent prayer to help his son. Bekter had suffered, he knew. His eldest boy spoke with little liking for the Olkhun’ut when Hoelun was not around. It was the only way to speak of them, of course. Yesugei grunted softly to himself and thanked the sky father for giving him such a fine crop of sons. A smile touched his lips then, as he slipped into sleep. Sons and now a daughter. He had been blessed with strong seed and a good woman to bear them. He knew of other wives who lost one miserable scrap of red flesh for every one that came alive into the world, but Hoelun’s children all survived and grew strong. Grew fat, in the case of Temuge, which was still a problem he would have to face. Sleep took him at last then, and his breath came slow and steady.

When his eyes snapped open, the first light of dawn was in the east, with a strip of gold on the far hills. He loved this land and, for a moment, he gave thanks for having lived to see another day. Then he heard men moving close by and the breath stilled in his throat. He eased himself away from the frozen ground, pulling his hair from where it had stuck to the frost. He had slept with his sword bare under the deel and his fingers found the hilt, curling around it. He knew he had to rise so that they could not rush him while he was still stiff, but he did not yet know if he had been seen. His eyes slid left and right and he strained his senses, searching out the source of the noise. There was a chance it was just a herder looking for a lost goat, but he knew that wasn’t likely. He heard a horse snort nearby and then his own gelding woke and whinnied, as he had feared it would. One of his pursuers rode a mare and she answered the call no more than fifty paces to his right. Yesugei rose like smoke, ignoring the twinge from his knees and back. Without hesitation, he took his bow from the saddle and strung it, pulling a long shaft from his quiver and touching it to the string. Only Eeluk could fire an arrow farther, and he did not doubt his eye. If they were hostile, he could drop one or two of them before they could come within a sword’s length. He knew to look for the leaders for those first quick strikes, leaving only men weak enough to fall to his blade.

Now that they knew his position, there was no more sound from the group, and he waited patiently for them to show themselves. He stood with the sun behind him, and after a moment’s thought, he unbuttoned his deel and reversed it. His heart was in his mouth as he lay down his sword and bow, but the dark inner cloth would blend with the bushes better than the blue, making him a poor target. He took up his weapons once more and stood as still as the trees and bushes around him. He caught himself humming under his breath and killed the sound. Sleep was just a memory and the blood flowed quickly in his flesh. Despite the threat, he found he was enjoying the tension.

“Hello the camp,” a voice called from off to his left.

Yesugei cursed inwardly, knowing they had circled around. Without a thought, he left the gelding and moved deeper into the trees, heading toward the voice. Whoever they were, they would not kill him easily, he vowed. It crossed his mind that they might not be a threat, but a man would have to be a fool to risk his life, his horse, and his father’s sword on a vague hope. On the plains, even a strong man survived only with caution, and he knew he was a valuable prize for a raiding party, whether they realized it or not.

A line of sweat prickled down from his hairline as he waited.

“I can’t see him,” another voice came from only a few paces away.

Yesugei eased down into a crouch, drawing back on the bow with a creak.

“His horse is here, though,” a third man said, the voice deeper than the others. They all sounded young to Yesugei’s ear, though he wondered at their tracking skill. Even as close as they were, he could not hear them move.

With infinite care, he turned his head to glance behind him. Through the bushes, he could see a man pulling at the knot he had tied with the gelding’s reins. Yesugei grimaced in angry silence. He could not let them steal his horse and leave him there.

He took a deep breath, and rose to his full height, startling the stranger by the gelding. The man’s hand jumped for a knife, but then registered the drawn bow and froze.

“We’re not looking for a fight, old man,” the stranger said loudly.

Yesugei knew he was alerting his companions, and an answering rustle from his right sent his heart tripping at higher speed.

“Step out where I can see you, then, and stop creeping around behind me,” Yesugei said, his voice ringing across the clearing.

The rustling stopped and the young man who stood so coolly under his arrow nodded.

“Do as he says. I don’t want to get stuck before I’ve had breakfast this morning.”

“Call out before you move,” Yesugei added, “or die, one or the other.”

There was a long silence and the young man sighed.

“Step out here, all of you,” he snapped, his coolness fraying visibly under the arrow point that never wavered from his heart.

Yesugei watched with narrowed eyes as the other four men came noisily through the brush. Two of them had bows with arrows notched and ready. They were all armed and wore thickly padded deels—the sort of garment designed to stop an arrow from penetrating too far. Yesugei recognized the stitching and wondered if they, in turn, would know him for who he was. For all the light manner of the one by the gelding, this was a Tartar raiding party and Yesugei knew hard men when he saw them, out to steal what they could.

When they were all in sight, the one who had spoken first nodded to Yesugei.

“I did call the camp, old man. Will you grant us guest rights while we eat?”

Yesugei wondered whether the rules of courtesy would apply when they were not in danger from his bow, but with two of them bending bows of their own, he nodded and eased the tension on his string. The young men all relaxed visibly and their leader twitched his shoulders to relieve stiffness.

“My name is Ulagan, of the Tartars,” the young man said with a smile. “You are from the Wolves, unless you stole that deel and sword.”

“I am,” Yesugei replied, then added formally, “You are welcome to share food and milk in my camp.”

“And your name?” Ulagan said, raising his eyebrows.

“Eeluk,” Yesugei said, without hesitating. “If you make a fire, I can find a cup of black airag to warm your blood.”

All the men moved slowly as they set about preparing a meal, careful not to startle each other with a sudden movement. It took longer than usual for them all to gather rocks and nurse a flame with flint and steel, but as the sun rose, they ate well with the dried meat from Yesugei’s saddlebags and some rare honey that Ulagan brought from a pouch under his deel. The sweetness was wonderful to Yesugei, who had not tasted any since the time the tribe found a wild nest three years before. He licked his fingers to get every last drip of the golden fluid, rich with waxy fragments, yet his hands never strayed too far from his sword and the arrow remained ready on the ground in front of him. There was something uncomfortable in the gaze of Ulagan as he watched him eat, though he smiled whenever Yesugei met his eyes. None of the others spoke as they broke their fast, and the tension remained in every movement.

“Are you finished?” Ulagan asked after a time.

Yesugei sensed a subtle tautness in them as one of the men moved to one side and dropped his trousers to defecate on the ground. The man did not try to hide himself, and Yesugei had a glimpse of his manhood swinging loose as he strained.

“In the Wolves, we keep excrement away from the food,” Yesugei murmured.

Ulagan shrugged. He stood and Yesugei rose with him rather than be at a disadvantage. He watched in astonishment as Ulagan crossed to the steaming pile and drew his sword.

Yesugei’s own blade was in his hand before he had made a conscious decision, but he was not attacked. Instead, he watched Ulagan pull his blade through the stinking mass until its metal was slick with it along the whole length.

Ulagan wrinkled his nose and raised his head to the man whose efforts had created the pile.

“You have diseased bowels, Nasan, have I told you?”

“You have,” Nasan replied without humor, repeating the action with his own blade. It was then that Yesugei realized this was no chance meeting on the plains.

“When did you know me?” he asked softly.

Ulagan smiled, though his eyes were cold.

“We knew when the Olkhun’ut told us you had come to them with a son. We paid their khan well to send a rider to our little camp, but he was not hard to persuade.” Ulagan chuckled to himself. “You are not a popular man. There were times when I thought you would never come, but old Sansar was as good as his word.”

Yesugei’s heart sank with the news and he feared for Temujin. As he contemplated his chances, he tried to keep his enemy talking. He had already decided Ulagan was a fool. There was no point chatting to a man you were going to kill, but the young warrior seemed to be enjoying his power over him.

“Why is my life worth sending you out?” Yesugei asked.

Ulagan grinned. “You killed the wrong man, Wolf. You killed the son of a khan who was foolish enough to steal from your herds. His father is not one to forgive easily.”

Yesugei nodded, as if he was listening intently. He saw that the other three men intended to poison their blades in the same filth, and without warning, he leapt forward and struck, cutting deep into Nasan’s neck as he turned to watch them. The Tartar fell with a death cry and Ulagan roared in anger, lunging straight at Yesugei’s chest with his blade. The Tartar was fast, but the blade slid along the chain mail under the deel, cutting a flap from the cloth.

Yesugei attacked quickly, needing better odds. The blades rang twice as the three others fanned out around him, and he felt the strength in his shoulders. He would show them what it meant to be a khan of the Wolves.

Yesugei feinted his own lunge, then stepped back as quickly as he could run forward, three sliding steps taking him outside the circle before it could form around him. One of the other men turned to bring a blade down in a great arc, and Yesugei stabbed him under the shoulder into the chest, wrenching his father’s blade clear as he fell. He felt a sharp pain in his back then, but another step tore him clear and a quick slash felled another of the group with half his jaw cut away.

Ulagan pressed forward, his face grim at the death of three of his brothers in arms.

“You should have brought more to bring down a khan,” Yesugei taunted him. “Five is an insult to me.” He dropped suddenly to one knee to avoid Ulagan’s cut. With a savage jerk, Yesugei managed to chop his blade into the younger man’s shin. It was not a mortal wound, but blood drenched Ulagan’s boot and the Tartar warrior was suddenly not so confident.

As Yesugei came to his feet, he stepped left and then right, keeping the pair off balance. He trained every day with Eeluk and his bondsmen, and he knew that movement was the key to killing with swords. Any man could heave a blade around his head, but footwork separated a man from a master. He grinned as Ulagan limped after him, gesturing for him to come closer. The Tartar nodded to the one remaining warrior and Yesugei watched as he moved to the side to take him. Ulagan timed it well and Yesugei did not have space to dart away. He buried his sword in the chest of the unnamed man, but it snagged in the ribs and Ulagan struck with his full weight, punching his blade tip through the mail into Yesugei’s stomach. Yesugei’s grip was broken on his sword as it fell away. He felt a pang for his sons that was worse than the pain, but he used his right hand to hold Ulagan still against him. With his left, he drew a dagger from his belt.

Ulagan saw the movement and struggled, but Yesugei’s grip was like iron. He looked down on the young Tartar and spat into his face.

“Your people will be torn from the land for this, Tartar. Your gers will burn and your herds will be scattered.”

With a quick slash, he cut the young man’s throat and let him fall away. As he crumpled, the Tartar blade slid out of Yesugei’s wound and he bellowed in pain, falling to his knees. He could feel blood coursing down his thighs, and he used the dagger to cut a great strip from his deel, yanking and cursing the agony, with his eyes closed now that there was no one to see. His gelding pulled nervously at the reins, whinnying its distress. The animal was frightened by the smell of blood, and Yesugei forced himself to speak calmly. If the horse pulled free and bolted, he knew he would not make it back to his people.

“It’s all right, little one. They have not killed me. Do you remember when Eeluk fell on the broken sapling and it went into his back? He lived through it, with enough boiling airag poured into the wound.”

He grimaced at that thought, remembering how the usually taciturn Eeluk had screamed like a small child. To his relief, his voice seemed to quiet the pony and it ceased yanking at the knot.

“That’s it, little one. You stay and carry me home.”

Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but his fingers tugged the cloth around his waist and tied the knots hard and tight. He raised his hands and sniffed at them, wincing at the smell of human filth from Ulagan’s blade. That was an evil thing, he thought. They deserved death for that alone.

He wanted just to stay on his knees with his back straight. His father’s sword was close by his hand and he took comfort from the touch of cold metal. He felt he might hold himself there for a long time and watch the sun rise. Part of him knew he could not, if Temujin was to live. He had to reach the Wolves and send warriors out for the boy. He had to get back. His body felt heavy and useless, but he summoned his strength yet again.

With a cry of distress, he pulled himself to his feet, staggering to the gelding, who watched him with the whites of its eyes showing. Resting his forehead against the pony’s flank, he slid the sword into the saddle straps, taking sharp breaths through the pain. His fingers were clumsy as he undid the reins, but he managed somehow to get back into the saddle. He knew he could not make the steep slope down, but the other side of the hill was easier and he dug in his heels, his vision fixed far away, on his home and his family.

CHAPTER 8

AS EVENING CAME, Bekter let his mare graze while he sat on a high ridge, watching for his father’s return. His back ached with tiredness after spending the day in the saddle with the herds. It had not been dull, at least. He’d rescued a goat kid that had fallen into a strip of marshy land by the river. With a rope around his waist, he had waded into the black muck to bring out the terrified animal before it drowned. It had struggled wildly, but he had pulled it out by an ear and placed it on the dry bank, where it glared at him as if the ordeal were his fault. As he moved his slow gaze over the plain, he scratched idly at a spatter of the black mud on his skin.

He enjoyed being away from the chatter and noise of the gers. When his father was absent, he sensed a subtle difference in the way the other men treated him, especially Eeluk. The man was humble enough when Yesugei was there to demand obedience, but when they were alone, Bekter sensed an arrogance in the bondsman that made him uncomfortable. It was nothing he could have mentioned to his father, but he walked carefully around Eeluk and kept his own counsel. He had found the best course was simply to remain silent and match the warriors at work and battle drills. There at least, he could show his skills, though it helped not to have Temujin’s eyes on the back of his neck as he drew his bow. He had felt nothing but relief when Temujin went to the Olkhun’ut. In fact, he had taken satisfaction from the hope that his brother would have a little sense beaten into him, a little respect for his elders.

Bekter remembered with pleasure how Koke had tried to bait him on his very first day. The younger boy had not been a match for Bekter’s strength or ferocity, and he had knocked him down and kicked him unconscious. The Olkhun’ut had seemed shocked by the violence, as if boys did not fight in their tribe. Bekter spat at the memory of their sheeplike faces accusing him. Koke had not risked taunting him again. It had been a good lesson to give early.

Enq had thrashed him, of course, with one of the felting sticks, but Bekter had borne the blows without a single sound, and when Enq was panting and tired, he had reached out and snapped the stick in his hands, showing his strength. They had left him alone after that and Enq had known better than to work him too hard. The Olkhun’ut were as weak as Yesugei said they were, though their women were soft as white butter and stirred him as they walked by.

He thought his betrothed would surely have come into her blood by now, though the Olkhun’ut had not sent her. He remembered riding out onto the plains with her and laying her down by the bank of a stream. She had struggled a little at first when she realized what he was doing, and he had been clumsy. In the end, he’d had to force her, though it was no more than he had a right to do. She should not have brushed past him in the ger if she didn’t want something to happen, he told himself, smiling at the memory. Though she had cried a little afterwards, he thought she had a different light in her eye. He felt himself growing stiff as he recalled her nakedness, and wondered again when they would send her. Her father had taken a dislike to him, but the Olkhun’ut would not dare refuse Yesugei. They could hardly give her to another man after Bekter had spilled his seed in her, he thought. Perhaps she would even be pregnant. He did not think it was possible before the moon’s blood began, but he knew there were mysteries there that he did not fully understand.

The night was growing too cold to be tormenting himself with fantasies, and he knew better than to be distracted from his watch. The families of the Wolves accepted that he would lead them one day, he was almost certain, though in Yesugei’s absence they all looked to Eeluk for orders. It was he who had organized the scouts and watchers, but that was only to be expected until Bekter took a wife and killed his first man. Until that time, he would still be a boy in the eyes of seasoned warriors, as his brothers were boys to him.

In the gathering gloom, he saw a dark spot moving out on the plain below his position. Bekter rose to his feet instantly, pulling his horn free of the folds of his deel. He hesitated as he raised it to his lips, his eyes searching for more of a threat than a single rider. The height he had chosen gave him a view of a great expanse of the grassland, and whoever it was seemed to be alone. Bekter frowned to himself, hoping it was not one of his idiot brothers out without telling anyone. It would not help his status in the tribe if he called the warriors from their meal without cause.

He chose to wait, watching as the tiny figure came closer. The rider was clearly in no hurry. Bekter could see the pony was walking almost aimlessly, as if the man on his back was wandering without a destination.

He frowned at that thought. There were men who claimed allegiance to no particular tribe. They drifted between the families of the plains, exchanging a day’s work for a meal or occasionally bringing goods to trade. They were not popular and there was always the danger that they would steal whatever they could lay their hands on, then disappear. Men without a tribe could not be trusted, Bekter knew. He wondered if the rider was one of those.

The sun had sunk behind the hills and the light was fading quickly. Bekter realized he should sound his horn before the stranger was lost in darkness. He raised it to his lips and hesitated. Something about the distant figure made him pause. It could not be Yesugei, surely? His father would never ride so poorly.

He had almost waited too long when he finally blew the warning note. The sound was long and mournful as it echoed across the hills. Other horns answered him from watchers around the camp, and he tucked it back into his deel, satisfied. Now that the warning had been given, he could go down to see who the rider was. He mounted his mare and checked that his knife and bow were within easy reach. In the silence of the evening, he could already hear answering shouts and the sound of horses as the warriors came boiling out of the gers. Bekter dug in his heels to guide his pony down the slope, wanting to get there before Eeluk and the older men. He felt a sense of ownership for the single rider. He had spotted him, after all. As he reached the flat ground and broke into a gallop, thoughts of the Olkhun’ut and his betrothed slipped away from his mind and his heart began to beat faster. The evening wind was cool and he hungered to show the other men that he could lead them.

The Wolves rode hard out of the encampment, Eeluk at their head. In the last moments of light, they saw Bekter kick his mount into a run and went after him, not yet seeing his reason for raising the alarm.

Eeluk sent a dozen riders left and right to skirt the camp, looking for an attack from another direction. It would not do to leave the gers defenseless while they went after a feint or a diversion. Their enemies were devious enough to draw the watchers away and then attack, and the last moments of light were perfect to cause confusion. It felt strange for Eeluk to be riding without Yesugei on his left, but Eeluk found he was enjoying the way the other men looked to him to lead them. He snapped orders and the arban formed around him with Eeluk on the point, racing after Bekter.

Another blast from a horn came from just ahead, and Eeluk narrowed his eyes, straining to see. He was almost blind in the gloom and to gallop was to risk his mare and his life, but he kicked his horse on recklessly, knowing Bekter would not have blown again unless the attack was real. Eeluk snatched at his bow and placed an arrow on the string by feel, as he had done a thousand times before. The men around him did the same. Whoever had dared to attack the Wolves would be met with a storm of whining shafts before they came much closer. They rode in grim silence, high on the stirrups, balancing perfectly against the rise and fall of their ponies. Eeluk pulled back his lips in the wind, feeling the thrill of the attack. Let them hear the hooves thundering toward them, he thought. Let them fear retribution.

In the dark, the riding warriors almost collided with two ponies standing alone on the open ground. Eeluk came close to loosing his arrow, but he heard Bekter shouting and, with an effort, he lowered himself into the saddle and eased his string. The battle blood was still strong in him and he felt a sudden fury that Yesugei’s son had brought them out for nothing. Dropping his bow over the saddle horn, Eeluk leapt lightly to the ground and drew his sword. The darkness was on them and he did not yet know what was happening.

“Eeluk! Help me with him,” Bekter said, his voice high and strained.

Eeluk found the boy holding the slumped figure of Yesugei on the ground. Eeluk felt his heart thump painfully as the last traces of battle rage slid away from him and he knelt by the pair of them.

“Is he injured?” Eeluk said, reaching out to his khan. He could hardly see anything, but he rubbed his fingers and thumb together and sniffed at them. Yesugei’s stomach was tightly bound, but blood had soaked through.

“He fell, Eeluk. He fell into my arms,” Bekter said, close to panic. “I could not hold him.”

Eeluk laid a hand on the boy’s to steady him, before standing and whistling for the other bondsmen to approach. He took a grip on the reins of one dark rider.

“Basan, you ride to the Olkhun’ut, and find the truth of this.”

“Is it war, then?” the man answered.

“Perhaps. Tell them that if you are not allowed to leave freely, we will be riding behind you and I will see their gers burnt to ashes.”

The warrior nodded and trotted away, the drumbeat of hooves fading quickly in the night.

Yesugei groaned and opened his eyes, feeling a sudden panic at the shadows moving around him.

“Eeluk?” he whispered.

Eeluk crouched at his side. “I am here, my khan.”

They waited for another word, but Yesugei had passed back into unconsciousness. Eeluk grimaced.

“We must get him back to have his wound tended. Step away, boy; there’s nothing you can do for him here.”

Bekter stood stunned, unable to comprehend that it was his father lying helpless at his feet.

“He fell,” he said again, as if dazed. “Is he dying?”

Eeluk looked down at the slumped man he had followed all his adult life. As gently as he could, he took Yesugei under the armpits and heaved him onto his shoulder. The khan was a powerful man, made even heavier in chain mail, but Eeluk was strong and he showed no sign of discomfort.

“Help me to mount, Bekter. He’s not dead yet and we must get him to warmth. A night out here will finish it.” A thought struck him as he draped Yesugei over his saddle, the long, limp arms reaching almost to the ground. “Where is his sword?” he asked. “Can you see it?”

“No, it must have fallen when he did.”

Eeluk sighed as he mounted. He had not had a chance to think about what was happening. He could feel the blood warmth of Yesugei against his chest as he leaned forward to speak to the son.

“Mark the spot somehow, so you can find it again in the light. He won’t thank you for losing his father’s blade.”

Bekter turned without thinking to another one of his father’s bondsmen, standing nearby in shock at what he was witnessing.

“You will stay, Unegen. I must return to the gers with my father. Search in circles as soon as you can see, and bring the blade to me when you find it.”

“I will do as you say,” Unegen replied in the darkness.

Bekter moved to his pony to mount and did not see Eeluk’s expression as he considered the exchange. The world was changing in those moments and Eeluk did not know what the day would bring for any of them.

Hoelun wiped tears from her eyes as she faced her husband’s bondsmen. The men and women of the Wolves had come, hungry for news, as soon as word spread of the khan’s injury. She wished she had something more to tell them, but Yesugei had not woken again and he lay inside the ger in the cool shadows, his skin burning. Not one of them had stirred from their watch as the day wore on and the sun rose high above their heads.

“He still lives,” she said. “I have cleaned his wound, but he has not yet woken.”

Eeluk nodded and she could not miss how the other warriors looked to him. Kachiun and Temuge were there with Khasar, standing shocked and pale after seeing their father helpless. Yesugei seemed smaller under the blankets, his weakness frightening his sons more than anything they had ever known. He had been such a force in their lives, it did not seem possible that he might never wake. She feared for them all, though she did not mention it aloud. Without Yesugei to protect them, she saw the glint of greed in the eyes of the other men. Eeluk in particular seemed to be hiding a smile when he spoke to her, though his words were deliberately courteous.

“I will tell you if he wakes,” she told the warriors, ducking back into the ger, away from their cold interest. Her daughter, Temulun, was in the cradle there, crying to be changed. The sound seemed to match the screaming voice inside her that she barely held in check. She could not give way to it, not while her sons needed her.

Temuge had come with her into the ger, his small mouth quivering in grief. Hoelun gathered him into her arms and shushed his tears, though her own started just as strongly. They wept together at Yesugei’s side and she knew the khan could not hear them.

“What will happen if he does not live?” Temuge asked.

She might have answered, but the door creaked open and Eeluk entered. Hoelun felt a grip of hot anger to have been seen at such a moment, and she wiped fiercely at her eyes.

“I have sent your other sons to the herds for the day, to keep their minds off their father,” Eeluk said.

It may have been her imagination, but again she thought she saw a gleam of satisfaction as he looked at Yesugei’s still form, quickly masked.

“You have been strong when the tribe needed it, Eeluk,” she said. “My husband will thank you himself when he wakes.”

Eeluk nodded as if he had barely heard, crossing the ger to where Yesugei lay. He reached down to press his hand against the khan’s forehead, whistling softly at the heat there. He sniffed at the wound and she knew he could smell the corruption that tainted the flesh.

“I poured boiling spirits into the wound,” Hoelun said. “I have herbs to ease the fever.” She felt she had to speak, just to break the silence. Eeluk seemed to have changed in subtle ways since Yesugei had come back. He walked with a little more of a swagger with the men, and his eyes challenged her whenever she spoke. She felt the need to mention Yesugei every time they talked, as if his name would keep him in the world. The alternative was too frightening to consider and she did not dare look to the future. Yesugei had to live.

“My family has been bound to his from birth,” Eeluk said softly. “I have always been loyal.”

“He knows it, Eeluk. I’m sure he can hear you now and he knows you are first among his men.”

“Unless he dies,” Eeluk said softly, turning to her. “If he dies, my vows are ended.”

Hoelun looked at him in sick horror. While the words remained unsaid, the world could go on and she could hold back the fear. She dreaded him speaking again for what he might dare to say.

“He will survive this, Eeluk,” she said. Her voice quavered, betraying her. “The fever will pass and he will know you remained loyal to him when it mattered most.”

Something seemed to break through to her husband’s bondsman, and he shook himself, the guarded look in his eyes disappearing.

“Yes. It is too early still,” he said, looking down at Yesugei’s pale face and chest. The bandages were stained with dark blood and he touched them, coming away with a red smear on his fingers. “Still, I have a loyalty to the families. They must be kept strong. I must think of the Wolves, and the days to come,” he said, as if to himself.

Hoelun could hardly draw breath as the certainties of her life came crashing down. She thought of her sons and couldn’t bear the calculating expression on Eeluk’s face. They were innocent and they would suffer.

Eeluk left without another word, as if the courtesies no longer mattered to him. Perhaps they did not. She had seen the naked desire for power in his face, and there was no taking it back. Even if Yesugei sprang healed from the bed, she did not think things would be the same again, now that Eeluk had woken his heart.

She heard Temuge sob and opened her arms to him once more, taking comfort from his desperate clasp. Her daughter cried in the cot, untended.

“What will happen to us?” the little boy sobbed.

Hoelun shook her head as she cradled him. She did not know.

Bekter saw the warrior he had left to look for his father’s sword. The man was walking quickly through the gers with his head down in thought. Bekter hailed him, but he did not seem to hear and hurried on. Frowning, Bekter ran after him and took him by the elbow.

“Why have you not come to me, Unegen?” he demanded. “Did you find my father’s sword?” He saw Unegen’s eyes flicker over his shoulder, and when he turned, Eeluk was there, watching them.

Unegen could not meet his gaze as he looked back.

“No, no, I did not find it. I am sorry,” Unegen said, pulling his sleeve away and walking on.

CHAPTER 9

UNDER WHITE STARLIGHT, Temujin peered through the long grass. It had been simple enough to walk away from Sholoi’s ger, his urine still steaming behind him. Sholoi’s wife and daughter slept soundly and the old man had staggered out to relieve his bladder only a short while before. Temujin knew he had only a little time before they noticed his absence, but he had not dared go near the horse pens. The Olkhun’ut guarded their mounts, and even if they hadn’t, finding his own white-footed pony in the dark amongst all the others would have been almost impossible. It did not matter. His prey was afoot.

The plains were silver as Temujin moved gently through the grass, careful not to kick a stone that might alert the older boy ahead. He did not know where Koke was going. He did not care. When he had seen a figure moving through the gers, he had watched closely, standing completely still. After seven days among the Olkhun’ut, he knew Koke’s swagger well. At the moment of the recognition, Temujin had slipped silently after him, his senses heightening for the hunt. He had not planned his revenge for that night, but he knew better than to lose a perfect chance. The world was asleep and, in the pale gloom, only two figures moved on the sea of grass.

Temujin watched the older boy with intense concentration. He loped along on light feet, ready to fall into a crouch if Koke sensed him. In the moonlight, he fancied for a while that he was following a ghost, lured out to where the darker spirits would steal the life from him. His father had told stories of tribesmen found frozen to death, their eyes fixed on some distant horror as the winter reached in and stopped their hearts. Temujin shivered at the memory. The night was cold, but he drew warmth from his anger. He had nursed it and sheltered it through the hard days with the tribe, through insults and blows. His hands ached to hold a knife, but he thought he was strong enough to beat Koke with his bare hands. Though his heart thudded, he felt exhilaration and fear together. This was being alive, he told himself as he followed. There was power in being the hunter.

Koke did not wander aimlessly. Temujin saw him make for a solid shadow at the foot of a hill. Whatever watchers the Olkhun’ut had posted would be looking outward for enemies. They would not see either boy in that deeper dark, though Temujin worried he would lose his prey. He broke into a trot as Koke crossed the black line and seemed to vanish. Temujin’s breath came a little faster in his throat, but he moved with care as he had been taught, allowing no more sound than the pad of his soft boots. Just before he crossed the shadow boundary himself, he saw a pile of loose stones by the path, a cairn to the spirits. Without a thought, he stopped and picked up one the size of his fist, hefting it with grim pleasure.

Temujin blinked as he passed into complete darkness, squinting for some sign of Koke. It would not do to stumble across him, or worse, some group of Olkhun’ut boys out with a skin of stolen black airag. Even more disturbing was the thought that Koke was luring him deliberately to another beating. Temujin shook his head to clear it. His path was set and he would not turn from it now.

He heard low voices ahead and froze, straining to see the source. With the mountain blocking the moon, he was almost blind, and sweat broke out on his skin as each careful step brought him closer. He could hear Koke’s low laugh and then another voice responded, lighter in tone. Temujin smiled to himself. Koke had found himself a girl willing to risk the anger of her parents. Perhaps they would be rutting and he could catch them unawares. He mastered the desire to stride in and attack, deciding to wait until Koke took the path back to the encampment. Battles could be won with stealth as well as speed and strength, he knew. He could not tell exactly where the couple lay, but they were close enough for him to hear Koke begin to grunt rhythmically. Temujin grinned at the sound, leaning back against a rock and waiting patiently to strike.

It did not take long. The moon shadow had moved a hand’s breadth, lengthening the dark bar at the foot of the hill as Temujin heard the sounds of talking once more, followed by the girl’s low laugh. He wondered which of the young women had come out into the darkness, and found himself imagining the faces of those he had come to know during the felting. One or two were agile and brown from the sun. He had found them strangely unsettling when they looked at him, though he supposed it was only what all men felt for a pretty woman. It was a shame he couldn’t feel it for Borte, who seemed only irritated in his presence. If she had been long-limbed and supple, he might have found some small pleasure in his father’s choice.

Temujin heard footsteps and held his breath. Someone was coming along the path and he pressed himself against the rock, willing them not to sense him. He knew too late that he should have hidden himself in the long grass. If they came together, he would have to attack them both or let them pass. His lungs began to pound and he could feel his pulse like a great drum in his ears. The breath seemed to expand inside him as his body cried out for air and the unseen figure came closer.

Temujin watched in excruciating discomfort as the walker passed within a few feet of him. He was almost certain it could not be Koke. The steps were too light and he sensed that the shadow was not large enough to be his enemy. His heart hammered as the girl passed and he was able to release his breath slowly. For a moment, he felt dizzy with the exertion, and then he turned to where he knew Koke would come, stepping out into the path to wait for him.

He heard more steps and let the older boy come close before he spoke, relishing the shock his voice would cause.

“Koke!” Temujin whispered.

The moving shadow jumped in terror.

“Who is it?” Koke hissed, his voice breaking in fear and guilt.

Temujin did not let him recover and swung the fist with the stone. It was a poor blow in the dark, but it made Koke stagger. Temujin felt an impact, perhaps an elbow into his stomach, and then he was punching in a wild fury, released at last. He could not see his enemy, but the blindness gave him power as his fists and feet connected again and again in a flurry until Koke fell and Temujin knelt on his chest.

He had lost the stone in the silent struggle and scrabbled for it while he held the dark figure down. Koke tried to call for help, but Temujin hit him twice in the face, then resumed his search for the stone. His fingers found it and curled around. He felt his anger surge as he lifted it, ready to smash the life out of his tormentor.

“Temujin!” a voice said out of the darkness.

Both boys froze, though Koke moaned at the name. Temujin reacted instinctively, rolling off his enemy and launching himself at the new threat. He thumped into a small body and sent it sprawling with a yelp he recognized. Behind him, he heard Koke come to his feet and sprint away, his steps rattling loose stones on the path.

Temujin held the arms of the new figure, feeling their wiry thinness. He cursed under his breath.

“Borte?” he whispered, knowing the answer. “What are you doing here?”

“I followed you,” she said.

He thought he could see her eyes shining, catching some dim ray the mountain could not smother. She was panting with fear or exertion and he wondered how she had been able to remain on his trail without him seeing her.

“You let him get away,” Temujin said. For a moment, he continued to press her down, furious with what she had taken from him. When Koke told the rest of the Olkhun’ut what had happened, he would be beaten or even sent home in shame. His future had been changed with a single word. With a curse, he let her go and heard her sit up and rub her arms. He could feel her accusing gaze on him, and in response, he threw the stone as far as he could, listening as it clicked somewhere in the distance.

“Why did you follow me?” he said in a more normal voice. He wanted to hear her speak again. In the darkness, he had noticed her voice was warm and low, sweeter without the distracting scrawniness and glaring eyes.

“I thought you were escaping,” she replied.

She stood and he rose with her, unwilling to lose the closeness, though he could not have explained why.

“I would have thought you’d be pleased to see me run,” he said.

“I…I don’t know. You haven’t said a kind word to me since you came to the families. Why should I want you to stay?”

Temujin blinked. In just a few heartbeats they had said more to each other than in the days before. He did not want it to end.

“Why did you stop me? Koke will run back to Enq and your father. When they find we’re gone, they’ll spread out to find us. It will be hard when they do.”

“He is a fool, that one. But killing him would have been an evil thing.”

In the darkness, he reached out blindly and found her arm. The touch comforted both of them and she spoke again to cover her confusion.

“Your brother beat him almost to death, Temujin. He held him and kicked him until he cried like a child. He is afraid of you, so he hates you. It would be wrong to hurt him again. It would be like beating a dog after it has loosed its bladder. The spirit is already broken in him.”

Temujin took a slow breath, letting it shudder out of him.

“I did not know,” he said, though many things had fallen into place at her words, like bones clicking in his memory. Koke had been vicious, but when Temujin thought about it, the older boy had a look in his eyes that was always close to fear. For an instant, he did not care and wished he had brought the stone down, but then Borte reached up and placed her hand against his cheek.

“You are…strange, Temujin,” she said. Before he could respond, she stepped away from him into the darkness.

“Wait!” he called after her. “We may as well walk back together.”

“They will beat us both,” she said. “Perhaps I will run away instead. Perhaps I will not go back at all.”

He found he could not bear the thought of Sholoi hitting her and wondered what his father would say if he brought her back early to the gers of the Wolves.

“Then come with me. We’ll take my horse and ride home.”

He listened for her answer but it did not come.

“Borte?” he called.

He broke into a run and passed back into the starlight with a pounding heart. He saw her darting figure already far ahead and increased his pace until he was flying across the grass. A memory came to him of being forced to run up and down hills with a mouthful of water, spitting it out at the end to show he had breathed through his nose in the proper way. He ran easily and without effort, his mind dwelling on the day ahead. He did not know what he could do, but he had found something valuable that night. Whatever happened, he knew he could not let her be hurt again. As he ran, he heard the lookouts sound their horns on the hills all around, calling an alarm to the warriors in the gers.

The encampment was in chaos as Temujin reached it. Dawn was coming, but torches had been lit, spreading a greasy yellow light that revealed running figures. On the outskirts, he was challenged twice by nervous men carrying drawn bows. The warriors were already mounted and milled around, raising dust and confusion. To Temujin’s eye, there seemed no focus to it, no center of authority. If it had been the Wolves, he knew his father would be dominating the scene, sending the warriors out to protect the herds from raiders. He saw for the first time what Yesugei had seen. The Olkhun’ut had many fine bowmen and hunters, but they were not organized for war.

He saw Enq hobbling through the gers and Temujin took him by the arm. With an angry sound, Enq shook himself free, then started, reaching out to hold Temujin in turn.

“He’s here!” Enq shouted.

Temujin struck out from instinct, shoving his uncle onto his back to break his grip. He had a glimpse of warriors moving toward him, and before he could run, he was held in strong hands and practically carried across the bare ground. He fell limp then, as if he had fainted, hoping that they would relax their hold for a heartbeat and let him struggle free. It was a vain hope, but he could not understand what was happening and the men who held him were strangers. If he could reach a horse, he had a chance to get away from whatever punishment awaited him. They passed through a pool of torchlight and Temujin swallowed drily as he saw that his captors were bondsmen of the khan, grim and dark in boiled-leather armor.

Their master, Sansar, was a man Temujin had seen only from a distance in his days amongst the families. Despite himself, he struggled and one of the bondsmen cuffed him, making lights flash in his vision. They threw him down without ceremony at the door of the khan’s ger. Before he could enter, one of them searched him with rough efficiency, then propelled him through the opening to land flat on a floor of polished yellow wood, glowing gold in the light of torches.

Outside, the whinnying of horses and shouts of the warriors continued, but Temujin rose to his knees into a scene of quiet tension. As well as the khan himself, there were three of his bondsmen standing guard with drawn swords. Temujin looked around at the faces of strangers, seeing anger and, to his surprise, more than a little fear. He might have stayed silent, but his gaze fell on a man he knew and he cried out in astonishment.

“Basan! What has happened?” he said, rising fully. The presence of his father’s bondsman sent a clutch of fear into his stomach.

No one responded and Basan looked away in shame. Temujin remembered himself and flushed. He bowed his head to the khan of the Olkhun’ut.

“My lord khan,” he said, formally.

Sansar was a slight figure, compared with the bulk of Eeluk or Yesugei. He stood with his arms folded behind his back, a sword on his hip. His expression was calm and Temujin sweated under the scrutiny. At last Sansar spoke, his voice clipped and hard.

“Your father would be ashamed if he could see you with your mouth hanging open,” he said. “Control yourself, child.”

Temujin did as he was told, mastering his breathing and straightening his back. He counted to a dozen in his head, then raised his eyes once again.

“I am ready, my lord.”

Sansar nodded, his eyes weighing him. “Your father has been grievously wounded, child. He may die.”

Temujin paled slightly, but his face remained impassive. He sensed a malice in the khan of the Olkhun’ut and was suddenly determined he would show no more weakness in front of him. Sansar said nothing, perhaps hoping for some reaction. When it did not come, he spoke again.

“The Olkhun’ut share your distress. I will scour the plains for the wanderers who dared to attack a khan. They will suffer greatly.”

The brisk tone gave the lie to the sentiment. Temujin allowed himself a brief nod, though his mind reeled and he wanted to scream questions at the old snake who could barely hide his pleasure at his distress.

Sansar seemed to find Temujin’s silence irritating. He glanced at Basan, who sat like a statue on his right.

“It seems you will not complete your year with our people, child. This is a dangerous time, when threats are spoken that are better left unsaid. Still, it is right that you return to mourn your father.”

Temujin clenched his jaw. He could not keep silence any longer.

“Is he dying, then?” he asked.

Sansar hissed in a breath, but Temujin ignored him, turning to look at his father’s bondsman.

“You will answer me when I ask, Basan!” he said.

The bondsman met his gaze then and raised his head a fraction, the tension showing. In the ger of another khan, Temujin was risking both their lives over a breach of custom, even after such news. Basan’s eyes showed he knew the danger, but he too was a Wolf.

“He was badly wounded,” Basan answered, his voice steady. “As strong as he is, he made it back to the families alive, but…it has been three days. I do not know.”

“It is almost dawn,” Temujin replied. He fixed his gaze on the khan of the Olkhun’ut and bowed his head once again. “It is as you say, my lord. I must return to lead my people.”

Sansar grew very still at that, his eyes gleaming. “You go with my blessing, Temujin. You leave only allies here.”

“I understand,” Temujin replied. “I honor the Olkhun’ut. With your permission, I will withdraw and see to my horse. I have a long ride ahead of me.”

The khan stood and drew Temujin into a formal embrace, startling him.

“May the spirits guide your steps,” he said.

Temujin bowed a last time and ducked out into the darkness, Basan following.

When they had gone, the khan of the Olkhun’ut turned to his most trusted bondsmen, cracking the knuckles of one hand inside the other.

“It should have been clean!” he snapped. “Instead, the bones are flying and we don’t know where they will fall.” He took a skin of airag from a peg and poured a thin line of the raw fluid into the back of his throat, wiping angrily at his mouth.

“I should have known the Tartars could not even murder a man without causing chaos. I gave him to them. How could they have let him live? If he had simply disappeared, there would have been no hint of our involvement. If he lives, he will wonder how the Tartars knew to find him. There will be blood before winter. Tell me what I should do!”

The faces of the men with him were blank and worried as he looked around at them. Sansar sneered.

“Get out and quiet the camp. There are no enemies here except the ones we have invited. Pray that the khan of Wolves is already dead.”

Temujin strode blindly through the gers, fighting for calm. What he had been told was impossible. His father was a warrior born and no two men amongst the Wolves could take him with a sword. He knew he should ask Basan for details, but he dreaded hearing them. As long as he did not speak, it might still be a lie or a mistake. He thought of his mother and his brothers and then suddenly came to a halt, making Basan stumble. He was not ready to challenge Bekter, if the news was true.

“Where is your horse?” he asked his father’s man.

“Tethered on the north side of the camp,” Basan replied. “I am sorry to bring such news….”

“Come with me first. I have something to do before I leave here. Follow my orders.” He did not look to see how Basan responded, and perhaps that was why the man nodded and obeyed the young son of Yesugei.

Temujin strode through the Olkhun’ut as they scurried and recovered from the excitement. The alarms had sounded on Basan’s approach, but they had reacted in panic. Temujin sneered to himself, wondering if he would one day lead a war party to these same gers. Dawn had come at last, and as he reached the outskirts, he saw the gnarled figure of Sholoi standing at his door with a wood axe in his hands. Temujin did not hesitate, walking up to within reach of the weapon.

“Is Borte here?” he said.

Sholoi narrowed his eyes at the change in manner in the boy, no doubt because of the warrior who stood so grimly at his side. Sholoi raised his head stubbornly.

“Not yet, boy. I thought she might be with you. Your brother tried the same with the girl they’d given him.”

Temujin hesitated, losing his momentum. “What?”

“He took his girl early, like a couple of goats rutting. Didn’t he say? If you’ve done the same, I’ll cut your hands off, boy, and don’t think I’m worried by your daddy’s man, either. I’ve killed better with my hands alone. An axe will do you both.”

Temujin heard the slide of steel as Basan drew his sword. Before a blow could be struck, Temujin laid a hand on the warrior’s arm, stopping him with a touch.

“I have not harmed her. She stopped me fighting Koke. That is all.”

Sholoi frowned. “I told her not to leave the tent, boy. That’s what matters.”

Temujin stepped closer to the old man. “I’ve learned more tonight than I wanted to know. Whatever the truth of it, I am not my brother. I will return for your daughter when the moon’s blood is on her. I will take her for my wife. Until then, you will not lay a hand on her again. You will make an enemy of me if she takes a single bruise from you, old man. You do not want me as an enemy. If you give me cause, the Olkhun’ut will suffer.”

Sholoi listened with a sour expression on his face, his mouth working. Temujin waited patiently for him to think it through.

“She needs a strong man, boy, to control her.”

“Remember that,” Temujin said.

Sholoi nodded, watching as the two Wolves walked away, the sight of the drawn sword scattering Olkhun’ut children before them. Sholoi hefted the axe onto his shoulder and hitched up his leggings, sniffing.

“I know you’re here, girl, creeping around,” he said to the empty air. There was no response, but the silence became strained and he grinned to himself, revealing black gums. “I think you’ve found yourself a good one, if he survives. Mind you, I wouldn’t take a wager on those odds.”

CHAPTER 10

TEMUJIN HEARD THE HORNS of the Wolves sound as he and Basan rode into view with the setting sun behind them. A dozen warriors galloped in perfect formation to intercept him, a spearhead of seasoned warriors well able to deal with a raiding party. He could not help comparing the instant response with the panic of the Olkhun’ut he’d left behind. It was hard to draw his mount back to a walk, but only a fool would risk being killed before he had been recognized.

He glanced at Basan, seeing a new tension there, overlaying the exhaustion. Temujin had pushed him hard to cover the distance home in only two days. Both of them had gone without sleep, surviving on water and drafts of sour yoghurt. Their time together had not begun a friendship, and as they came back into familiar territory, Temujin had sensed a growing distance between them. The warrior had been reluctant to speak, and his manner worried Temujin more than he cared to admit. It occurred to him that the arban of galloping warriors could now be enemies. He had no way of telling, and all he could do was sit tall and straight in the saddle, as his father would have wanted, while they came on.

When the warriors were within hailing distance, Basan raised his right arm, showing he did not carry a blade. Temujin recognized Eeluk amongst them and saw instantly how the others deferred to his father’s bondsman. It was he who gave the signal to halt, and something about his confidence brought Temujin close to humiliating tears. He had come home, but everything had changed. He refused to weep in front of them all, but his eyes shone.

Eeluk laid a claiming hand on Temujin’s reins. The others fell in around them and they began to trot as one, Temujin’s mount matching the pace without a command from him. It was a small thing, but Temujin felt like yanking the reins away in childish anger. He did not want to be led back to his father’s tribe like a small boy, but his wits seemed to have deserted him.

“Your father still lives,” Eeluk said. “His wound was poisoned and he has been delirious for many days.”

“He is awake, then?” Temujin said, hardly daring to hope.

Eeluk shrugged. “At times, he cries out and struggles against enemies only he can see. He is a strong man, but he takes no food and the flesh has melted off him like wax. You should prepare yourself. I do not believe he will live much longer.”

Temujin bowed his head to his chest, overcome. Eeluk looked away rather than shame him at his moment of weakness. Without warning, Temujin reached out and tugged his reins away from Eeluk’s grip.

“Who is responsible? Has he named them?”

“Not yet, though your mother has asked him whenever he wakes. He does not know her.”

Eeluk sighed to himself and Temujin saw his own strain mirrored in the man. The Wolves would be stunned and fearful with Yesugei raving and close to death. They would be looking for a strong leader.

“What about my brother Bekter?” Temujin said.

Eeluk frowned, perhaps guessing the path of Temujin’s thoughts.

“He has ridden out with the warriors to search the plains.” He hesitated then, as if deciding how much he should share with the boy. “You should not hope to find your father’s enemies now. Those who survived will have scattered days ago. They will not wait for us to find them.”

His face was a mask, but Temujin sensed some hidden anger in him. Perhaps he did not like the thought of Bekter’s influence on the warriors. The search had to be at least attempted and Bekter was an obvious choice, but Eeluk would not want new loyalties being forged away from him. Temujin thought he could read his father’s bondsman well enough, despite his attempts to hide his private self. A man would have to be a fool not to think of the succession at such a time. Temujin was almost certainly too young and Bekter was on the edge of manhood. With Eeluk’s support, either could rule the Wolves, but the alternative was obvious and chilling. Temujin forced a smile as he faced a man who was more of a threat than any of the Olkhun’ut he had left behind.

“You have loved my father, even as I have, Eeluk. What would he want for the Wolves if he dies? Would he want you to lead them?”

Eeluk stiffened as if he had been struck, turning a murderous expression on the boy who rode at his side. Temujin did not flinch. He felt almost light-headed, but in that moment, he did not care if Eeluk killed him. No matter what the future held, he found he could return the gaze without a trace of fear.

“I have been loyal all my life,” Eeluk said, “but your father’s day has come and gone. Our enemies will be watching us for weakness as word spreads. The Tartars will come in the winter to raid our herds, perhaps even the Olkhun’ut, or the Kerait, just to see if we can still defend what is ours.” He took a white-knuckled grip on his reins and turned away from Temujin, unable to go on with the pale yellow eyes watching him.

“You know what he would have wanted, Eeluk. You know what you must do.”

“No. No, I do not know, boy. I do know what you are thinking, and I tell you now, you are too young to lead the families.”

Temujin swallowed bitterness and pride in a hard knot.

“Bekter, then. Do not betray our father, Eeluk. He treated you like a brother all his life. Honor him now by helping his son.”

To Temujin’s astonishment, Eeluk kicked his heels in and rode ahead of the group, his face flushed and furious. Temujin did not dare look at the men around him. He did not want to see their expressions and know his world had crumbled. He did not see the questioning glances they shared, nor their sorrow.

The camp of the Wolves was still and quiet as Temujin dismounted by his father’s ger and took a deep breath. He felt as if he had been away for years. The last time he had stood on that spot, his father had been vital and strong, a certainty in all their lives. It was just not possible to think that world had gone and could not be recalled.

He stood stiffly in the open, looking out over the gers of the families. He could have named every man, woman, and child with just a glance at the design of their door. They were his people and he had always known his place amongst them. Uncertainty was a new emotion for him, as if there were a great hole in his chest. He found he had to summon all his courage just to enter the ger. He might have stood there even longer if he had not seen the people beginning to gather as the sun’s rays faded. He could not bear their pity, and with a grimace, he ducked through the low door and closed it against their staring faces.

The night felt had not yet been placed over the smoke hole above his head, but the ger was stifling with heat and a smell that made him want to gag. He saw his mother’s paleness when she turned to him, and his defenses crumbled as he rushed to her and fell into her embrace. Tears came beyond his control and she rocked him in silence as he gazed on his father’s withered body.

Yesugei’s flesh shuddered like a horse twitching at flies. His stomach was bound in crusted bandages, stiff as reeds with old fluids. Temujin saw a line of pus and blood move like a worm across the skin and into the blankets. His father’s hair had been combed and oiled, but it seemed thin and there was more gray than he remembered in the wisps that reached down to his cheekbones. Temujin saw the ribs were starkly outlined. The face was sunken and dark in hollows, a death mask for the man he had known.

“You should speak to him, Temujin,” his mother said. As he raised his head to respond, he saw her eyes were as red as his own. “He has been calling your name and I did not know if you would come in time.”

He nodded, wiping a silvery trail of mucus from his nose onto his sleeve as he looked at the one man he had thought would live forever. The fevers had burnt the muscle off his bones and Temujin could hardly believe it was the same powerful warrior who had ridden so confidently into the camp of the Olkhun’ut. He stared for a long time, unable to speak. He hardly noticed his mother wet a cloth in a bucket of cold water and press it into his hand. She guided his fingers to his father’s face and, together, they wiped the eyes and lips. Temujin breathed shallowly, struggling against revulsion. The smell of sick flesh was appalling, but his mother showed no distaste and he tried to be strong for her.

Yesugei shifted under the touch and opened his eyes, looking directly at them.

“It is Temujin, husband; he has come home safe,” Hoelun said gently.

The eyes remained blank and Temujin felt fresh tears starting.

“I don’t want you to die,” he said to his father, beginning to sob in spasms. “I don’t know what to do.”

The khan of the Wolves took in a sharp breath, so that his ribs stood out like a cage. Temujin leaned over him and pressed his hand into his father’s. The skin was impossibly hot and dry, but he did not let go. He saw his father’s mouth move and dropped his head to hear.

“I am home, Father,” he said. The grip tightened enough to hurt. Temujin brought his other hand over to hold his father’s fingers, and for a moment their eyes met and he thought he saw recognition.

“The Tartars,” Yesugei whispered. His throat seemed to close on the words, and the pent-up air released in a great sigh that ended in a dry clicking. Temujin waited for the next breath, and when it did not come, he realized the hand he held had fallen limp. He held it even harder in a rush of despair, aching to hear another breath.

“Don’t leave us here,” he begged, but he knew he could not be heard. Hoelun made a choking sound behind him, but he could not tear himself away from the sunken face of the man he adored. Had he told him? He could not remember saying the words and he had a sudden fear that his father would go to the spirits without knowing how much he had meant to his sons.

“Everything I am comes from you,” he whispered. “I am your son and nothing else. Can you hear me?”

He felt his mother’s hands on his own.

“He waited for you, Temujin. He has gone now,” she said.

He could not look at her.

“Do you think he knew how much I loved him?” he said.

She smiled through her tears and for a moment she looked as pretty as she must have been when she was young.

“He knew. He was so proud of you, he used to think his heart would burst with it. He used to look at me whenever you rode, or fought with your brothers, or argued with them. I could see it in his smile then. He did not want to spoil you, but the sky father gave him the sons he wanted and you were his pride, his private joy. He knew.”

It was too much for Temujin to hear and he wept unashamedly.

“We must tell the families that he is gone at last,” Hoelun said.

“What then?” Temujin replied, wiping his tears. “Eeluk will not support me to lead the Wolves. Will Bekter be khan?” He searched her face for some reassurance, but found only exhaustion and grief returning to cloud her eyes.

“I do not know what will happen, Temujin. If your father had survived a few more years, it would not matter, but now? There is no good time to die, but this…”

She began to weep and Temujin found himself drawing her head against his shoulder. He could not have imagined giving her comfort, but it seemed to come naturally and somehow it strengthened him for whatever was to come. He felt his youth as a weakness, but with his father’s spirit close, he knew he had to find the courage to face the families. His gaze flickered around the ger.

“Where is the eagle I brought for him?”

His mother shook her head. “I could not care for it. Eeluk took it to another family.”

Temujin struggled with a rising hatred for the man his father had trusted in all things. He drew away from his mother and Hoelun rose and looked down at the body of Yesugei. As Temujin watched, she leaned over her husband and kissed him gently on his open mouth. She seemed to shudder at the contact, her whole body quivering. With shaking fingers, she closed his eyes, then pulled a blanket over his wound. The air was sluggish with heat and death, but Temujin found the smell no longer troubled him. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with his father’s essence as he too rose to his feet. He splashed water from the bucket onto his face and then rubbed it away with a scrap of clean cloth.

“I will go out and tell them,” he said.

His mother nodded, her eyes still fixed on a distant past as he walked to the small door and ducked out into the sharp air of the night.

The women of the families raised wailing voices to the sky father, so that he would hear a great man had passed from the plains. The sons of Yesugei gathered to pay their last respects to their father. When dawn came, they would wrap him in a white cloth and take him to a high hill, leaving his naked flesh to be taken into the hawks and vultures that were dear to the spirits. The arms that had taught them to draw a bow, the strong face, all of him would be torn into a thousand scraps to fly in hosts of birds under the sky father’s gaze. He would no longer be tied to the earth as they were.

As the night wound on, the warriors met in clusters, moving from ger to ger until all the families had spoken. Temujin did not take part in the process, though he wished Bekter were there to see the sky burial and the recitals. As much as he disliked his brother, he knew it would hurt him to have missed the stories and tales told of Yesugei’s life.

No one slept. As the moon rose, a great fire was built in the center of the encampment and old Chagatai the storyteller waited while they gathered, a skin of black airag ready against the cold. Only the scouting party and the lookouts remained on the hills. Every other man, woman and child came to hear and weep openly, giving Yesugei honor. They all knew that a tear shed into the ground would one day become part of the rivers that quenched the thirst of the herds and the families of all the tribes. There was no shame in weeping for a khan who had kept them safe through hard winters and made the Wolves a force on the plains.

Temujin sat alone at first, though many came to touch his shoulder and say a few quiet words of respect. Temuge was red-faced from crying, but he came with Kachiun and sat beside their brother, sharing their grief without words. Khasar too came to hear Chagatai and he was pale and wan as he embraced Temujin. The last to arrive was Hoelun, with her daughter Temulun asleep in the folds of her robe. She hugged her boys one after the other, then stared into the flames as if lost.

When the tribe were all there, Chagatai cleared his throat and spat into the roaring fire at his back.

“I knew the Wolf when he was a little boy and his sons and daughter were only dreams of the sky father. He was not always the man who led the families. When he was young, he crept into my father’s ger and stole a comb of honey wrapped in cloth. He buried the cloth, but he had a dog in those days, a hound of yellow and black. The animal dug up the cloth and brought it to him while he was in the middle of denying he had even known the honey was there. He did not sit for days afterwards!” Chagatai paused as the warriors smiled. “As a man, he led war parties after only twelve summers, raiding the Tartars again and again for ponies and sheep. When Eeluk wanted to take a bride, it was Yesugei who raided ponies to give to her father, bringing in three red mares and a dozen cattle from a single night. He had the blood of two men bright on his sword, but even then there were few who could match him with a blade or a bow. He was a scourge to that tribe, and when he was khan, they learned to fear Yesugei and the men who rode with him.”

Chagatai took a deep draft of the airag, smacking his lips.

“When his father was sky-buried, Yesugei gathered all the warriors and took them out for many days, making them live on just a few handfuls of food and barely enough water to wet the throat. All those who went on that trip came back with fire in their bellies and loyalty to him in their hearts. He gave them their pride and the Wolves grew strong and fat on mutton and milk.”

Temujin listened while the old man recited his father’s victories. Chagatai’s memory was still sharp enough to remember what had been said and how many had fallen to his father’s sword or bow. Perhaps the numbers were exaggerated, he did not know. The older warriors nodded and smiled at the memories, and as they emptied the skins of airag, they began to call out in appreciation as Chagatai painted the battles for them once more.

“That was when old Yeke lost three fingers from his right hand,” Chagatai continued. “It was Yesugei who found them in the snow and brought them back to him. Yeke saw what he was carrying and said they should be given to the dogs. Yesugei told him it would be better to tie them to a stick. He said he could still use them to scratch himself.”

Khasar chuckled at that, hanging on every word with his brothers. This was the history of their tribe, the stories of the men and women who made them who they were.

Chagatai’s manner changed subtly as he lowered the skin once more.

“He left strong sons to follow him, and he would have wanted Bekter or Temujin to lead the Wolves. I have heard the whispers in the families. I have heard the arguments and the promises, but the blood of khans runs in them and if there is honor in the Wolves, they should not shame their khan in death. He watches us now.”

The camp fell silent, though Temujin heard some of the warriors murmuring agreement. He felt a hundred eyes on him in the flame-lit darkness. He began to rise, but in the distance, they all heard the lookout horns sound mournfully over the hills, and the warriors snapped out of their drunken trance, rising quickly to their feet and shaking themselves to alertness. Eeluk appeared on the fringes of the light, gazing malevolently at Chagatai. Temujin saw that the storyteller looked frail and tired now that the spell was broken. A breeze blew his white hair back and forth as he faced Eeluk without a sign of fear. As Temujin watched, Eeluk nodded sharply as if something had been decided. The bondsman’s horse was brought to him and he mounted in one swift movement, riding out into the dark without looking back.

The horns ceased after only a short time when they realized it was the scouting party returning. Bekter came in at the head of a dozen warriors, riding up to the fire to dismount. Temujin saw they carried armor and weapons that were different from the ones he knew. In the light of the great fire, he saw rotting heads tied to Bekter’s saddle by their hair. Temujin shivered suddenly at the sight of the open mouths flopping as if they still cried out. Though the flesh was black and flyblown, he knew he was looking at the faces of those who had killed his father.

Only his mother had also heard Yesugei whisper the name of his enemy in the tent, and neither she nor Temujin had shared the information with any other. It was somehow chilling to hear the Tartars named again by the returning warriors. They held up bows and deels splashed with dried blood, and the families gathered around them in horrified fascination, reaching out to touch the rotting faces of the dead.

Bekter strode into the firelight as if the leadership of the tribe were already settled. It would once have been a bitter scene in Temujin’s imagination, but after his fears, he felt a savage pleasure. Let his brother take the tribe!

At first, the conversations were noisy and there were cries of shock at the description of what they had found. Five bodies lay rotting where they had ambushed the khan of Wolves. The gazes that fell on Yesugei’s sons were bright with awe. Yet they fell silent when Eeluk drew up, leaping lightly down from his saddle to face the brothers. With deliberate resolve, Temujin came to stand at Bekter’s shoulder and Khasar and Kachiun came with him. They faced Eeluk and waited for him to speak. Perhaps that was their mistake, for Eeluk was a powerful warrior and, next to him, they looked like the boys they were.

“Your father has gone at last, Bekter,” Eeluk said. “It was not an easy passing, but it is at an end.”

Bekter’s hooded eyes regarded his father’s bondsman, understanding the challenge and the danger. He raised his head and spoke, sensing he would never be stronger in his position than at that moment.

“I will be proud to lead the Wolves to war,” he said clearly.

Some of the warriors cheered him, but Eeluk shook his head slowly, his confidence cowing the few who had shown support. Silence came again and Temujin found himself holding his breath.

“I will be khan,” Eeluk said. “It is decided.”

Bekter reached for his sword and Eeluk’s eyes gleamed in pleasure. It was Temujin who gripped his brother’s arm first, though Kachiun was there almost as quickly.

“He will kill you,” Temujin said, as Bekter tried to free himself.

“Or I will kill him for the oath-breaking filth he is,” Bekter snapped in response.

Locked in their own struggle, neither of them had time to react as Eeluk drew his sword and used the hilt as a hammer, smashing Bekter off his feet. He and Temujin went down in a tangle of limbs, and Kachiun threw himself at their father’s bondsman unarmed, trying to stop him using the blade to kill his brothers. Hoelun cried out in fear behind them and the sound seemed to break through to Eeluk as he advanced, shaking Kachiun off with a flick of his arm. He glared at them all and then sheathed his sword.

“In honor to your father, I will not shed blood tonight,” he said, though his face was heavy with anger. He raised his head to have his voice carry. “The Wolves will ride! I will not stay where the blood of my khan stains the earth. Gather your herds and horses. As the sun reaches noon, we will travel south.”

He took a step closer to Hoelun and her sons.

“But not with you,” he said. “I will not watch my back for your knives. You will stay here and take your father’s body to the hills.”

Hoelun swayed slightly in the breeze, her face white and pinched. “You will leave us to die?”

Eeluk shrugged. “Die or live, you will not be of the Wolves. It is done.”

Chagatai loomed behind Eeluk then and Temujin saw the old man grip him by the arm. Eeluk raised his sword in reflex, but Chagatai ignored the bare blade so close to his face.

“This is an evil thing!” Chagatai said, angrily. “You dishonor the memory of a great man, left with no one to bring death to his killers. How will his spirit rest? You cannot leave his children alone on the plains. It is as bad as killing them yourself.”

“Get away, old man. A khan must make hard decisions. I will not shed the blood of children or women, but if they starve, my hands are clean.”

Chagatai’s face grew dark with wordless fury and he scrabbled at Eeluk’s armor, battering at him. His nails scored the flesh of Eeluk’s neck, and the reaction was instantaneous. Eeluk drove his blade into the old man’s chest and shoved him off it onto his back. Blood came from Chagatai’s open mouth and Hoelun sank to her knees, weeping and rocking while her sons stood stunned. There were other screams at the murder and some of the warriors came to stand between Eeluk and the family of Yesugei, their hands ready on their swords. Eeluk shook himself and spat at Chagatai as his blood poured into the parched soil.

“You should not have interfered, you old fool,” he said, sheathing his sword and walking stiffly away.

The warriors helped Hoelun to her feet and women came to help her back to the ger. They turned their faces from the crying children, and to Temujin that was as bad as anything else that had happened that night. The families had deserted them and they were lost.

The gers of the Wolves left black circles on the hard ground when they were dismantled, littered with scraps of old bone and pieces of broken leather and pottery. The sons of Yesugei watched the process as outsiders, standing miserably with their mother and sister. Eeluk had been ruthless and Hoelun had needed all the others to hold Bekter back when the bondsman ordered their ger and everything in it to be packed with the rest. Some of the women had cried out at the cruelty, but many more had kept silent and Eeluk had ignored them all. The khan’s word was law.

Temujin shook his head in disbelief as the carts were loaded and the herds urged into place with sticks and blows. He had seen that Eeluk wore Yesugei’s sword as he strode about the encampment. Bekter had set his jaw tight as he noticed the blade, his fury evident. Eeluk had smiled to himself as he walked past them, enjoying their impotent glares. Temujin wondered at how Eeluk had kept such ambition hidden inside for so many years. He had sensed it when Yesugei gave him the red bird, but even then he would not have believed it possible to have Eeluk betray them so completely. He shook his head as he heard the eagle chicks crying when their wings were wrapped tight for the journey. He could not take it in. The sight of Chagatai’s sprawled body tugged at his eyes over and over, reminding him of the night before. The old storyteller was going to be left where he had fallen, and that seemed as great a crime as any of the rest to the boys.

Though her sons were pale with despair, Hoelun herself radiated a cold rage that punished anyone foolish enough to meet her eyes. When Eeluk had come to order the khan’s ger dismantled, even he had not looked at her, staring instead into a middle distance while the work went on. The great layers of heavy felt had been untied and rolled and the wooden lattice collapsed into its sections, the knots of dried sinew cut with quick slashes. Everything inside had been taken, from Yesugei’s bows to the winter deels with their lining of fur. Bekter had cursed and shouted when he saw they would be left with nothing, but Hoelun had simply shaken her head at Eeluk’s casual cruelty. The deels were beautifully made and too valuable to be wasted on those who would not survive. Winter would snatch them from life as surely as an arrow when the first snows came. Still, she faced the families with dignity, her face proud and dry of tears.

It did not take long. Everything was designed to be moved, and by the time the sun stood above them, the black circles were empty and the carts loaded, with men heaving at the ropes to tie everything down.

Hoelun shivered as the wind blew stronger. There was no shelter now that the gers had gone, and she felt exposed and numb. She knew Yesugei would have drawn his father’s sword and taken a dozen heads if he were there to see it. His body lay on the turf, wrapped in cloth. In the night, someone in the families had wound an old piece of linen around Chagatai’s withered frame, hiding his wound. They lay side by side in death and Hoelun could not bear to look at either of them.

The herdsmen shouted as Eeluk blew his horn, using sticks longer than a man to snap the animals into movement. The noise grew as sheep and goats bleated and ran to escape the stinging touch and the tribe began to move. Hoelun stood with her sons like a stand of pale birch and watched them go. Temuge was sobbing quietly to himself and Kachiun took his hand in case the little boy tried to run after the tribe.

The open ground quickly swallowed the cries of the herdsmen and their charges. Hoelun watched them until they were far away, at last breathing out some small part of her relief. She knew Eeluk was capable of sending a man circling back to make a bloody end to the abandoned family. As soon as the distance was too far for them to be seen, she turned to her sons, gathering them around her.

“We need shelter and food, but most of all, we need to get away from this place. There will be scavengers coming soon to sift through the ashes of the fires. Not all of them will walk on four legs. Bekter!” Her sharp tone snapped her son out of his trance as he stared after the distant figures. “I need you now to look after your brothers.”

“What is the point?” he replied, turning back to watch the plain. “We’re all dead.”

Hoelun slapped him hard across the face and he staggered, his eyes blazing. Fresh blood started from where Eeluk had hit him the night before.

“Shelter, and food, Bekter. Yesugei’s sons will not go quietly to their deaths, as Eeluk wants. Nor will his wife. I need your strength, Bekter, do you understand?”

“What will we do with…him?” Temujin said, looking at his father’s body.

Hoelun faltered for an instant as she followed his gaze. She clenched her fist and shook with anger.

“Was it too much to leave us a single pony?” she said under her breath. She had a vision of tribeless men pulling the sheet from Yesugei’s naked body and laughing, but there was no choice. “It’s just flesh, Temujin. Your father’s spirit is gone from here. Let him see us survive and he will be satisfied.”

“We leave him for wild dogs, then?” Temujin asked, horrified.

It was Bekter who nodded. “We must. Dogs or birds, it doesn’t matter. How far could you and I carry him, Temujin? It’s already noon and we need to get up to a tree line.”

“The red hill,” Kachiun said suddenly. “There is shelter there.”

Hoelun shook her head. “It’s too far to reach before night falls. To the east, there is a cleft that will do until tomorrow. There are woods there. We’d die on the plains, but in woods, I’ll spit on Eeluk ten years from now.”

“I’m hungry,” Temuge said, sniveling.

Hoelun looked at her youngest son and her eyes filled with shining tears. She reached into the folds of her deel and brought out a cloth bag of his favorite sweet curds. Each of them took one or two, as solemnly as if they were swearing an oath.

“We will survive this, my sons. We will survive until you are men, and when Eeluk is old, he will wonder if it is you coming for him every time he hears hooves in the darkness.”

They looked into her face in awe, seeing only fierce determination. It was strong enough to banish some of their own despair, and they all took strength from her.

“Now walk!” she snapped at them. “Shelter, then food.”

CHAPTER 11

A THIN DRIZZLE FELL as Bekter and Temujin sat huddled together, wet to the bone. Before dark, they had reached a wooded cleft in the hills where a stream dribbled through sodden, marshy ground. The narrow crease in the land was host to black-trunked pines and silver birches as pale as bones. The echoing spatter of water was strange and frightening as the boys shivered on a great nest of dark roots.

Before the light faded, Hoelun had set them to lifting fallen saplings, dragging the great broken lengths of rotten wood through the leaves and mud to heave them into the crook of a low tree. Their arms and chests were scratched raw, but she had not let them rest. Even Temuge had carried armfuls of dead needles and piled them over smaller branches, tottering back again and again for more until the crude shelter was finished. It was not large enough for Bekter and Temujin, but Hoelun had kissed them both in gratitude and they had stood proudly as she crawled into the space with the baby. Khasar curled up like a shivering dog between her legs, and Temuge crept in after them, sobbing gently to himself. Kachiun had stood with his older brothers for a while, swaying gently from exhaustion. Temujin had taken him by the arm and pushed him after the others. There was hardly room even for him.

Their mother’s head had sunk slowly onto her chest as the little girl nursed. Temujin and Bekter had moved away as quietly as they could, looking for anything that would keep the rain off their faces long enough to get to sleep.

They did not find it. The mass of roots had seemed a little better than simply lying down in the wet, but unseen lumps and twists made them ache however they lay. When sleep did come, a splash of icy water would strike their faces and bring them back for bleary moments, wondering where they were. The night seemed to last forever.

As Temujin woke yet again and moved his cramped legs, he thought about the day. It had been strange to walk away from his father’s body. They had all looked back to see the pale speck growing smaller. Hoelun had seen the wistful glances and been annoyed with them.

“You have always had the families around you,” she had said. “You have not had to hide from thieves and wanderers before. Now we must hide. Even a single herder can kill us all, and there will be no justice.”

The hard new reality had chilled them as much as the rain that began to fall, dampening their spirits still further. Temujin blinked against a drip of water from somewhere above. He was not sure he had slept at all, though he sensed time had passed. His stomach was painfully empty and he wondered what they would do for food. If Eeluk had even left them a bow, Temujin could have fed them all on fat marmots. Without one, they could starve to death in just a few days. He looked up and saw that the rain clouds had passed, letting the stars shine through to the land beneath. The trees still dripped all around, but he hoped the morning would be warmer. The dampness had soaked every part of him, and his clothes were caked in mud and leaves. He felt the slippery muck on his fingers as he clenched a fist and thought of Eeluk. A pine needle or a thorn dug into his palm, but he ignored it, silently cursing the man who had betrayed his family. Deliberately, he clenched until his whole body shook and he could see green flashes under his eyelids.

“Keep him alive,” he whispered to the sky father. “Keep him strong and healthy. Keep him alive, for me to kill.”

Bekter grumbled in his sleep next to him, and Temujin closed his eyes again, aching for the hours to slip away until dawn. He wanted the same as the younger ones: to let his mother wrap him in her arms and solve all their problems. Instead, he knew he had to be strong, both for her and for his brothers. One thing was certain: they would survive and one day he would find and kill Eeluk and take Yesugei’s sword from his dead hand. The thought stayed with him as he fell asleep.

They were all up as soon as it was light enough to see each other’s dirty faces. Hoelun’s eyes were puffy and bruised-looking with exhaustion, but she gathered her children around her, watching as the single water bottle was passed from hand to hand. Her tiny daughter was fussing and already slippery with fresh excrement. There were no spare cloths and the infant began a red-faced fit of screaming that showed no sign of lapsing. Hoelun could only ignore the cries as the baby refused the teat again and again in its distress. In the end, even their mother’s patience was exhausted, and she left her bare breast hanging while the little girl clenched her fists and roared to the sky.

“If we are to live, we need to make somewhere dry and organize fishing and hunting,” she told them. “Show me what you have with you, so that we all can see.” She noticed Bekter hesitate and turned on him. “Hold nothing back, Bekter. We could all be dead in a single turn of the moon if we can’t hunt and get warm.”

In the dawn, it was easier to find a place where the thick mat of needles was damp rather than soaking. Hoelun removed her deel, shivering as she did so. They could all see the dark slick down her side where their sister’s bowels had emptied during the night. The smell wafted over them all, making Khasar put a hand to his face. Hoelun ignored him, her mouth a thin line of irritation. Temujin could see she was barely holding her temper as she spread the deel on the ground. Gently, she placed her daughter on the cloth, the movement startling the tiny little girl into staring around at her brothers with tear-filled eyes. It hurt to see her shivering.

Bekter grimaced and took a knife from his belt, laying it down. Hoelun tested the blade with her thumb and nodded. She reached around her own waist to untie a heavy cord of braided horsehair. She had hidden it under her deel on the last night, looking for anything that would help them in their ordeal. Its coils were narrow but strong and it joined the blades of the brothers as they put them down in a pile.

Apart from his own small knife, all Temujin could add was the winding cloth that held his deel to him, though that was long and well woven. He did not doubt Hoelun would find some use for it.

They all watched in fascination as Hoelun brought a tiny bone box from one of the deep pockets in the deel. It contained a small piece of ridged steel and a good flint, and she laid those aside almost with reverence. The dark yellow box was beautifully carved and she rubbed her thumbs over it in memory while they watched.

“Your father gave this to me when we were married,” she said, and then she picked up a stone and smashed the box into pieces. Each shard of bone was razor sharp and she sorted them with care, picking the best and holding them up.

“This one for a fishhook, two more for arrowheads. Khasar? You’ll take the twine and find a good stone to grind the hook. Use a knife to dig for worms and find a sheltered spot. We need your luck today.”

Khasar gathered his share without a trace of his usual light manner.

“I understand,” he said, winding the horsehair length around his fist. “Leave me enough to make a snare,” she told him as he stood. “We need gut and tendons for a bow.”

She turned to Bekter and Temujin, handing a sliver of sharp bone to each boy.

“You take a knife each and make me a bow from the birch. You’ve seen it done enough times.”

Bekter pressed the point of the bone into his palm, testing it. “If we had horn, or horsehide for the string…” he began.

Hoelun grew very still and her stare silenced him. “A single marmot snare won’t keep us alive. I didn’t say I wanted a bow that would make your father proud. Just cut something you can kill with. Or perhaps we should simply lie down in the leaves and wait for cold and hunger to take us?”

Bekter frowned, irritated at the criticism in front of the others. Without looking at Temujin, he snatched up his knife and strode away, his bone shard held tightly in his fist.

“I could lash a blade to a stick and make a spear, perhaps for fish,” Kachiun said.

Hoelun looked gratefully at him and took a deep breath. She picked up the smallest of the knives and passed it into his hands.

“Good boy,” she said, reaching out to touch his face. “Your father taught you all to hunt. I don’t think he would ever have guessed it would matter this much, but whatever you learned, we need.”

She looked at the pitifully small number of items left on the cloth and sighed.

“Temuge? I can light a fire if you find me something dry to burn. Anything.”

The fat little boy stood up, his mouth quivering. He had not yet begun to recover from the terror of their new situation, nor its hopelessness. The other boys could see Hoelun was on the nervous edge of breaking, but Temuge still saw her as a rock and reached out to be embraced. She allowed him a moment in her arms before she eased him away.

“Find what you can, Temuge. Your sister can’t take another night without a fire.”

Temujin winced as the little boy broke into sobbing and, when Hoelun refused to look at him, ran away under the looming trees.

Temujin reached out clumsily to try to give his mother some comfort. He took her shoulder and, to his pleasure, she tilted her head so that her face briefly touched his hand.

“Make me a killing bow, Temujin. Find Bekter and help him,” she said, raising her eyes to his.

He swallowed painfully against his hunger and left her there with the baby, the wailing cry echoing amongst the wet trees.

Temujin found Bekter by the sound of his blade hacking into a birch sapling. He whistled softly to let his older brother know he was approaching and received a surly glare for his trouble. Without a word, Temujin held the slender trunk steady for his brother’s blade. The knife was a solid piece of edged iron and it bit deeply. Bekter seemed to be taking his anger out on the wood, and it took courage for Temujin to hold his hands still as blow after blow thumped near his fingers.

It did not take long before Temujin was able to press the sapling down and expose the whitish fibers of the young wood. The bow would be near to useless, he thought glumly. It was hard not to think of the beautiful weapons in every ger of the Wolves. Boiled strips of sheep horn and ground sinew were glued to birch cores and then left for an entire year in dry darkness. Each bow was a marvel of ingenuity, capable of killing over a distance of more than a hundred alds.

The bow he and his brother sweated to make would be little more than a child’s toy in comparison, and this was the one on which their lives would depend. Temujin snorted in bitter amusement as Bekter closed one eye and finally held up the length of birch, still ragged with its paper bark. He saw Bekter’s jaw clench in response and watched in surprise as his brother brought the length of wood back sharply and broke it over another trunk, throwing the splintered birch to the leaves.

“This is a waste of time,” Bekter said furiously.

Temujin eyed the knife he was holding, suddenly aware of how alone they were.

“How far can they travel in a day?” Bekter demanded. “You can track. We know the guards as well as our brothers. I could get past them.”

“To do what?” Temujin asked. “Kill Eeluk?” He saw Bekter’s eyes glaze for a moment as he tasted the idea, then shook his head.

“No. We’d never get to him, but we could steal a bow! Just a single bow and a few arrows and we could eat. Aren’t you hungry?”

Temujin tried not to think about the ache in his stomach. He had known hunger before, but always there was the thought of a hot meal waiting at the end. Here, it seemed worse and his gut felt sore and painful to the touch. He hoped it was not the first sign of the loose bowels that came from disease or poor meat. In such a place, any weakness would kill him. He knew as well as his mother that they walked a thin edge between survival and a pile of bones come the winter.

“I am starving,” he said, “but we’d never get into a ger without the alarm being raised. Even if we did, they’d track us back here and Eeluk would not let us go a second time. That broken stick is all we have.”

Both boys looked at the ruined sapling and Bekter grabbed it in a show of mindless anger, wrenching at the unyielding wood and then throwing it into the undergrowth.

“All right, let’s start again,” he said grimly. “Though we don’t have a string, we don’t have arrows, and we have no glue. We have as much chance of catching an animal by throwing stones at it!”

Temujin said nothing, shaken by the outburst. Like all of his father’s sons, he was used to someone knowing what to do. Perhaps they had become too used to that certainty. Ever since he had felt his father’s hand go limp in his own, he had been lost. There were times when he felt the strength he needed begin to kindle in his chest, but he kept expecting it all to end and his old life to come back.

“We’ll braid strips of cloth for a string. It will hold long enough to take two shots, I should think. We only have two arrowheads, after all.”

Bekter grunted in reply and reached out to another birch sapling, supple and as thick as his thumb.

“Hold this steady, then, brother,” he said, raising the heavy blade. “I’ll make a bow good for two chances at the kill. After that fails, we’ll eat grass.”

Kachiun caught up with Khasar high into the cleft between the hills. The figure of his older brother was so still that he almost missed him as he climbed over rocks, but his gaze was drawn to where the stream had widened into a pool and he saw his brother on the edge. Khasar had made himself a simple rod with a long birch twig. Kachiun whistled to let him know he was there and approached as silently as he could, staring down into the clear water.

“I can see them. Nothing larger than a finger so far,” Khasar whispered. “They don’t seem to want the worms, though.”

They both stared at the limp scrap of flesh that hung in the water an arm’s length from the bank. Kachiun frowned to himself, thinking.

“We’re going to need more than one or two if we’re all to eat tonight,” he said.

Khasar grunted in response. “If you have an idea, then say it. I can’t make them take the hook.”

Kachiun was silent for a long time, and both boys would have enjoyed the peace if it had not been for the ache in their bellies. At last, Kachiun stood and began to unwind the orange waist cloth from his deel. It was three alds long, stretching as far as three men lying head to toe. He might not have thought to use it if Temujin had not added his own to Hoelun’s pile. Khasar glanced up at him, a smile touching his mouth.

“Going for a swim?” he said.

Kachiun shook his head. “A net would be better than a hook. We could get them all then. I thought I might try to dam the stream with the cloth.”

Khasar pulled his bedraggled worm out of the water, laying the precious hook down.

“It might work,” he said. “I’ll go farther upstream and beat the water with a stick as I come back down. If you can close off the stream with the cloth, you might be able to scoop a few onto the bank.”

Both boys looked at the freezing water reluctantly. Kachiun sighed to himself, winding the cloth around his arms.

“All right; it’s better than waiting,” he said, shuddering as he stepped into the pool.

The cold made them gasp and wince, but both boys worked quickly to tie the length of cloth across the path of the stream. A tree root made a perfect anchor point on one side, and Kachiun heaved a rock onto the other as he doubled the cloth and brought it back on itself. There was more than enough, and he forgot his chill for a time when he saw small fish touch the orange barrier and dart backwards. He saw Khasar cut a strip from the cloth and bind a knife to a stick to make a short stabbing spear.

“Pray to the sky father for some big ones,” Khasar said. “We need to get this right.”

Kachiun remained in the water, struggling not to shiver too violently as his brother walked away and was lost to sight. He did not need to be told.

Temujin tried to take the bow from his brother’s hands, and Bekter rapped his knuckles with the handle of his knife.

“I have it,” Bekter said, irritably.

Temujin watched as the older boy bent the birch to fit the loop of braided string over the other end. He winced in anticipation of the crack that would be the ruin of their third attempt. From the beginning, he had resented Bekter’s bad-tempered approach to making the weapon, as if the wood and the string were enemies to be crushed into obedience. Whenever Temujin tried to help, he was roughly rebuffed, and only when Bekter failed again and again did he suffer his brother to hold the wood still as they bent it. The second bow had snapped and their first two strings had lasted just long enough to come under tension before they too gave way. The sun had moved over their heads and their tempers frayed as failure piled upon failure.

The new string was braided from three thin strips cut from Temujin’s own waist cloth. It was childishly thick and bulky, vibrating visibly as Bekter eased the bow back from its bent position, wincing in anticipation. It did not snap and both boys breathed a sigh of relief. Bekter touched his thumb to the taut cord, making a deep twanging sound.

“Have you finished the arrows?” he said to Temujin.

“Just one,” Temujin replied, showing him the straight birch twig with a needle of bone set firmly into the wood. It had taken forever to grind the shard into a shape he could bind, leaving a delicate tang that fitted between the split wood. He had held his breath for part of the process, knowing that if he snapped the head, there could be no replacement.

“Give it to me, then,” Bekter said, holding out his hand.

Temujin shook his head. “Make your own,” he replied, holding it out of reach. “This is mine.”

He saw rage in Bekter’s eyes then and thought the older boy might use the new bow to strike him. Perhaps the time they had spent on it prevented him from doing so, but Bekter nodded at last.

“I should have expected that, from you.”

Bekter made a show of placing the bow out of Temujin’s reach while he found a stone to grind his own arrowhead. Temujin stood stiffly watching, irritated at having to cooperate with a fool.

“The Olkhun’ut do not speak well of you, Bekter, did you know that?” he said.

Bekter snorted, spitting on the stone and working the bone sliver back and forth.

“I don’t care what they think of me, my brother,” he replied grimly. “If I had become khan, I would have raided them the first winter. I would have shown them the price of their pride.”

“Be sure to tell our mother that, when we go back,” Temujin said. “She will be pleased to hear what you were planning.”

Bekter looked up at Temujin, his small dark eyes murderous.

“You are just a child,” he said, after a time. “You could never have led the Wolves.”

Temujin felt anger flare, though he showed nothing.

“We won’t know now, will we?” he said.

Bekter ignored him, grinding the bone into a neat shape for the shaft.

“Instead of just standing there, why don’t you do something useful, like finding a marmot burrow?”

Temujin did not bother to reply. He turned his back on his brother and walked away.

The meal that night was a pitiful affair. Hoelun had nursed a flame into life, though the damp leaves smoked and spat. Another night in the cold might have killed them, but she was terrified the light would be seen. The cleft in the hills should have hidden their position, but still she made them cluster around the flame, blocking its light with their bodies. They were all weak with hunger and Temuge was green around the mouth where he had tried wild herbs and vomited.

Two fish were the product of their day’s labors, both of them captured more by luck than skill in the river trap. As small as they were, the crisping black fingers of flesh drew the eyes of all the boys.

Temujin and Bekter were silently furious with each other after an afternoon of frustration. When Temujin had found a marmot hole, Bekter had refused to hand over the bow and Temujin had flown at him in a rage, rolling together over and over in the wet. One of the arrows had snapped under them, the sound interrupting their fight. Bekter had tried to snatch at the other, but Temujin had been faster. He had already decided to borrow Kachiun’s knife and make his own bow for the next day.

Hoelun shivered, feeling ill as she held the twigs in the flames and wondered who would starve amongst her sons. Kachiun and Khasar deserved at least a taste of the flesh, but she knew her own strength was the most important thing they had. If she began to faint from hunger, or even died, the rest of them would perish. She set her jaw in anger as her gaze fell on the two older boys. Both of them bore fresh bruises and she wanted to take a stick to them for their stupidity. They did not understand that there would be no rescue, no respite. Their lives were in two tiny fish on the flames, barely enough for a mouthful.

Hoelun prodded at the black flesh with a nail, trying not to give in to despair. Clear liquid ran down a finger as she squeezed it and she pressed her mouth to the drip, closing her eyes in something like ecstasy. She ignored her complaining stomach and broke the fish into two pieces, handing one each to Kachiun and Khasar.

Kachiun shook his head. “You first,” he said, making tears start in her eyes.

Khasar heard him and paused as he raised the fish to his mouth. He could smell the cooked meat and Hoelun saw saliva was making his lips wet.

“I can last a little longer than you, Kachiun,” she said. “I will eat tomorrow.”

It was enough for Khasar, who closed his mouth on the scrap and sucked noisily at the bones. Kachiun’s eyes were dark with pain from his hunger, but he shook his head.

“You first,” he said again. He held out the head of the fish and Hoelun took it gently from him.

“Do you think I can take food from you, Kachiun? My darling son?” Her voice hardened. “Eat it, or I will throw it back on the fire.”

He winced at the thought and took it from her at once. They could all hear the bones breaking as he crunched it into a paste in his mouth, savoring every last drop of nourishment.

“Now you,” Temujin said to his mother. He reached out for the second fish, intending to pass it to her. Bekter slapped his arm away and Temujin almost went for him again in a sudden rage.

“I do not need to eat tonight,” Temujin said, controlling his anger. “Neither does Bekter. Share the last one with Temuge.”

He could not bear the hungry eyes all round the fire and suddenly stood, preferring not to watch. He swayed slightly, feeling faint, but then Bekter reached out and took the fish, breaking it in two. He put the larger half in his mouth and held out the rest to his mother, unable to look her in the eye.

Hoelun hid her irritation, sick of the pettiness that hunger had brought to her family. They all sensed death was close and it was hard to remain strong. She forgave Bekter, but the last piece of fish went to Temuge, who sucked busily at it, looking round for more. Temujin spat on the ground, deliberately catching the edge of Bekter’s deel with the clot of phlegm. Before his older brother could rise to his feet, Temujin had vanished into the darkness. The damp air cooled quickly without the sun, and they prepared themselves for another freezing night.

CHAPTER 12

TEMUJIN HELD HIMSELF very still as he sighted along the line of the shaft. Although the marmots had all scattered at his arrival, they were stupid creatures and it was never long before they returned. With a decent bow and feathered arrows, he would have been confident in taking a fat buck home for his family.

The closest warren to the cleft in the hills was still dangerously exposed. Temujin would have preferred a few small bushes for cover, but instead he had to sit perfectly still and wait for the timid animals to risk coming back. He kept watch on the hills around him at the same time, in case a wanderer came over a crest. Hoelun had fed them with her warnings until they were all fearful of shadows and watched the horizon whenever they left the shelter of the cleft.

The wind blew into Temujin’s face so that his scent would not alarm his prey, but he had to hold the bow half drawn as the slightest movement sent them all diving back into their burrows like brown streaks across the ground. His arms were quivering with fatigue and always there was the little voice in his head telling him that he needed to make the kill this time, spoiling his calm. After four days surviving on tiny scraps and a handful of wild onions, Yesugei’s sons and wife were starving to death. Hoelun had lost her energy and sat listless as her daughter pawed at her and screamed. Only the baby had fed well for the first three days, but then Hoelun’s milk had begun to fail and their mother’s sobbing had been pitiful to the boys.

Kachiun and Khasar had climbed far up the cleft, scouting the land and looking for any animal that might have strayed away from a herd and gone wild. Kachiun had made himself a small bow and three arrows with tips hard and black from the fire. Temujin wished them luck, but he knew he had a better chance of saving them, if he could only make a good strike. He could almost taste the hot meat of the marmot as it sat up twenty paces away. It was a shot a child could have made if the arrows had been flighted. As it was, Temujin was forced to wait while the agony built in his arms. He dared not speak aloud, but in his mind, he called to the nervous creatures, willing them to wander a little farther away from safety, a little closer to him.

He blinked stinging sweat from his eyes as the marmot looked around, sensing there was a predator nearby. Temujin watched as the animal froze, knowing the next movement would be a vanishing scuttle as the alarm went up. He released his breath and loosed the shaft, sick with the expectation of seeing it wasted.

It hit the marmot in the neck. The strike had been without any real force, remaining stuck as the animal struggled in a frenzy, pawing at it. Temujin dropped the bow and leapt to his feet, running toward his kill before it could recover and disappear underground. He saw the lighter belly fur and the legs jerking maniacally as he ran, desperate not to lose his chance.

He fell on the marmot, gripping it frantically. It went berserk and, in his weakened state, he almost lost it as it writhed in his grip. The arrow fell away and blood spattered on the dry ground. Temujin found there were tears of relief in his eyes as he pulled the neck out and twisted it. The marmot still kicked and jerked against his leg as he stood panting, but they would eat. He waited for dizziness to pass, feeling the weight of the animal he’d caught. It was fat and healthy and he knew his mother would have some hot meat and blood that night. The tendons would be ground into a paste and layered with fish glue onto his bow for strength. His next shot would be at a longer range, the kill more certain. He placed his hands on his knees and laughed weakly at his own relief. It was such a small thing, but it meant so much, he could hardly take it in.

Behind his back, he heard a voice he knew.

“What did you get?” Bekter said, walking across the grass toward his brother. He carried his own bow on his shoulder and he did not have the pinched and starving look of the others. It had been Kachiun who first voiced the suspicion that Bekter was not bringing his kills back to the family. He accepted his share readily enough, but in the four days since they had come to that place, he had brought nothing of his own to the fire. Temujin stood straight, uncomfortable with the way Bekter’s eyes drifted over the prey he had taken.

“A marmot,” he said, holding it up.

Bekter leaned closer to see and then snatched at it. Temujin jerked backwards and the limp corpse fell sprawling into the dust. Both boys grabbed for it, kicking and punching wildly at each other. Temujin was too weak to do more than hold Bekter back before he was thrown off and left looking up at the blue sky, his chest heaving.

“I will take this one back to our mother. You would only have stolen it and eaten it yourself,” Bekter said, smiling down at Temujin.

It was galling to have Kachiun’s own suspicion thrown in his face and Temujin tried to struggle up. Bekter held him down with a foot and he could not fight him. His strength seemed to have vanished.

“Catch yourself another, Temujin. Don’t come back until you do.”

Bekter laughed then and snatched up the limp marmot, jogging away down the hillside to where the greenery became dark and thick. Temujin watched him go, so angry he thought his heart would burst. It fluttered in his chest and he wondered with a pang of terror if hunger could have weakened it. He could not die while Eeluk ruled the Wolves, or while Bekter had not been punished.

By the time he sat up, he had mastered himself once more. The foolish marmots had returned while he lay there, though they scattered as soon as he rose. Grimly, he returned to his arrow and notched it into the braided string, settling back into the stillness of the hunter. His muscles ached and his legs threatened to cramp under the strain, but his heart slowed to beat with force and need.

There was only one marmot to feed the family that night. Hoelun revived as Bekter brought it to her, and made a larger fire to heat stones. Though her hands shook, she nicked the belly neatly and scooped out the guts and organs, filling the space with pebbles hot enough to crack. She kept her deel wrapped around her hands, but twice she winced as the heat stung her fingers. The meat was seared from the inside and then the bloated skin rolled in the embers, charring it to crisp deliciousness. The heart too was roasted in the ashes until it sizzled. Nothing would be wasted.

The smell alone seemed to put a little color in Hoelun’s cheeks, and she hugged Bekter, her relief turning to tears she did not seem to feel. Temujin said nothing of what had happened. She needed them to work together and it would have been cruelty to accuse his smiling brother when she was so weak.

Bekter basked in the attention, his gleaming gaze falling on Temujin at regular intervals. Temujin stared darkly back when his mother was not looking. Kachiun noticed as the evening faded to night, and he jogged his brother with an elbow.

“What’s wrong?” the little boy whispered as they settled down to eat.

Temujin shook his head, unwilling to share his hatred. He could hardly think of anything else except the steaming scraps of meat pressed into his hands by Bekter, who chose the portions like a khan feeding his men. Temujin saw he kept the shoulder, the best piece, for himself.

None of them had ever tasted anything as fine as that meat. The family became a little happier, a little more hopeful, as it warmed them. One shot with the bow had brought about the changes, though Kachiun had added another three small fish and a few crickets to the fire. It was a feast that ached and burned inside them as the younger boys forced the morsels down too quickly and had to drink water against the heat. Temujin might have forgiven the theft if his brothers had not been so generous in their praise. Bekter accepted it as his due, his small eyes filled with an inner amusement only Temujin understood.

There was no rain that night and the boys slept in the second of the rough shelters they had constructed, a tiny part of their hunger laid to rest. It was still there, hurting, but they could hold it back once more and show the cold face to discomfort as they retreated from a ragged edge where no control was possible.

Temujin did not sleep. He rose on silent feet and padded out into the darkness, looking up at the moon and shivering. The summer would not last much longer, he realized as he walked. The winter was coming and it would kill them as surely as a knife in the chest. The marmots slept in their burrows in the cold months, far underground, where they could not be reached. The birds flew south and could not be trapped. Winter was hard enough for families in warm gers, surrounded by cattle and horses. It would be murder for the family of Yesugei.

As he stood and emptied his bladder onto the ground, he could not help thinking of the Olkhun’ut and the night he had crept out after Koke. He had been a child then, with nothing better to do than settle scores with other boys. He ached for the innocence of that night and wished Borte were there to hold. He snorted to himself at that thought, knowing Borte was warm and well fed, while his bones were showing.

Temujin sensed a presence behind him and spun, dropping low and ready to lunge or run.

“You must have good ears, brother,” Kachiun’s voice came. “I am like a silent breeze at night.”

Temujin smiled at his brother, relaxing. “Why are you awake?”

Kachiun shrugged. “Hungry. I’d stopped feeling it all day yesterday, then Bekter brings in a handful of marmot meat and my stomach has woken up again.”

Temujin spat on the ground. “My marmot. I killed it; he was just the one who took it from me.”

Kachiun’s face was difficult to read in the moonlight, but Temujin could see he was troubled.

“I guessed it. I don’t think the others noticed.”

He fell silent, a tiny grim figure standing in the dark. Temujin saw he had a bulge in his tunic, and he prodded it with a finger.

“What’s that?” Temujin asked, curious.

Kachiun looked nervously back toward the camp before he pulled something out and held it for Temujin to see. It was another marmot carcass. Temujin took it, felt the bones in his hand, already angry. They were split exactly as a hungry man would break them to get at tiny scraps of marrow. Bekter hadn’t risked a fire. The bones were raw, no more than a day old.

“I found it over where Bekter has been hunting,” Kachiun said, his voice troubled.

Temujin turned the fragile little bones over in his hands, running his fingers along the skull. Bekter had left the skin on there, though the eyes were gone. He had killed it on a day when there was nothing else to eat in the camp for any of them.

Temujin knelt and searched for any small scrap of flesh. There was a smell of rot on the bones, but it would not have spoiled too much in a single day. Kachiun knelt with him and they sucked each of the broken bones again, teasing out even a whisper of flavor. It did not take long.

“What will you do?” Kachiun asked when they were done.

Temujin made up his mind and felt no regrets.

“Have you ever seen a tick on a horse, Kachiun?”

“Of course,” his brother replied. They had both seen the fat parasites as large as the last joint on their thumbs. When they were pulled free, they left a trail of blood that took an age to clot.

“A tick is a dangerous thing when a horse is weak,” Temujin said softly. “Do you know what you must do when you find one?”

“Kill it,” Kachiun whispered.

When Bekter left the camp the following dawn, Temujin and Kachiun slipped out after him. They knew where he preferred to hunt and let him get far ahead, where he would not sense he was being watched.

Kachiun shot worried glances at Temujin as they crept along between the trees. Temujin saw the fear and wondered that he felt none of it himself. His hunger was a constant pain in his gut, and twice he had to stop and strain greenish liquid from his bowels, wiping himself with wet leaves. He felt light-headed and weak, but the starvation had burnt any sense of pity out of him. He thought he might have a light fever, but he forced himself on, though his heart bumped and fluttered weakly. This was what it was to be a wolf, he realized. No fear or regret, just a single drive to rid themselves of an enemy.

It was not hard to track Bekter on the muddy ground. He had not tried to conceal his path, and the only danger was that they would stumble across him when he had settled to watch for prey. Temujin and Kachiun padded silently behind, every sense straining. When they saw a pair of larks in a tree ahead, Kachiun touched his brother lightly on the arm in warning, and they walked a circle around the spot rather than have the birds cry an alarm.

Kachiun stopped and Temujin turned to him, wincing at the way his brother’s skull was perfectly visible beneath the stretched skin. It hurt to see it and Temujin assumed he too looked as close to death. If he shut his eyes, it seemed to rob him of balance, so that he swayed and had to fight dizziness. It required an effort of will to take a long, slow breath and lower his heart’s frantic pounding.

Kachiun raised an arm to point and Temujin stared ahead, freezing as he saw that Bekter had taken position a hundred paces farther on, overlooking the stream. It was hard not to be frightened of the figure kneeling like a statue in the bushes. They had all felt the force of Bekter’s fists and his weight on them in childish games. Temujin watched Bekter, wondering how to get close enough to take a shot. There was no doubt in his mind. His vision seemed bright and slightly blurred and his thoughts were cold, slow-moving things, but his path was set.

Kachiun and Temujin jerked as Bekter loosed an arrow into the water from where he hid. Both boys stepped back into cover as they heard a flurry of wings and panic and saw three ducks take off wildly, calling their warnings too late.

Bekter jumped up and waded into the stream. He was lost to sight then behind a tree, but when he came back to the bank, they saw he held the limp body of a red duck.

Temujin peered through a tangle of branches and thorns.

“We’ll wait here,” he murmured. “Find a spot on the other side of this path. We’ll take him on his way back.”

Kachiun swallowed a lump in his throat, trying not to show his nervousness. He did not like the new coldness he saw in Temujin, and he regretted showing him the marmot bones the night before. In the light of day, his hands shook at the thought of what they were intending to do, but when Temujin looked at him, he did not meet his stare. The smaller boy waited until Bekter’s back was turned and darted across the path, his bow ready.

Temujin narrowed his eyes as he watched Bekter retrieve the arrow and shove the duck into his tunic. He felt a pang of disappointment as Bekter stretched aching muscles and then strode away in the wrong direction, farther up the cleft. Temujin raised a flat palm to where Kachiun was hidden, though he could not see him. He thought of Bekter devouring the fat duck somewhere private, and he wanted to kill him right then. If he had been strong, with good milk and meat in his belly, he might have gone after him, but as weak as he was, only an ambush stood a chance of succeeding. Temujin eased his legs before they could begin to cramp. His gut sent a spasm of pain through him that made him close his eyes and curl up against it until it passed. He dared not drop his trousers while he waited, in case Bekter’s sharp nose smelled it. Yesugei had raised them all to be aware, and Temujin did not want to lose his advantage. He shut out the discomfort and settled down to wait.

The worst moment was when a wood pigeon came to alight on a tree not far away from where the two boys crouched, hidden in the damp undergrowth. Temujin watched it in agony, knowing he could make the shot easily at just a few paces. The bird seemed unaware of them and his hunger made him cramp again and again as he tried to ignore it. For all he knew, Bekter was coming back already, and every bird nearby would rise out of the trees and give away their position if Temujin shot the pigeon. Still, he could not look away, and when it flew, he followed its flight as far as he could, hearing the clapping of its wings long after it had gone.

Bekter came back when the sun had crossed above the cleft and the shadows were lengthening. Temujin heard his footsteps and dragged himself out of a near trance. He was surprised to find so much time had passed and wondered if he had even been asleep. His body was failing and the stream water could not fill the aching pain in his stomach.

Temujin nocked his arrow and waited, shaking his head against dizziness and to clear his vision. He tried to tell himself that Bekter would kill him if he missed, to make his body come alive and serve just a little longer. It was hard, and he rubbed angrily at his eyes to sharpen them. He could hear Bekter’s closeness and then the moment had come.

He stepped out into the path only a few paces from Bekter. Temujin drew the bow and Bekter gaped at him. There was an instant where Bekter scrabbled for the knife on his belt and then Temujin loosed, seeing the bone point punch into his brother’s chest. At the same moment, Kachiun fired from behind and to one side, rocking Bekter forward with a second blow.

Bekter staggered and roared in rage. He drew his knife and advanced a step, then another before his legs went and he fell. Both arrows had struck him cleanly and Temujin could hear the great bubbling hiss of a punctured lung. There was no pity in him. In a daze, he stepped forward, dropping the bow and taking Bekter’s knife from his fingers.

He looked across at Kachiun’s horrified face, then grimaced, reaching down and shoving the blade into Bekter’s neck, releasing his blood and his life.

“It is done,” Temujin said, looking down at the staring eyes as they glazed over. He could not feel his own weight as he patted Bekter’s deel and tunic, searching for the duck. It was not there, and Temujin kicked the body and staggered away from it, so dizzy he thought he would faint. He pressed his forehead against the cool wetness of a birch tree and waited for his pulse to ease its throbbing flutter.

He heard Kachiun approach, his steps soft on the leaves as they skirted their brother’s body. Temujin opened his eyes.

“We had better hope Khasar brought something back to eat,” he said. When Kachiun did not respond, Temujin took Bekter’s weapons, pulling the drawn bow up around his shoulder.

“If the others see Bekter’s knife, they will know,” Kachiun said, his voice sick with misery.

Temujin reached out and held his neck, steadying himself as much as his brother. He could hear the panic in Kachiun and felt the first echo of it himself. He had not thought about what would happen after his enemy was dead. There would be no revenge for Bekter, no chance to win back their father’s gers and herds. He would rot where he lay. The reality of it was only beginning to sink in, and Temujin could hardly believe he had actually done it. The strange mood before the shot was gone, and in its place, he had only weakness and hunger.

“I will tell them,” Temujin said. He felt his gaze drawn down to Bekter’s body once more as if pulled by an unseen weight. “I will tell them he was letting us all starve. There is no place here for softness. I will tell them that.”

They walked down into the cleft once more, each taking comfort from the other’s presence.

CHAPTER 13

HOELUN SENSED SOMETHING was wrong the moment she sighted the two boys returning to the camp. Khasar and Temuge sat with her, and little Temulun lay on a scrap of cloth near the fire’s warmth. Hoelun rose slowly from kneeling, her thin face already showing fear. As Temujin came closer, she saw he carried Bekter’s bow and she stiffened, taking in the detail. Neither Temujin nor Kachiun could meet her eyes, and her voice was just a whisper when it came at last.

“Where is your brother?” she said.

Kachiun stared at the ground, unable to reply. She took a step forward as Temujin raised his head and swallowed visibly.

“He was taking food, keeping it for himself…,” he began.

Hoelun let out a cry of fury and slapped him hard enough to knock his head to one side.

“Where is your brother?” she demanded, shrilly. “Where is my son?”

Temujin’s nose was bleeding in a red stream over his mouth, so that he was forced to spit. He bared red teeth at his mother and the pain.

“He is dead,” he snapped. Before he could go on, Hoelun slapped him again, over and over, until all he could do was curl up and stagger backwards. She went with him, flailing in a misery she could not bear.

“You killed him?” she wailed. “What are you?”

Temujin tried to hold her hands, but she was too strong for him and blows rained down on his face and shoulders, wherever she could reach.

“Stop hitting him! Please!” Temuge called after them, but Hoelun could not hear him. There was a roaring in her ears and a rage in her that threatened to tear her apart. She backed Temujin up against a tree and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking his thin frame with such violence that his head lolled weakly.

“Would you kill him as well?” Kachiun cried, trying to pull her away.

She tore her deel from his grasp and took Temujin by his long hair, wrenching his head back so that he had to look her in the eye.

“You were born with a clot of blood in your hand, with death. I told your father you were a curse on us, but he was blind.” She could not see through her tears and he felt her hands tighten like claws on his scalp.

“He was keeping food from all of us, letting us starve,” Temujin cried. “Letting you starve!” He began to weep under the onslaught, more alone than he had ever been. Hoelun looked at him as if he were diseased.

“You have stolen a son from me, my own boy,” she replied. As she focused on him, she raised a hand over his face and he saw her broken nails shiver above his eyes. It was a moment that lasted a long time as he stared up in terror, waiting for her to tear at him.

The strength in her arms faded as suddenly as it had come, and she collapsed in a limp pile, senseless. Temujin found himself standing alone and shivering in reaction. His stomach cramped, forcing him to retch, though there was nothing but sour yellow liquid.

As he stepped away from his mother, he saw his brothers were staring at him and he shouted wildly at them, “He was eating fat marmots while we starved to death! It was right to kill him. How long do you think we would have lived with him taking our share on top of his own catch? I saw him take a duck today, but is it here to give us strength? No, it is in his belly.”

Hoelun stirred on the ground behind him and Temujin jumped, wary of another attack from her. His eyes filled with fresh tears as he looked at the mother he adored. He could have spared her the knowledge if he had thought about it, perhaps inventing a story of a fall to explain Bekter’s death. No, he told himself. It had not been wrong. Bekter had been the tick on the hide, taking more than his share and giving nothing back while they died around him. His mother would see that in time.

Hoelun opened bloodshot eyes and scrabbled to her knees, moaning in weary grief. She did not have the strength to come to her feet again, and it took Temuge and Khasar to help her up. Temujin rubbed a bloody smear on his skin and faced her sullenly. He wanted to run away rather than have her look at him again, but he forced himself to stand.

“He would have killed us,” he said.

Hoelun turned an empty gaze on him and he shivered.

“Say his name,” she said. “Say the name of my firstborn son.”

Temujin winced, suddenly overwhelmed by dizziness. His bloody nose felt hot and huge on his face and he could see dark flashes in his vision. All he wanted was to collapse and sleep, but he remained there, staring up at his mother.

“Say his name,” she said again, anger replacing the dullness in her eyes.

“Bekter,” Temujin replied, spitting the word, “who stole food when we are dying.”

“I should have killed you when I saw the midwife open your hand,” Hoelun said in a light tone more frightening than her anger. “I should have known then what you were.”

Temujin felt he was being torn inside, unable to stop her hurting him. He wanted to run to her and have her arms wrap him against the cold, to do anything but see the awful vacant misery that he had caused.

“Get away from me, boy,” his mother said softly. “If I see you sleeping, I will kill you for what you’ve done here. For what you have taken from me. You did not soothe him when his teeth came in. You were not there to draw out his fevers with herbs and rock him through the worst. You did not exist when Yesugei and I loved the little boy. When we were young and he was all we had.”

Temujin listened, dull with shock. Perhaps his mother had not understood the man Bekter had become. The baby she had rocked had grown into a cruel thief, and Temujin could not find the words to tell her. Even as they formed in his mouth, he bit down on them, knowing they would be useless, or worse, that they would rouse her again to attacking him. He shook his head.

“I am sorry,” he said, though as he spoke, he knew that he was sorry for the pain he had caused, not the killing.

“Take yourself away from here, Temujin,” Hoelun whispered. “I can’t bear to look at you.”

He sobbed then and turned to run past his brothers, each breath hoarse in his throat and the taste of his own blood in his mouth.

They did not see him after that for five days. Though Kachiun watched for his brother, the only sign of him was in the prey he brought back and left at the edge of their small camp. Two pigeons were there the first day, still warm, with blood running from their beaks. Hoelun did not refuse the gift, though she would not speak about what had happened to any of them. They ate the meat in miserable silence, Kachiun and Khasar sharing glances while Temuge sniffled and wailed whenever Hoelun left him alone. Bekter’s death might have been a relief for the younger boys if it had come while they were safe in the gers of the Wolves. They would have mourned him and taken his body for sky burial, taking comfort from the ritual. In the cleft in the hills, it was just another reminder that death walked with them. It had been an adventure for a while in the beginning, until starvation stretched their skin over their bones. As things stood, they lived like wild animals and tried not to fear the coming winter.

Khasar had lost his laughter in the cleft in the hills. He had begun to brood after Temujin went away, and it was he who cuffed Temuge for troubling their mother too often. In Bekter’s absence, they were all finding new roles and it was Khasar who led the hunt each morning with Kachiun, his face grim. They had found a better pool farther up the cleft, though they had to pass where Bekter had been killed to reach it. Kachiun had searched the ground and seen where Temujin had dragged the body away and covered it with branches. Their brother’s flesh attracted scavengers, and when Kachiun found a lean dead dog at the camp’s edge on the second evening, he had to force himself to swallow every vital mouthful. He could not escape the vision of Temujin killing the animal as it worried at Bekter’s body, but Kachiun needed the food and the dog was the best meal they had found since coming to that place.

On the evening of the fifth day, Temujin strode back into the camp. His family froze at his step, the younger ones watching Hoelun for her reaction. She watched him come and saw that he held a young kid goat in his arms, still alive. Her son looked stronger, she realized, his skin darkened by days spent on the hills in the wind and sun. It was confusing to feel such a wave of relief that he was all right and, at the same time, undimmed hatred for what he had done. She could not find forgiveness in her.

Temujin took his find by the ear and prodded it into the circle of his family.

“There are two herders a few miles to the west of here,” he said. “They are alone.”

“Did they see you?” Hoelun said suddenly, surprising them all.

Temujin looked at her and his steady gaze became uncertain.

“No. I took this one when they rode behind a hill. It might be missed, I do not know. It was too good a chance to ignore.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he waited for his mother to say something else. He did not know what he would do if she sent him away again.

“They will look for it and find your tracks,” Hoelun said. “You may have brought them here after you.”

Temujin sighed. He did not have the strength for another argument. Before his mother could protest, he sat down cross-legged by the fire and drew his knife.

“We have to eat to live. If they find us, we will kill them.”

He saw his mother’s face become cold again and he waited for the storm that would surely follow. He had run for miles that day and every muscle in this thin body was aching. He could not bear another night on his own, and perhaps that fear showed in his face.

Kachiun spoke to break the awful tension.

“One of us should scout around the camp tonight in case they come,” he said.

Temujin nodded without looking at him, his gaze fixed on his mother.

“We need each other,” he said. “If I was wrong to kill my brother, it does not change that.”

The kid goat bleated and tried to make a dash for a gap between Hoelun and Temuge. Hoelun reached out and gripped it around the neck, and Temujin saw she was crying in the firelight.

“What should I say to you, Temujin?” she murmured. The kid was warm and she buried her face in its coat as it cried out and struggled. “You have torn my heart out and perhaps I do not care about whatever is left.”

“You care about the others, though. We need you to live through the winter, or we’re all finished,” Temujin said. He straightened his back as he spoke and his yellow eyes seemed to shine in the light of the flames.

Hoelun nodded to herself, humming a song from her childhood as she fondled the ears of the little goat. She had seen two of her brothers die from a plague that left them swollen and black, abandoned on the plains by her father’s tribe. She had heard warriors scream from wounds that could not be healed, their agonies going on and on for days until the life was dragged out of them at last. Some had even asked for the mercy of a blade opening their throat and been granted it. She had walked with death all her life and perhaps she could even lose a son and survive it, as a mother of Wolves.

She did not know if she could love the man who killed him, though she ached to gather him in and press away his sorrow. She did not, instead reaching for her knife.

She had made birch-bark bowls for the camp while her sons were hunting, and she tossed one to Khasar and Kachiun. Temuge scrambled forward to take another and then there were only two of the crude containers left and Hoelun turned sad eyes on her last son.

“Take a bowl, Temujin,” she said, after a time. “The blood will give you strength.”

He lowered his head on hearing the words, knowing that he would be allowed to stay. He found his hands were shaking as he took his bowl and held it out with the others. Hoelun sighed and took a firmer grip on the goat before jamming in the blade and cutting the veins in its neck. Blood poured over her hands and the boys jostled each other to catch it before it was wasted. The goat continued to struggle as they filled the bowls and drank the hot liquid, smacking their lips and feeling it reach into their bones, easing the aches.

When the flow was just a trickle, Hoelun held the limp animal in one hand and patiently filled her own bowl to brimming before she drank. The goat still pawed at the air, but it was dying or already dead, and its eyes were huge and dark.

“We will cook the meat tomorrow night, when I am sure the fire will not bring the herdsmen looking for their lost goat,” she told them. “If they come here, they must not leave to tell where we are. Do you understand?”

The boys licked their bloody mouths as they nodded solemnly. Hoelun took a deep breath, crushing her grief somewhere deep, where she still mourned Yesugei and everything they had lost. It had to be locked away where it could not destroy her, but somewhere, she was crying, on and on.

“Will they come to kill us?” Temuge asked in his high voice, looking nervously at the stolen goat.

Hoelun shook her head, pulling him toward her to give and take a little comfort.

“We are Wolves, little one. We do not die easily.” As she spoke, her eyes were on Temujin, and he shivered at her cold ferocity.

With his face pressed against the frozen white grass, Temujin stared down at the two herdsmen. They slept on their backs, wrapped in padded deels with their arms drawn into the sleeves. His brothers lay on their bellies at his side, the frost seeping into their bones. The night was perfectly still. The huddled gathering of sleeping animals and men were oblivious to those who watched and hungered. Temujin strained his eyes in the gloom. All three boys carried bows and knives and there was no lightness in their expressions as they watched and judged their chances. Any movement would have the goats bleating in panic, and the two men would jerk to wakefulness in an instant.

“We can’t get any closer,” Khasar whispered.

Temujin frowned as he considered the problem, trying to ignore the ache in his flesh from lying on frozen ground. The herdsmen would be hard men, well able to survive on their own. They would have bows close by and they would be used to leaping up and killing a wolf as it tried to steal a lamb. It would make no difference if the prey was three boys, especially at night.

Temujin swallowed past a hard knot in his throat, glaring down at the peaceful scene. He might have agreed with his brother and crept back to the cleft in the hills if it had not been for the scrawny pony the men had hobbled nearby. It slept standing up, with its head almost touching the ground. Temujin yearned to have it, to ride again. It would mean he could hunt much farther away than before, dragging even large prey behind him. If it was a mare, it might have milk, and his tongue tasted the sourness in memory. The men would have any number of useful things on their person, and he could not bear to simply let them go, no matter what the risk. Winter was coming. He could feel it in the air and the stabbing needles of frost forming on his exposed skin. Without mutton fat to protect them, how long would they last?

“Can you see the dogs?” Temujin murmured. No one replied. The animals would be lying with their tails tucked in against the cold, impossible to spot. He hated the thought of them leaping at him in the dark, but there was no choice. The herdsmen had to die for his family to survive.

He took a deep breath and checked that his bowstring was dry and strong.

“I have the best bow. I will walk to them and kill the first man to rise. You come behind and shoot at the dogs when they go for me. Understood?” In the moonlight, he could see how nervous his brothers were. “The dogs first, then whoever I leave standing,” Temujin said, wanting to be certain. As they nodded, he rose silently to his feet and padded toward the sleeping men, coming from downwind so his scent would not alarm the flock.

The cold seemed to have numbed the inhabitants of the tiny camp. Temujin came closer and closer to them, hearing his own breath harshly in his ears. He kept his bow ready as he ran. For one who had been trained to loose shafts from a galloping horse, it would not be hard, he hoped.

At thirty paces, something moved on the edge of the sleeping men, a dark shape that leapt up and howled. On the other side, another dog lunged toward him, growling and barking as it closed. Temujin cried out in fear, desperately trying to keep his focus on the herdsmen.

They came out of sleep with a jerk, scrambling to their feet just as Temujin drew and loosed his first shaft. In the dark, he had not dared to try for a throat shot, and his arrow punched through the deel into the man’s chest, dropping him back to one knee. Temujin heard him calling out in pain to his companion and saw the second roll away, coming up with a strung bow. The sheep and goats bleated in panic, running madly into the darkness, so that some of them came past Temujin and the brothers, veering wildly as they saw the predators amongst them.

Temujin raced to beat the herdsman to the shot. His second shaft was in his waistband and he tugged at it, cursing as the head snagged. The herdsman fitted his own shaft with the smooth confidence of a warrior and Temujin knew a moment of despair. He could not free his own and the sound of snarling on his left made him panic. He turned as one of the dogs leapt at his throat, falling backwards as the herdsman’s arrow hummed over his head. Temujin cried out in fear as the dog’s teeth closed on his arm, and then Khasar’s shaft hammered through its neck and the snarling savagery was cut off.

Temujin had dropped his bow and he saw the herdsman was calmly fitting a new shaft to his string. Worse, the one who had been downed was staggering back to his feet. He too had found a bow and Temujin considered running. He knew it had to be finished there or the men would follow and take them one by one under the moonlight. He yanked at his arrow and it came free. He pressed it to the string with shaking hands. Where was the other dog?

Kachiun’s arrow took the standing herdsman high under his chin. For a moment, he stood there with his bow drawn and Temujin thought he would still fire before death took him. He had heard of warriors so trained that they could sheathe their sword even after they had been killed, but as he watched, the herdsman collapsed.

The one Temujin had wounded was scrabbling with his own bow, crying out in pain as he tried to draw it. Temujin’s shaft had torn his chest muscles and he could not bend the weapon far enough to take a shot.

Temujin felt his heart settle, knowing the battle was won. Khasar and Kachiun came to his shoulder and all three of them watched the man as his fingers slipped off the bow again and again.

“The second dog?” Temujin murmured.

Kachiun could not draw his eyes away from the struggling man, now praying to himself as he faced his attackers.

“I killed it.”

Temujin clapped his brother on the back in thanks.

“Then let us finish this.”

The herdsman saw the tallest of the attackers take an arrow from one of the others and draw. He gave up his struggle then and let his bow fall, drawing a knife from his deel and looking up at the stars and moon. His voice fell still and Temujin’s shot took him in the paleness of his throat. Even then, he stood for a moment, swaying, before he crashed to the earth.

The three brothers moved carefully toward the bodies, watching for any sign of life. Temujin sent Khasar after the pony, which had managed to jerk away from the smell of blood despite the reins around its legs. He turned to Kachiun and took him by the back of the neck, pulling him forward so that their foreheads touched.

“We will survive the winter,” Temujin said, smiling.

Kachiun caught his mood and together they whooped a victory cry over the empty plains. Perhaps it was foolish, but though they had killed, they were boys still.

CHAPTER 14

EELUK SAT AND STARED into the flames, thinking of the past. In the four years since he had left the shadow of Deli’un-Boldakh and the lands around the red hill, the Wolves had prospered, growing in numbers and wealth. There were still those in the tribe who hated him for abandoning the sons of Yesugei, but there had been no sign of an evil fate. The very first spring of the following year had seen more lambs born than anyone could remember, and a dozen squalling infants had come into the gers. Not a single one had been lost in birth, and those who looked for signs were satisfied.

Eeluk grunted to himself, enjoying how his vision dimmed and blurred after the second skin of black airag. The years had been good and he had three new sons of his own to run around the camp and learn the bow and the sword. He had put on weight, though it was more a thickening than an excess of fat. His teeth and eyes were still strong and his name was feared among the tribes. He knew he should have been content.

The Wolves had ranged far to the south in those years, until they reached a land so infested with flies and wet air that they sweated all day and their skins grew foul with creeping rashes and sores. Eeluk had longed for the cool, dry winds of the northern hills, but even as he had turned the Wolves back on their old paths, he’d wondered what had become of the family of Yesugei. Part of him still wished he had sent a bondsman back to make a cleaner end to it, though not from guilt, but from a nagging sense of unfinished work.

He snorted, tilting back the skin and finding it empty. With an idle gesture, he signaled for another and a young woman brought it to his hand. Eeluk looked appreciatively at her as she knelt before him with her head bowed. He could not remember her name through the blurriness of the airag, but she was slim and long-legged, like one of the spring colts. He felt desire stir and he reached out to touch her face, raising it so that she had to look at him. With deliberate slowness, he took her hand and pressed it into his lap, letting her feel his interest. She looked nervous, but he had never minded that and a khan could not be refused. He would pay her father with one of the new ponies if she pleased him.

“Go to my ger and wait for me,” he said, slurring, watching as she crept away from him. Fine legs, he noticed, and considered going after her. The urge faded quickly and he went back to staring at the flames.

He still remembered how the sons of Yesugei had dared to stare at him as he left them behind. If it had been that morning, he would have cut them down himself. Four years before, he had barely placed his hands on the reins of the tribe and did not know how much they would stand from him. Yesugei had taught him that much, at least. The tribes would bear a great deal from those who led them, but there was always a point to watch for, a line not to cross.

Surely the first winter had taken those skinny children and their mother? It was a strange thing to be moving back into an area with so many memories. The camp for that night was a temporary one, a place to let the horses grow fat again on good grass. In a month or so, they would be moving back to the lands around the red hill. Eeluk had heard the Olkhun’ut too had returned to the area, and he had brought the Wolves north with more than a few half-formed dreams of conquest. The airag heated his blood and made him itch for a fight, or the woman waiting in his ger.

Eeluk drew in a deep breath, reveling in the frozen air. He had lusted after cold on the humid nights in the south, when his skin was red with bites and strange parasites that had to be cut out with a knife tip. The air in the north felt cleaner and already the coughing sickness had dwindled among the tribe. One old man and two children had died and been left on the hills for the hawks, but the Wolves were lighthearted as they traveled back to lands they knew.

“Tolui!” Eeluk called, though the idea was only part formed. He glanced to one side, where his bondsman rose from a crouch to stand by his shoulder. Eeluk watched the massive figure as he bowed, and felt the same sense of satisfaction as when he looked over their swelling herds. The Wolves had done well in the last great gathering of tribes, winning two of the short races and only losing the longest by a single length. His archers had been honored and two of his bondsmen had wrestled their way to the final rounds of the competition. Tolui had reached the fifth bout and was given the title of Falcon, before being beaten by a man of the Naimans. Eeluk had made him a bondsman as a reward, and with a year or two more to grow his strength, he would wager on Tolui to beat all comers. The powerful young man was fiercely loyal and it was no coincidence that Eeluk called on one who had been raised up by his own hand.

“You were just a boy when we last rode in the north,” Eeluk said. Tolui nodded, his dark eyes without expression. “You were there on the day we left the old khan’s children and his wife.”

“I saw it, but there was no place for them,” Tolui replied, his voice deep and sure.

Eeluk smiled. “That is it. There was no place for them any longer. We have grown rich since we came south. The sky father has blessed us all.”

Tolui did not respond and Eeluk let the silence grow as he considered what he wanted done. It was nothing more than ghosts and old wounds, but he still dreamed of Hoelun and woke, sweating. Sometimes she would be writhing naked under him and then he would see her bones jutting through the flesh. It was nothing, but the lands around the old mountain brought the past back from ashes.

“Take two men you can trust,” Eeluk said.

Tolui grew tauter as he loomed over his khan, eager to please him.

“Where will you send us?” he said, waiting for an answer while Eeluk filled his mouth with the airag and swallowed.

“Return to the old hunting grounds,” he said at last. “See if they still live, any of them.”

“Should I kill them?” Tolui asked.

There was nothing but simple curiosity in his voice, and Eeluk rubbed his swollen stomach while he thought. At his side was the sword that had once belonged to Yesugei. It would be fitting to end his line with a few swift cuts from that blade.

“If they have survived, they will be living like animals. Do what you want with them.” He paused for a time, remembering the defiance of Bekter and Temujin as he watched the flames. “If you find the oldest boys, drag them here, to me. I’ll show them what the Wolves have become under a strong khan before we give them to the birds and spirits.”

Tolui bowed his heavy head and murmured, “Your will,” before turning away to gather his companions for the ride. Eeluk watched him go in the firelight, seeing how he walked with firm, certain steps. The tribe had forgotten the children of Yesugei. Sometimes he thought he was the only one who remembered.

Tolui rode out from the camp with Basan and Unegen. Both of his companions were approaching thirty years of age, but they were not men born to lead as he was. Tolui reveled in his strength, and though he had seen only eighteen winters, he knew they feared his temper. For the powerful young bondsman, it was something he kept only barely under rein, enjoying the nervous glances he earned from older men. He saw how they moved with care in the coldest months and how they favored their knees. Tolui could come from sleep and leap up ready to work or fight, proud of his youth.

Only Eeluk had never shown the slightest hesitation, and when Tolui had challenged him to wrestle, the khan had thrown him so hard he had broken two fingers and a rib. Tolui took a perverse pride in following the only man who could match his strength, and there was no one more loyal among the Wolves.

For the first three days, they rode without speaking. The older warriors kept a wary distance from Eeluk’s favorite, knowing how quickly his mood could change. They scouted the land right up to the red hill, noting how the grass had grown thick and sweet for the herds Eeluk would drive before the tribe. It was good land and no other tribe had claimed it for this season. Only a few distant herders spoiled the illusion of being alone on the vast plains.

On the twelfth day, they sighted a solitary ger next to a river and galloped up to it. Tolui called “Nokhoi khor” to have the wanderer herdsmen hold their dogs, then jumped down onto the springy turf, striding to the low door and ducking inside. Basan and Unegen exchanged glances before following him in, their faces set hard and cold. Both men had known each other since they were boys, before even Yesugei had ruled the Wolves. It galled them to have the arrogant young Tolui leading them, but they had both grasped the chance to see what had become of those they had left behind.

Tolui accepted the bowl of milky salt tea in his huge hands, slurping it noisily as he sat on an ancient bed. The other men joined him after bowing their heads to the herdsman and his wife, who were watching the strangers in frank terror from the other side of their home.

“You have nothing to fear,” Basan said to them as he accepted his tea, earning himself a scornful glance from Tolui. The young bondsman cared nothing for those who were not Wolves.

“We are looking for a woman with five sons and a daughter,” Tolui said, his deep voice too loud in the small ger. The herdsman’s wife looked up nervously and Basan and Unegen felt a sudden quickening of their pulses.

Tolui too had noticed the response.

“You know them?” he said, leaning forward.

The herdsman pressed himself backwards, clearly intimidated by the bulk of this strange warrior. He shook his head.

“We have heard of them, but we do not know where they are,” he said.

Tolui held the man’s gaze, his body utterly still. His mouth opened slightly, showing white teeth. A threat had come into the ger and they could all feel it.

Before anything else could be said, a young boy came running through the door, skidding to a stop when he saw the strangers in his parents’ home.

“I saw the horses,” he said, looking around with wide, dark eyes.

Tolui chuckled and before anyone else could move, he reached out and pulled the child onto his knee, turning him upside down and swinging him. The little boy giggled, but Tolui’s face was cold and the herdsman and his wife stiffened in fear.

“We need to find them,” Tolui said over the boy’s laughter. He held him without apparent effort with his arms outstretched, flipping the child over so that he stood upright on Tolui’s knees.

“Again!” the boy said, breathlessly.

Tolui saw the mother begin to rise and her husband grip her arm.

“You know them,” Tolui said, with certainty. “Tell us and we will go.” Once more, he swung their son upside down, ignoring the delighted cries. Tolui tilted his head to watch their reaction. The mother’s face crumpled.

“There is a woman with boys, a day’s ride to the north in a small camp. Just two gers and a few ponies. They are peaceful people,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Tolui nodded, enjoying the power he had over her while her son chuckled oblivious in his arms. When they could not bear it any longer, he set the boy on the floor and pushed him toward his parents. The mother embraced her son, squeezing her eyes shut as she held him.

“If you are lying, I will come back,” Tolui said. The danger was clear in his dark eyes and the hands that could so easily have broken their son. The herdsman would not meet his gaze, staring at his feet until Tolui and his companions had left.

As they mounted outside, Tolui noticed a heavyset dog come ambling out from behind the ger. The animal was too old to hunt and stared at the strangers with whitish eyes that suggested he was almost blind. Tolui bared his teeth at the dog and it responded with a low growl, deep in its throat. He chuckled then, stringing his bow in swift, sure movements. Basan watched frowning as Tolui sent a shaft through the dog’s throat. The animal spasmed, making coughing sounds as they dug in their heels and rode away.

Tolui seemed to be in a fine humor when they cooked a meal for themselves that night. The dried mutton was not too old and the cheese was slightly rancid, sparkling on the tongue as they chewed and swallowed.

“What are the khan’s orders for when we find them?” Basan asked.

Tolui glanced over at the older man, frowning as if the question were an intrusion. He enjoyed cowing other warriors with his glares, backed always by a strength that could knock a pony to its knees with a single blow. He did not answer until Basan had looked away from him and another little struggle had been won.

“Whatever I choose, Basan,” he said, savoring the idea. “Though the khan wants the older boys dragged back. I will tie them to the tails of our mounts and make them run.”

“Perhaps these are not the ones we are looking for,” Unegen reminded the young warrior. “They have gers and ponies, after all.”

“We’ll see. If they are, we’ll bring the mounts back with us, as well,” Tolui said, smiling at the thought. Eeluk had not imagined there could be spoils, but no one would dispute Tolui’s right to take the possessions of the family of Yesugei. Their fate had been shown on the day the tribe left them. They were outside the laws of hospitality, mere wanderers with no khan to protect them. Tolui belched to himself as he pulled his hands inside his deel for sleep. It had been a good day. A man could hardly ask for more.

Temujin wiped sweat from his eyes as he tied the last crosspiece of wood together to make a small corral for their sheep and goats to give birth. The small herd had grown, with only a few mouths to feed, and two years before, the brothers had gone amongst the wanderers to trade wool and meat for felt. They had bartered for enough to make two small gers, and the sight of them never failed to raise Temujin’s spirits.

Khasar and Kachiun were practicing their archery nearby, with a target made from thick layers of felt wrapped in cloth. Temujin stood and stretched stiff muscles, leaning on the fence to watch them and thinking back to the first months when death and the winter stalked every step. It had been hard on them all, but their mother’s promise had been good. They had survived. Without Bekter, the brothers had grown a bond of trust and strength between them as they worked every hour of daylight. It had hardened them all, and when they were not working with the herd or preparing goods for trade, they spent every moment honing their skills with weapons.

Temujin touched the knife at his belt, kept sharp enough to slice through leather. In his ger there was a bow the equal of anything his father had owned, a beautiful weapon with an inner curve of shining horn. It was like pressing a knife edge to the fingers to draw its string back, and Temujin had spent months hardening his hands to bear the weight. It had not yet killed a man, but he knew it would send a shaft straight and true if he needed it.

A cool breeze came across the green plains and he closed his eyes, enjoying the way it dried his sweat. He could hear his mother in the ger with Temuge and little Temulun, singing to both her youngest children. He smiled at the sound, forgetting for a time the struggle of their lives. He did not often find peace, even in fragments. Though they traded with single herdsmen and their families, it had come as a surprise to find there was another society beneath the great tribes grazing across the land. Some of them had been banished for crimes of violence or lust. Others had been born without the protection of a khan. They were a wary people and Temujin had dealt with them only to survive. To one born in a khan’s ger, they were still tribeless men and women, beneath contempt. Temujin did not enjoy being one of their number, and his brothers shared the same frustration. As they grew into men, they could not help but remember the way their lives should have run. A single day had stolen all their futures, and Temujin despaired when he thought of scratching a life with a few goats and sheep until he was old and weak. That was what Eeluk had taken from them. Not just their birthright, but the tribe, the great family that protected each other and made life bearable. Temujin could not forgive those hard years.

He heard Kachiun shout with pleasure and opened his eyes to see a shaft in the very center of the target. Temujin straightened and strolled over to his brothers, his gaze automatically scanning the land around them as he had a thousand times before. They could never be safe and they lived with the fear that they would see Eeluk riding back with a dozen grim men at any moment.

That sense of foreboding was a constant in their lives, though it had dulled with time. Temujin had seen that it was possible to live beneath the notice of the great tribes as other wanderer families did. Yet it could all be taken from them by a single raiding party out for sport—at any moment, they could be hunted like animals and their gers torn apart or stolen.

“Did you see the shot, Temujin?” Kachiun said.

Temujin shook his head. “I was looking the other way, my brother, but it is a fine bow.” Like the one in his ger, the double-curved length had been dried for a year before the boiled strips of sheep horn were glued and overlapped onto the frame. The fish glue had made the gers stink for weeks afterwards, but the wood had become iron hard with its new layers and they were proud of what they had made.

“Take a shot,” Kachiun said, holding the bow out to his brother.

Temujin smiled at him, seeing again the way his shoulders had filled and the new height that seemed to come in bursts. Yesugei’s sons were all tall, though Temujin had grown beyond the others, matching his father’s height in his seventeenth year.

He took a firm grip on the shaft of the bow and notched an arrow with a bone head, drawing it back on the calloused pads of his fingers. He emptied his lungs and, at the moment when he might have taken a breath, he released the arrow and watched it plunge home beside Kachiun’s.

“It is a fine bow,” he said, running a hand along the yellow length of horn. His expression was somber as he faced them, and Kachiun was the first to notice, always sensitive to his brother’s thoughts.

“What is it?” Kachiun asked.

“I heard from old Horghuz that the Olkhun’ut have come back to the north,” Temujin said, looking out over the horizon.

Kachiun nodded, understanding immediately. He and Temujin had shared a special bond since the day they had killed Bekter. At first, the family had struggled simply to live through the winter and then the next, but by the third, they had enough felt for the gers and Temujin had traded a bow and wool for another pony to match the tired old mare they had taken from the herdsmen in the first days. The new spring of the fourth year had brought restlessness on the wind for all of them, though it affected Temujin particularly. They had weapons and meat and camped close enough to woods to hide from a force they could not handle. Their mother had lost her gauntness and, though she still dreamed of Bekter and the past, the spring had woken something of the future in her sons.

In his own dreams, Temujin still thought of Borte, though the Olkhun’ut had vanished from the plains, with no way of following them. Even if he had found them, they would have scorned a ragged wanderer. He did not have a sword, nor the means to barter for one, but the boys rode for miles around their little camp and they talked to the wanderers and listened for news. The Olkhun’ut had been sighted in the first days of spring, and Temujin had been restless ever since.

“Will you fetch Borte to this place?” Kachiun asked, looking around at the camp.

Temujin followed his gaze and he swallowed back bitterness at the sight of their rough gers and bleating sheep. When he had seen Borte last, it had been with the unspoken promise that she would marry him and be the wife of a khan. He had known his worth then.

“Perhaps she has already been given to another,” Temujin said, sourly. “She will be what? Eighteen? Her father was not a man to leave her waiting for so long.”

Khasar snorted. “She was promised to you. If she has married another, you could challenge him.”

Temujin glanced at his brother, seeing again the lack of understanding that meant he at least could never have ruled the Wolves. Khasar had none of the inner fire of Kachiun, the instant grasp of plans and strategies. Yet Temujin remembered the night when they had killed the herdsmen. Khasar had fought at his side. He had something of his father in him after all, though he could never grasp the subtleties Yesugei had loved. If their father had lived, Khasar would have been taken to the Olkhun’ut himself the following year. His life had also been thrown from its course by Eeluk’s treachery.

Temujin nodded reluctantly. “If I had a new deel, I could ride to them and see what has become of her,” he said. “At least I would know for certain.”

“We’ll all need women,” Khasar agreed cheerfully. “I have been feeling the urge myself and I don’t want to die without having one under me.”

“The goats would miss your love, though,” Kachiun said.

Khasar tried to cuff him, but his brother swayed away from the blow.

“Perhaps I could take you to the Olkhun’ut myself,” Temujin said to Khasar, looking him up and down. “Am I not the khan of this family now? You are a fine-looking lad, after all.”

It was true, though he meant it as a joke. Khasar had grown into lean strength and was dark and wiry under a mop of uncut hair that reached right down to his shoulders. They did not trouble to braid their hair anymore, and when they could be bothered to take a knife to it, it was just to hack off enough to clear their vision for hunting.

“Ten of the ewes are carrying,” Temujin said. “If we kept the lambs, we could sell a few goats and two of the older rams. It would get us a new stitched deel, and maybe some better reins. Old Horghuz was fussing with a set while I talked to him. I think he wanted me to make an offer.”

Khasar tried to hide his interest, but the cold face of the warrior had been lost between them for too long. They had no need to guard themselves the way Yesugei had taught, and they were out of practice. As poor as they were, the decision was Temujin’s alone and the other brothers had long accepted his right to lead them. It raised his spirits to be khan even of some ragged ponies and a couple of gers.

“I will see the old man and bargain with him,” Temujin said. “We will ride together, but I cannot leave you there, Khasar. We need your bow arm too much. If there is a girl come into her blood, I will talk to them for you.”

Khasar’s face fell and Kachiun clapped him on the arm in sympathy.

“What can we offer, though?” Khasar said. “They will know we have nothing.”

Temujin felt his excitement ebb and spat on the ground.

“We could raid the Tartars,” Kachiun said suddenly. “If we ride into their lands, we could take whatever we find.”

“And have them hunt us,” Khasar responded irritably. He did not see the light that had come into Temujin’s eyes.

“Our father’s death has never been settled,” he said. Kachiun sensed his mood and clenched a fist as Temujin went on. “We are strong enough and we can strike before they know we are even there. Why not? The Olkhun’ut would welcome us if we come with cattle and horses, and no one will care if they bear Tartar brands.”

He took his two brothers by their shoulders and gripped them.

“The three of us could take back just a little of what they owe us. For everything we have lost because of them.” Khasar and Kachiun were beginning to believe, he could see, but it was Kachiun who frowned suddenly.

“We cannot leave our mother unprotected with the young ones,” he said.

Temujin thought quickly. “We will take her to old Horghuz and his family. He has a wife and young boys. She will be as safe there as anywhere. I’ll promise him a fifth of whatever we bring back with us and he’ll do it, I know he will.”

As he spoke, he saw Kachiun glance toward the horizon. Temujin stiffened when he saw what had attracted his brother’s eye.

“Riders!” Kachiun yelled to their mother.

They all turned as she appeared at the door of the closest ger.

“How many?” she said. She walked out to them and strained to see the strangers in the distance, but her eyes were not as good as her sons’.

“Three alone,” Kachiun said with certainty. “Do we run?”

“You have prepared for this, Temujin,” Hoelun said softly. “The choice is yours.”

Temujin felt them all look to him, though he did not break his gaze away from the dark specks on the plain. He was still lifted by the words he had spoken with his brothers, and he wanted to spit into the wind and challenge the newcomers. The family of Yesugei would not be cowed, not after they had come so far. He took a deep breath and let his thoughts settle. The men could be an advance party for many more, or three raiders come to burn, rape, and kill. He clenched his fists, but then made the decision.

“Get into the woods, all of you,” he said, furiously. “Take the bows and anything you can carry. If they come to steal from us, we’ll gut them, I swear it.”

His family moved quickly, Hoelun disappearing inside the ger and emerging with Temulun on her hip and Temuge trotting at her side. Her youngest son had lost his puppy fat in the hard years, but he still looked fearfully behind him as they made for the woods, stumbling along beside his mother.

Temujin joined Khasar and Kachiun as they retrieved their shafts and bows, yanking bags onto their shoulders and running to the tree line. They could hear the riders shout behind them as they saw them run, but they would be safe. Temujin swallowed bitterness in his throat as he passed into the trees and paused, panting, looking back. Whoever they were, he hated them for making him run, when he had sworn no one would do it again.

CHAPTER 15

THE THREE WARRIORS RODE cautiously into the tiny camp, noting the wisp of smoke that still came from one of the gers. They could hear the bleating of goats and sheep, but otherwise the morning was strangely still and they could all feel the pressure of unseen eyes.

The small gers and the rickety corral lay by a stream at the bottom of a wooded hill. Tolui had seen the running figures disappear into the trees, and he was careful to dismount so that his pony’s bulk hid him from an ambush or a stray shot. Under their deels, Basan and Unegen wore leather armor like his own, a layer that would protect their chests and give them an edge even against a direct attack.

Tolui kept his hands low behind his horse’s neck as he signaled to the others. One of them had to check the gers before they moved on, or risk being shot at from behind. It was Basan who nodded, leading his mare into the shadow of the ger and using her to block the sight of him ducking inside. Tolui and Unegen waited while he searched, their eyes scanning the tree line. Both men could see heavy banks of thorn bush tied with twine amongst the trunks, forcing any pursuit to come on foot. The ground had been prepared by someone who had expected a raid, and they had chosen well. To reach the trees, the bondsmen would have to cross thirty paces of open ground, and if the sons of Yesugei were waiting with bows, it would be a hard, bloody business.

Tolui frowned to himself as he considered their situation. He no longer doubted the running figures were the sons they had left behind. The few wanderer families who scavenged on the plains would not have prepared for a battle as these had. He strung his bow by feel, never taking his eyes off the dark undergrowth that could be hiding an army. He knew he could ride away to return with enough men to hunt them down, but Eeluk would not have seen the rolls of thorns and he would think Tolui had lost his nerve. He would not have his khan believe that of him and he began to prepare himself for a fight. His breathing changed from long, slow inhalations to the sipping breath that raised his heartbeat and charged him with strength, while Basan entered the second ger and came out shaking his head.

Tolui clenched his fist, then spread three fingers in a sharp jab. Basan and Unegen nodded to show they had understood. They prepared their own bows and waited for his lead. Tolui felt strong and, in his leather armor, he knew only the most powerful arrow shot could hurt him. He raised his fist and the three men broke into a run together, splitting apart as they reached the open ground.

Tolui panted as he ran, watching for the slightest movement. To one side, he caught a flicker and threw himself into a wrestler’s roll, coming up fast as something hummed over his head. The other two men jinked as they closed the gap, but Tolui had seen by then that there was no way through the first line of trees. Every single gap had been closed by the great rolls of tied thorns. The sons of Yesugei must have pulled the last one behind them and Tolui found himself hesitating, while his heart pounded at being so exposed.

Before he could make a decision, an arrow punched into his chest, staggering him. The pain was colossal, but he ignored it, trusting in the armor to have prevented it from sinking in too far. They had good bows, he realized.

The three Wolves came to a stop in the worst possible position, facing the rolls of thorns. Yet as archers, each of them could take a bird on the wing: the situation was not as disastrous as Tolui had feared. For their enemies to shoot, they had to show themselves, if only for an instant. If they did, one of the three bondsmen would send a shaft back in the flick of an eye, too fast to dodge.

The sons of Yesugei must have realized the weakness in their tactic as silence grew and spread through the trees. The birds had all flown at the sudden rush of the warriors, and the only sound was the panting of men in fear of their lives, slowly coming under control.

Tolui took two slow paces to his right, crossing one leg over the other in perfect balance as Basan and Unegen spread out to his left. Every sense was heightened as they watched, ready to kill or be killed. It was too easy to imagine an arrow tearing into their flesh, but Tolui found he was enjoying the sense of danger. He kept his head high, then, on impulse, called out to the hidden enemy.

“My name is Tolui of the Wolves,” he said, his voice loud in the clearing. “Bondsman to Eeluk who was once bondsman to Yesugei.” He took a deep breath. “There is no need to fight. If you grant us guest rights, we will go back to the gers and I will tell you my messages.”

He waited for a response, though he did not really expect them to give themselves away so easily. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Basan shift his weight slightly, betraying discomfort.

“We cannot stand here all day,” Basan murmured.

Their eyes moved ceaselessly as Tolui hissed back, “You would let them run us off?”

Only Basan’s lips moved to respond. “Now we know they are alive, we should take the news back to the khan. Perhaps he will have fresh orders.”

Tolui turned his head a fraction to answer, and it was that movement that almost killed him. He saw a boy rise and pull smoothly back on an arrow. For Tolui, the world roared in his ears as he released his own shaft at the exact moment he was sent stumbling by another blow to his chest, just below the throat. The shot had been rushed, he realized over the pain. He heard Unegen shoot into the bushes and Tolui roared in anger as he rose, setting another arrow to the string.

Basan fired blindly where he saw something move. They heard no cry of pain and Tolui glanced to his left to see Unegen on the ground, a shaft through his throat from front to back. The whites of his eyes were showing and his tongue was hanging limply from his mouth. Tolui cursed, swinging his bent bow back and forth in a fury.

“You have asked for a hard death and I will give it to you!” he shouted. For an instant, he thought of running for the ponies, but his pride and fury kept him there, desperate to punish those who dared to attack him. His deel bristled with arrows and he snapped off two shafts with quick jerks of his hands when they interfered with his movement.

“I think I hit one of them,” Basan said.

Once more the silence returned with the threat of another exchange.

“We should go back for the horses,” Basan continued. “We can go around the thorns and come at them where it is clear.”

Tolui showed his teeth in fury. The arrowheads had cut him and his chest throbbed with pain. He barked each word like an order.

“Hold your ground,” he said, scanning the trees. “Kill anything that moves.”

Temujin crouched behind the barrier of thorns he had prepared months before. It had been his arrow that took Unegen in the throat, and that gave him a savage satisfaction. He remembered how Unegen had passed his father’s sword to Eeluk. Temujin had dreamed many times of taking his revenge. Even a small part of it was like the sweetness of wild honey to him.

He and his brothers had planned for just such an attack, though it had still been a shock to see bondsmen of the Wolves standing in their rough camp. Temujin had prepared a killing ground for raiders who would not have been as deadly as the men Eeluk had chosen for his best warriors. Temujin’s chest felt tight with pride that they had downed one of them, though it was mingled with awe. These were his father’s own warriors, the fastest and best. It felt a little like a sin to kill one of them, even Unegen. It would not stop Temujin trying to kill the others.

He remembered Tolui as a young boy with challenging eyes, not fool enough to interfere with the sons of Yesugei, but even then one of the strongest of the children in the Wolf encampment. From the glimpse Temujin had taken along the shaft of an arrow, Tolui had grown in strength and arrogance. He had prospered under Eeluk.

Temujin squinted through a tiny gap in the thorns, watching Tolui and Basan as they stood. Basan looked unhappy and Temujin recalled how he had been sent to the Olkhun’ut to bring him home. Had Tolui known that when he had chosen him? Probably not. The world had been different then and Tolui was just another grubby little brawler, always in trouble. Now he wore the armor and deel of a bondsman to a khan, and Temujin wanted to damage his pride.

Temujin kept himself completely still as he considered what to do. As slowly as he could, he turned his head to look over to where Kachiun had taken position. At any moment, he expected the movement to attract Basan’s sharp gaze and an arrow to plunge through the thorns at him. Sweat trickled down his forehead.

When Temujin caught sight of his brother, he blinked in distress. Kachiun was looking back at him, waiting silently to be noticed. The younger boy’s eyes were wide in pain and shock, and Temujin could see the shaft that had struck him right through his thigh. Kachiun had remembered the cold face on this morning where death had come for them. He sat like a statue, his features pinched and white as he looked back at his brother and dared not gesture. Despite his control, the feathers of the shaft quivered slightly and, with his senses heightened to the point of dizziness, Temujin could hear the faint movement of the leaves. Tolui would see, Temujin thought, and he would fire another shaft that would kill. It was not impossible that one of Eeluk’s men would smell the blood on the breeze.

Temujin held Kachiun’s gaze for a long time, each watching the other in mute desperation. They could not escape. Khasar was hidden from Temujin’s sight, but he too was in trouble, whether he knew it or not.

Temujin turned his head back with infinite slowness until Tolui and Basan could be seen. They too were waiting, though Tolui was clearly furious and, as Temujin watched, he snapped two of the arrows that stuck in his chest. The young man’s rage would have cheered Temujin if the shot that wounded Kachiun had not spoiled all their plans.

The standoff could not last forever, Temujin realized. There was a chance that Tolui would retreat, to return with more men. If he did that, he and Khasar would have enough time to take Kachiun to safety.

Temujin gritted his teeth, struggling with the decision. He did not think Tolui would tuck his tail between his legs and run for the ponies, not after losing Unegen. The man’s pride would not allow it. If he ordered Basan forward, Khasar and Temujin would have to risk another shot, though finding the throat of an armored man was almost impossible when he kept his head down and ran. Temujin knew he had to move before Tolui could reach the same conclusion, and perhaps walk clear and come at them from another route. The boys had blocked the approaches to the woods around the camp, but there were places where a single warrior could force his way through.

Temujin cursed his luck. It had been only moments since the exchange of arrows, but time seemed to have distorted as his mind raced. He knew what he had to do, but he was afraid. He closed his eyes for a moment and summoned the will. A khan made hard decisions and he knew his father would already have moved. Basan and Tolui had to be drawn away before they could find Kachiun and finish him.

Temujin began to crawl backwards, still keeping an eye on the intruders whenever he caught a glimpse. They were talking, he could see, though he could not hear the words. When he had covered ten or twenty alds, he used a birch to hide his movement as he rose to his feet and drew another arrow from the quiver on his back. He could no longer see either man and would have to shoot from memory. He sent up a prayer to the sky father to grant him a few moments of confusion, then he pulled back the bow and sent the shaft through to where Tolui had been standing.

Tolui heard the arrow in the fraction of time it took to break through the leaves, coming from nowhere. His own shaft was released before the other reached him, tearing a long scratch down his forearm before spinning uselessly away. He yelled in pain and surprise and then he saw a figure running through the trees and he nocked and loosed another in the hope of a lucky shot. It was lost in the thick brush of the hill, and Tolui’s anger overrode his caution.

“Get after him!” he shouted to Basan, who was already moving. They ran together to the east of the barriers, trying to keep the running figure in sight while they looked for a way into the trees.

When they found a gap, Tolui plunged through without hesitation, though Basan stayed back to watch in case the attack was a feint. Tolui climbed steadily and Basan ran to catch him in his rush up the hill. They could see that the young man carried a bow, and both of them felt the excitement of the hunt. They were well fed and strong and both were confident as they rushed past whipping branches and leapt over a tiny stream. The figure did not pause to look back, though they saw he took a path through the densest brush.

Tolui began to pant and Basan was red-faced with the climb, but they readied their swords and went on, ignoring the discomfort.

Kachiun looked up when Khasar’s shadow fell across his face. His fingers scrabbled for his knife before he saw who it was and relaxed.

“Temujin has won us a little time,” he said to his brother.

Khasar peered through the trees to where they could both see the men running higher and higher up the hill. The birch and pine reached only halfway up and they knew Temujin would be exposed until he could make it into the valley on the other side, where another wood lay. They did not know if he could escape the pursuers, but both brothers were shaken and relieved that Eeluk’s bondsmen had left them.

“What now?” Khasar asked, almost to himself.

Kachiun tried to concentrate through the pain that seemed like something eating the flesh of his leg. Weakness came and went in waves as he struggled to remain conscious.

“Now we remove this arrow,” he said, wincing at the thought.

They had all seen it done when the men returned from challenging raiders. The wound in his leg was clean enough and the blood flow had slowed to a trickle. Nonetheless, Khasar collected a thick pouch of leaves for Kachiun to bite on. He pressed the filthy mat into his brother’s mouth and then took hold of the arrow shaft, snapping it cleanly and drawing it through as Kachiun’s eyes widened, showing the whites. Despite himself, a low groan came through his lips and Khasar pressed his hand over Kachiun’s mouth to muffle the sound, choking him until the pieces of arrow lay on the ground. With quick, neat movements, Khasar cut strips from his waist cloth and bound the leg.

“Lean on my shoulder,” he said, heaving Kachiun to his feet. His younger brother was clearly dazed and light-headed as he spat out the wet leaves, but Khasar still looked to him for what they would do next.

“They will come back,” Kachiun said, when he had recovered himself. “Bring the others here. If we’re quick, we can take all the ponies and make for the second camp.”

Khasar stayed with him long enough to put him in the saddle of Tolui’s pony. He steadied Kachiun with a hand on his shoulder, pressing the reins into his fingers before racing off to where their mother was hidden with the other children. Temujin had prepared the bolt hole and Khasar gave thanks for his brother’s foresight as he ran. The appearance of Eeluk’s warriors had haunted all their dreams at some point in the years alone. It helped that Temujin had gone over and over the plans, though part of Khasar was sick at the thought of returning to the same dark cleft in the hills where they had spent their first few nights. Temujin had insisted on placing a tiny ger there, but they had not dreamed it would be needed so soon. They would be alone once again, and hunted.

As he ran, he prayed Temujin would escape his pursuers. When he made it back, he would know what to do. The thought that Temujin might not survive was too terrible for Khasar to contemplate.

Temujin ran until his legs were weak and his head swung with every step. At first, he had the strength and speed to leap and duck whatever crossed his path, but when his spit turned to bitter paste in his mouth and his energy faded, he could only blunder on, his skin whipped by a thousand branches and thorns.

The worst part had been crossing the top of the hill, as bare as a river stone. Tolui and Basan had launched shafts after him and Temujin had been forced almost to a walk to watch the arrows coming and jerk his tired body out of the way. They had gained on him across that vast empty space, but then he had found himself staggering among ancient trees again and had gone on, his vision blurring and every breath feeling as if it burned his throat.

He lost his bow when it snagged on a whip of briars, caught so firmly that he barely yanked at it before letting it go. He cursed himself for that as he ran, knowing he should have removed the string, or even cut it. Anything but lose a weapon that gave him some chance of fighting them off when they ran him down. His small knife would not help him against Tolui.

He couldn’t outrun the bondsmen. The best he could do was search for a place to go to ground. As he staggered on through the brush, he looked for somewhere to hide. The fear was thick in his throat and he could not clear it. A glance backwards showed him a jolting vision of the two men coming steadily through the trees. They had unstrung their bows, and he knew despair. He had not planned on being pursued for miles, and it was pointless wishing he had prepared a cache of weapons or a deadfall of the kind used to trap wolves in the winter. His panting turned into a murmur, then a full sound as every breath was a cry from his body to stop. He did not know how far he had come. The sun still hung in the sky above his head and he could only go on and go on, until his heart burst or an arrow found his back.

A narrow stream crossed his path and his foot slipped on a wet stone, sending him tumbling in a great spray of icy water. The impact broke his trance and he was scrambling up and running with a little more control in just a few heartbeats. He listened as he ran then, counting his steps until he heard Tolui and Basan splashing through the same water. Fifty-three paces behind, easily close enough to drop him like a deer if he gave them a single clean shot. He raised his head and summoned his endurance to take him farther. His body was finished, but he remembered Yesugei telling him a man’s will could carry him long after the weak flesh had given up.

A sudden hollow sent him out of their sight and he dodged through a stand of ancient birch. The briars were as high as a man there and he plunged into them without thinking, scrabbling madly against the scratching thorns to shove himself farther and farther into their gloomy protection. He was desperate and close to panic, but when the daylight had receded, he curled into a ball and held as still as he could.

His lungs screamed for air as he forced himself not to move. The discomfort swelled and fresh sweat broke out on his skin. He felt his face flush and his hands tremble, but he clamped every muscle of his mouth and cheeks tight as he blew a thin stream of air in and out, all he dared allow himself.

He heard Tolui and Basan crash past, calling to each other. They would not go far before they returned to search for him, he was certain. Though he wanted nothing more than to press his eyes shut and collapse, he used the precious time to wriggle farther into the dark core. Thorns scored him, but he could not cry out and simply pressed against them until they snapped off in his skin. Such little hurts did not matter compared with being caught.

He forced himself to stop his mindless crawling. For a little time, he had thought of nothing but darkness and safety, like a hunted animal. The part of him that was his father’s son knew the shivering leaves would give him away if he could not cease all movement. That inner self watched his scrabbling with cold disdain, trying to regain control. In the end, it was the sound of Tolui’s voice that made him freeze and close his eyes in something like relief. There was nothing more he could do.

“He’s hiding,” Tolui said clearly, frighteningly close. Both men must have doubled back as soon as they lost sight of him.

Temujin’s chest cramped and he pressed his hand into his sticky mouth to bite down against the pain. He concentrated on an image of his father in the ger and saw again the life that slipped out of him.

“We know you can hear us, Temujin,” Tolui called, panting. He too had suffered over the miles, but the bondsmen were as hard and fit as a man could be and they were recovering quickly.

Temujin lay with his cheek pressed against ancient leaves, smelling the musty richness of old rot that had never seen the light of day. He knew he could escape them in the dark, but that would not be for many hours and he could not think of any other way to improve his chances. He hated the men who were searching for him, hated them with a heat he thought they would surely sense.

“Where is your brother, Bekter?” Tolui called again. “You and he are the only ones we want; do you understand?”

In a different tone, Temujin heard Tolui murmur under his breath to Basan. “He will have gone to ground somewhere around here. Search it all and call out if you see him.”

The hard voice had regained some of its confidence, and Temujin prayed to the sky father to strike the man down, to burn him, or tear him apart with a bolt of lightning as he had once seen a tree destroyed. The sky father remained silent, if he heard him at all, but the rage kindled in Temujin’s breast again with visions of bloody vengeance.

Temujin’s searing breath had eased a fraction, but his heart still pounded and he could barely keep himself from moving or panting aloud. He heard footsteps nearby, crunching through the thorns and leaves. There was a patch of light through to the outside and Temujin fixed his gaze on it, watching shadows move. To his horror, he saw a booted foot cross the light and then it was blotted out completely as a face peered in, the eyes widening as they saw him looking back, his teeth bared like a wild dog. For a long, long moment, he and Basan stared at each other, then the bondsman vanished.

“I can’t see him,” Basan called, moving away.

Temujin felt tears gather, and over the roar of blood in his ears, he could suddenly feel all the aches and wounds his poor battered body had taken in the chase. He remembered Basan had been loyal to Yesugei and the relief was shattering.

He heard Tolui’s voice calling in the distance, and for a long time, he was alone with just the whisper of his breath. The sun sank toward distant hills unseen and darkness came early deep in the hill of briars. Temujin could hear the two men calling to each other, but the sounds seemed far away. Eventually, exhaustion stole his awareness in a sudden blow and he slept.

He woke to see a flicker of yellow flame moving across his field of vision. He could not at first understand what it was, or why he lay cramped and curled in brambles so dense he could barely move. It was frightening to be wedged in darkness and thorns, and he did not know how to get out without worming back the way he had come.

Through the gloom, he watched the torch burn trails on his vision, and once he saw Tolui’s face in its golden light. The bondsman still searched for him and now he looked grim and tired. No doubt the two men were hungry and stiff, just as Temujin was himself.

“I will tear the skin off you if you don’t show yourself,” Tolui shouted suddenly. “If you make me search all night, I’ll beat you bloody.”

Temujin closed his eyes and tried to stretch his muscles whenever the flame moved away. Tolui would not see the brambles quiver in the darkness, and Temujin began to prepare himself to run again. He eased his legs from where they were pressed against his chest, almost groaning with relief. Everything was cold and cramped and he thought his aches had woken him rather than Tolui’s shouting.

He used his hands to rub knots of muscle in his thighs, loosening them. His first rush had to be fast to carry him away from them. All he needed was a little start and the darkness would hide him from their sight. He knew the family would have made it to the cleft in the hills, and if he pushed himself, he thought he could reach them before dawn. Tolui and Basan would never be able to track him over the dry grassland, and they would have to go back for more men. Temujin vowed silently that they would never catch him again. He would take his family far away from Eeluk’s Wolves and start another life where they would be safe.

He was ready to move when the light from the torch fell across his patch of ground and he froze. He could see Tolui’s face and the bondsman seemed to be looking straight at him. Temujin did not move, even when Eeluk’s bondsman began pulling at the edges of the briars. The light from the torch cast shifting shadows and Temujin’s heart pounded in fear once again. He dared not turn to look, though he heard the flame crackle in the thorns around his legs. Tolui must have pushed the torch deep into the patch to cast light on his suspicions.

Temujin felt a hand scrabble at his ankle and, though he burst into life and kicked at it, the grip was like iron. He reached for the knife in his belt and yanked it free as he was dragged along the ground, coming out into the open with a cry of fear and anger.

Tolui had thrown down the torch to grasp him, and Temujin could barely see the man who grabbed hold of his deel and raised a fist. One huge hand crushed the wrist holding his knife and Temujin writhed helplessly. He hardly saw the blow coming before he was knocked into a darker world.

When he woke again, it was to the sight of a fire and the two men warming themselves around it. They had lashed him to a birch sapling, cold and chill at his back. There was blood on his mouth and Temujin licked at it, using his tongue to ease his lips apart from the gummy muck. His arms were high behind his back and he barely troubled to test the knots. No bondsman of the Wolves would have left a loose cord he could have reached with his fingers. In a few heartbeats, Temujin knew he could not escape and he watched Tolui through dull eyes, yearning for the bondsman’s death with all the ferocity of his imagination. If there had been any god to listen, Tolui would have gone up in flames.

He did not know what to make of Basan. The man sat to one side, his face turned toward the fire. They had brought no food with them and it was clear that they preferred to spend a night in the woods rather than drag him back to their ponies in the dark. Temujin felt a trickle of blood going down his throat, and he gave a choking cough, causing both men to look round.

Tolui’s bullish features lit up with pleasure at seeing him awake. He rose immediately, while behind him, Basan shook his head and looked away.

“I told you I would find you,” Tolui said cheerfully.

Temujin looked at the young man he remembered as a boy with arms and legs too large for him. He spat a fleck of blood on the ground and saw Tolui’s face darken. A knife appeared from nowhere in the bondsman’s fist, and Temujin saw Basan rise from the fire behind him.

“My khan wants you alive,” Tolui said, “but I can put out an eye, perhaps, in return for the chase? What do you think of that? Or cut your tongue in two like a snake?” He made a gesture as if to grab at Temujin’s jaw and then laughed, enjoying himself.

“It’s strange to think of the days when your father was khan, isn’t it?” Tolui went on, waving the knife close to Temujin’s eyes. “I used to watch you and Bekter when you were young, to see if there was something special about you, some part of you that made you better than me.” He smiled and shook his head.

“I was very young. You can’t see what makes one man a khan and another one a slave. It’s in here.” He tapped himself in his chest, his eyes gleaming.

Temujin raised his eyebrows, sick of the man’s posturing. Tolui’s odor of rancid mutton fat was strong, and as Temujin breathed its sourness, he had a vision of an eagle beating its wings into his face. He felt detached and suddenly there was no fear.

“Not in there, Tolui, not in you,” he said slowly, raising his gaze to stare back at the massive man who threatened him. “You are just a stupid yak, fit for lifting logs.”

Tolui brought his hand across Temujin’s face in a sharp blow that knocked his head to one side. The second was worse and he saw blood on the palm. He had seen hatred and vicious triumph in Tolui’s eyes, and he did not know if he would stop, until Basan spoke at Tolui’s shoulder, surprising him with his closeness.

“Let him be,” Basan said softly. “There’s no honor in beating a tied man.”

Tolui snorted, shrugging. “Then he must answer my questions,” he snapped, turning to face his companion. Basan did not speak again and Temujin’s heart sank. There would be no more help from him.

“Where is Bekter?” Tolui demanded. “I owe that one a real beating.” His eyes seemed distant as he mentioned Bekter’s name, and Temujin wondered what had gone on between them.

“He is dead,” he said. “Kachiun and I killed him.”

“Truly?” It was Basan who spoke, forgetting Tolui for a moment. Temujin played on the tension between them by replying directly to Basan.

“It was a hard winter and he stole food, Basan. I made a khan’s choice.”

Basan might have responded, but Tolui stepped closer, resting his huge hands on Temujin’s shoulders.

“But how do I know you are telling me the truth, little man? He could be creeping up on us even now, and where would we be then?”

Temujin knew it was hopeless. All he could do was try and ready himself for the beating. He set himself in the cold face.

“Be careful in your life, Tolui. I want you fit and strong for when I come for you.”

Tolui gaped at this, unsure whether to laugh or lash out. In the end, he chose to thump a blow into Temujin’s gut and then hammered at him, chuckling at his own strength and the damage he could do.

CHAPTER 16

TOLUI HAD BEATEN HIM again when he found the ponies gone. The young bondsman had been almost comically furious at the sheer nerve of Temujin’s brothers, and one unwary smile from his captive had been enough for him to take out his anger in a fit of frustration. Basan had intervened, but the exhaustion and blows had taken their toll and Temujin lost hours of the dawn as he drifted in and out of consciousness.

The day was warm and gentle as Tolui burned the gers Temujin and his brothers had built. Ropes of black smoke reached up to the sky behind them, and Temujin had glanced back just once to fix it in his mind, to remember one more thing to repay. He stumbled behind his captors as they began their long walk, jerked on with a rope around his wrists.

At first, Tolui told Basan that they would take new ponies from the wanderers they had come across before. Yet when they reached that place after a hard day, there was nothing waiting for them but a scorched circle of black grass to mark where the ger had once been. Temujin hid his smile that time, but he knew old Horghuz would have spread the word among the wanderer families and taken his own far away from these hard warriors of the Wolves. They may not have been a tribe, but trade and loneliness bound together those who were weak. Temujin knew word of the return of the Wolves would spread fast and far. Eeluk’s decision to come back to the lands around the red hill was like dropping a stone in a pool. All the tribes for a hundred days’ ride would hear and wonder if the Wolves would be a threat or an ally. Those like old Horghuz who scraped by without the protection of the great families would be even more wary of the ripples and new order. Small dogs slunk away when Wolves roamed.

For the first time, Temujin saw the world from the other side. He might have hated the tribes for the way they strode on the plains, but instead, he dreamed that his tread would one day send other men running. He was his father’s son and it was hard to see himself as one of the tribeless wanderers. Wherever Temujin was, the rightful line of Wolves continued in him. To give that up would have been to dishonor his father and their own struggle for survival. Through all of it, Temujin had known one simple truth. One day, he would be khan.

With nothing more than a little river water to ease his thirst and no hope of rescue, he could almost chuckle at the idea. First he had to escape the fate Tolui and Eeluk intended for him. He daydreamed as he trotted on his length of rope. He had considered coming forward and dropping a loop around Tolui’s throat, but the powerful young man was always aware of him, and even if the right moment came, Temujin doubted he had the strength to crush the bondsman’s massive neck.

Tolui was uncharacteristically silent on the march. It had occurred to him that he was returning with only one of the khan’s children and not even the eldest, that the valuable ponies had been stolen, and that Unegen lay dead behind him. If it had not been for their single captive, the raid would have been a complete disaster. Tolui watched the prisoner constantly, worried he would somehow vanish and leave him with nothing but his shame to bring back. When night came, Tolui found himself jerking from restless sleep to check the ropes at regular intervals. Whenever he did, he found Temujin awake and watching him with hidden amusement. He too had considered their return and was pleased that his younger brothers had at least denied Tolui the chance to strut new honors in front of Eeluk. To come in on foot would be a great humiliation for the proud bondsman, and if he hadn’t been so battered and miserable, Temujin might have enjoyed Tolui’s sullen withdrawal.

Without supplies from the saddle pouches, they were all growing weak. On the second day, Basan stayed to guard Temujin while Tolui took his bow and headed up to a tree line on a high ridge. It was the chance for which Temujin had been waiting, and Basan saw his eagerness before he could even open his mouth.

“I will not let you go, Temujin, no. You cannot ask me,” he said.

Temujin’s chest deflated as if the hope had been let out of him with his breath. “You did not tell him where I was hiding,” Temujin muttered.

Basan flushed and looked away. “I should have done. I gave you one chance, out of honor for your father’s memory, and Tolui found you anyway. If it hadn’t been dark, he might have realized what I had done.”

“Not him. He is an idiot,” Temujin said.

Basan smiled. Tolui was a rising young man in the gers of the Wolves, and his temper was becoming legendary. It had been a long time since Basan had heard anyone dare to insult him aloud, even when he wasn’t in hearing. Seeing Temujin stand strong before him was a reminder that there was a world outside the Wolves. When Basan spoke again, it was with bitterness.

“They say the Wolves are strong, Temujin…and we are, in men like Tolui. Eeluk has raised new faces as his bondsmen, men of no honor. He makes us kneel to him and if someone makes him laugh or has brought back a deer, say, or raided a family, Eeluk throws a skin of black airag at him like a dog who has done well.” As he spoke he stared up at the hills, remembering a different time.

“Your father never made us kneel,” he said softly. “When he was alive, I would have given my life for him without thinking, but he never made me feel less than a man.”

It was a long speech from the taciturn tribesman, and Temujin listened, knowing the importance of having Basan as an ally. He had no other in the Wolves, not any longer. He could have asked for help again, but Basan had not spoken lightly. His sense of honor meant he could not let Temujin run now that they had caught him. Temujin accepted it, though the open plains called to him and he ached to get away from whatever ugly death Eeluk intended. He knew better than to expect mercy a second time, now that Eeluk was secure in his position. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully, needing Basan to remember, to hear more than the pleading of a prisoner.

“My father was born to rule, Basan. He walked lightly with men he trusted. Eeluk is not so…certain of himself. He cannot be. I do not excuse what he has done, but I understand him and why he has brought men like Tolui to stand at his shoulder. Their weakness makes them vicious and sometimes men like that can be deadly warriors.” He saw Basan was relaxing as he spoke, considering difficult ideas almost as if one of them were not the captive of the other.

“Perhaps that is what Eeluk saw in Tolui,” Temujin mused. “I have not seen Tolui on a raid, but it may be he smothers his fear in wild acts of courage.”

Temujin would not have said it if he believed it. The Tolui he had known as a boy had been a blusterer more likely to run wailing if he hurt himself. Temujin hid his pleasure behind the cold face when Basan looked troubled, considering some memory in the light of Temujin’s words.

“Your father would not have had him as a bondsman,” Basan said, shaking his head. “It was the greatest honor of my life to be chosen by Yesugei. It meant more then than having the strength and the armor to attack weak families and raid their herds. It meant…” He shook himself, retreating from his memories.

Temujin wanted him to go further down that path, but he dared not press him for more. They stood in silence for a long time, then Basan sighed.

“With your father, I could be proud,” he muttered, almost to himself. “We were vengeance and death to those who attacked us, but never to the families, never to Wolves. Eeluk has us strut around the gers in our armor, and we do not work the wool into felt or break new ponies. He lets us grow fat and soft with gifts. The young ones know nothing different, but I have been lean and strong and certain, Temujin. I remember what it was to ride with Yesugei against the Tartars.”

“You do him honor, still,” Temujin whispered, touched by the man’s memories of his father. In response, he saw Basan’s face become calm and knew there would be no more from him that day.

Tolui returned triumphant with two marmots tied to his belt. He and Basan cooked them with hot stones sealed inside the skin, and Temujin’s mouth was wet with saliva as he smelled the meat on the breeze. Tolui allowed Basan to throw one of the carcasses where Temujin could reach it, and he tore at the scraps with deliberate care, needing to remain strong. Tolui seemed to take pleasure in jerking the rope whenever he reached to put food into his mouth.

As they started off again, Temujin struggled against weariness and the pain and soreness in his wrists. He did not complain, knowing it would give Tolui satisfaction to see any weakness. He knew the bondsman would kill him rather than let him escape, and Temujin could see no opportunity to get away from the men who held him prisoner. The thought of seeing Eeluk again was a gnawing fear in his empty belly, and then as evening came, Tolui came to a sudden halt, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. Temujin squinted through the setting sun and despaired.

Old Horghuz had not gone far, after all. Temujin recognized his piebald pony and the cart it pulled, piled high with the family’s meager possessions. Their small herd of goats and sheep went before them, the bleating carrying far on the breeze. Perhaps Horghuz had not understood the danger. It hurt Temujin to imagine the old man had stayed in the area to see what had become of the family he had befriended.

Horghuz was not a fool. He did not approach the walking bondsmen, though they could all see the paleness of his face as he turned to watch them. Temujin urged him silently to ride away as far and fast as he could go.

Temujin could do nothing but watch in sick anticipation as Tolui handed the rope to Basan and eased his bow from his shoulders, hiding it from view as he readied the string in his hands. He walked quickly toward the old man and his family, and Temujin could not bear it any longer. With a jerk that spun Basan around, he raised his hands and waved furiously at the old man, desperate for him to get away.

Horghuz hesitated visibly, turning in the saddle and staring back at the lone figure advancing toward him. He saw Temujin’s frantic gesture, but it was too late. Tolui had reached his range and strung his bow with a foot on the shaft, raising the weapon whole in just a few heartbeats. Before Horghuz could do more than shout a warning to his wife and children, Tolui had drawn and loosed.

It was not a hard shot for a man who could fire at full gallop. Temujin moaned as he saw Horghuz dig in his heels and knew the tired pony would not be fast enough. The bondsmen and their prisoner followed the path of the arrow. Tolui had sent another rising after it, which seemed to hang darkly in the air as the human figures moved too slowly, too late.

Temujin cried out as the shaft took old Horghuz in the back, making his pony rear in panic. Even at such a distance, Temujin could see the figure of his friend jerk, his arms waving weakly. The second arrow fell almost on the same track as the first, landing point first in the wooden saddle as Horghuz slid to the ground, a heap of dark clothing on the green plain. Temujin winced as he heard the thump of the second strike an instant after he had seen it land. Tolui roared his triumph and broke into a hunter’s trot, his bow held ready as he closed on the panicking family as a wolf will pad toward a herd of goats.

Horghuz’s wife cut the pony loose from the cart and put her two sons on the saddle after wrenching out the upright shaft. She might have smacked the little animal into a run, but Tolui was already shouting a warning. As he raised his bow once again, the fight went out of her and she slumped, defeated.

Temujin watched in despair as Tolui walked closer still, casually fitting another arrow to his string.

“No!” Temujin shouted, but Tolui was enjoying himself. His first arrow took the woman in the chest, and then he picked off the screaming children. The force of the impacts plucked them from the pony, leaving them sprawled on the dusty ground.

“What harm had they done to him, Basan? Tell me that!” Temujin demanded.

Basan looked at him in mild surprise, his eyes dark and questioning.

“They are not our people. Would you leave them to starve?”

Temujin dragged his eyes from the sight of Tolui kicking one of the children’s bodies out of the way to mount the pony. A part of him felt the crime in what he had witnessed, but he did not have the words to explain. There was no tie of blood or marriage with old Horghuz and his family. They had not been Wolves.

“He kills like a coward,” he said, still searching for the idea. “Does he face armed men with so much pleasure?”

He saw Basan frown and knew his point had struck home. It was true that the family of old Horghuz would not have survived the season. Temujin knew Yesugei might even have given the same order, but with regret and an understanding that it would be a sort of mercy in a hard land. Temujin sneered as the bondsman rode back to them. Tolui was a little man despite his frame and his great strength. He had taken their lives to satisfy his own frustration, and he was beaming as he returned to those who had watched him. Temujin hated him then, but he made his vows in the privacy of his own thoughts and he did not speak to Basan again.

Tolui and Basan took turns to ride the piebald mare, while Temujin staggered and fell behind them. The bodies were left for scavengers once Tolui had recovered his arrows from their flesh. The little cart caught the bondsman’s interest long enough to look through it, but there was little more than dried meat and ragged clothes. Wanderers like Horghuz did not have hidden treasures. Tolui cut the throat of a kid goat and drank the blood with obvious enjoyment before tying the body behind the saddle and driving the others along with them. They would have more than enough fresh meat to reach the gers of the Wolves.

Temujin had looked at the still, pale faces of Horghuz and his family as he passed them. They had made him welcome and shared salt tea and meat when he was hungry. He felt stunned and weak from the emotions of the day, but as he left them behind, he knew in a moment of revelation that they had been his tribe, his family. Not by blood, but by friendship and a wider bond of survival in a hard time. He accepted their revenge as his own.

Hoelun took Temuge by the shoulders and shook him. He had grown like spring grass in the years since they had left the Wolves, and there was no sign of his puppyish fat any longer. Yet he was not strong where it mattered. He helped his brothers work, but did only what he was told to do, and more often than not he would wander away and spend a day swimming in a stream, or climbing a hill for the view. Hoelun could have dealt with simple laziness as long as she had a switch to beat him. Temuge was an unhappy little boy, though, and he still dreamed of going home to the Wolves and everything they had lost. He needed time away from his family, and if it was denied him, he would grow nervous and sullen until Hoelun lost patience and sent him out to let clean air blow his thoughts like cobwebs.

Temuge was crying as the evening came, sobbing to himself in the tiny ger until Hoelun lost patience with him.

“What are we going to do?” he sobbed, wiping at a shining trail of mucus almost as wide as his nose.

Hoelun suppressed her irritation and smoothed down his hair with her hard hands. If he was too soft, it was no more than Yesugei had warned her would happen. Perhaps she had indulged him.

“He will be all right, Temuge. Your brother would never be easily caught.” She tried to keep her voice cheerful, though she had already begun to consider their future. Temuge could weep, but Hoelun had to plan, and be clever, or she might lose them all. Her other sons were stunned and miserable at this blow to their lives. With Temujin, they had begun to know a little hope. To lose him was a return to the absolute despair of the first days alone, and the dark cleft in the hills brought it all back, like a stone hanging on their spirits.

Outside the ger, Hoelun heard one of the ponies whicker softly to itself. She considered the sound as she made decisions that seemed to tear the heart from her chest. At last, when Temuge was sniffing in a corner and staring at nothing, she spoke to them all.

“If Temujin has not come back to us by tomorrow night, we will have to leave this place.” She had all their attention then, even little Temulun, who ceased playing with her colored bones and stared wide-eyed at her mother. “We have no choice now that the Wolves are coming back to the red hill. Eeluk will scout the area for a hundred miles and he will find our little hideaway here. That will be the end of us.”

It was Kachiun who replied, choosing his words carefully.

“If we leave, Temujin will not be able to find us again, but you know that,” he said. “I could stay and wait for him, if you take the ponies. Just tell me a direction and I will follow when he comes.”

“And if he does not come?” Khasar said.

Kachiun frowned at him. “I will wait as long as I can. If the Wolves come looking in the cleft, I will hide myself or travel by night after you. If we just leave, he might as well be dead. We will not find each other again.”

Smiling, Hoelun clasped Kachiun by his shoulder, forcing herself to ignore her despair. Though she smiled, her eyes glittered uncomfortably.

“You are a good brother, and a fine son,” she said. “Your father would be proud of you.” She leaned forward, her intensity disturbing. “But do not risk your life if you see him caught, you understand? Temujin was born with blood in his hand—perhaps this is his fate.” Her face crumpled without warning. “I cannot lose all my sons, one by one.” The memory of Bekter brought a spasm of sudden weeping, shocking them all. Kachiun reached out and wrapped his arms around his mother’s shoulders, and in the corner, Temuge began to sob on his own once more.

CHAPTER 17

EELUK SAT IN A GER twice the size of any other in the camp, on a throne of wood and polished leather. Yesugei had disdained such symbols of power, but Eeluk took comfort from being raised above his bondsmen. Let them remember who was khan! He listened to the crackle of torches and the far-off voices of the tribe. He was drunk again, or close to it, so that his hand blurred as he passed it in front of his eyes. He considered calling for enough airag to smash him into sleep, but instead, he sat in sullen silence, staring at the floor. His bondsmen knew better than to try to raise the spirits of their khan when he was brooding on better days.

His eagle perched on a wooden tree at his right hand. The hooded bird was a brooding presence that could be as still as bronze for the longest time, then suddenly jerk at a sound, tilting her head as if she could see through the thick leather. The red tinge to her feathers had remained, shimmering when her wings caught the light of torches. Eeluk was proud of her size and power. He had watched her strike a kid goat and struggle into the air with the limp flesh dangling. He had not allowed her more than a single scrap of flesh for the kill, of course, but it had been a glorious moment. He had given Yesugei’s eagle to another family, binding them in gratitude for a khan’s gift. He longed to show the pair to Temujin or Bekter, and almost wished them alive just to experience their anger one more time.

He remembered the day he had been given the red bird by Yesugei’s own hand. Against his will, sudden tears came to his eyes and he swore aloud and cursed the airag for bringing on his melancholy. He had been younger then and for the young everything is better, cleaner, and finer than for those who have let themselves grow thick-bodied and drunk every evening. Yet he was still strong, he knew it. Strong enough to break anyone who dared to test him.

Eeluk looked blearily around him for Tolui, forgetting for a moment that he had not returned. The Wolves had traveled slowly, drifting farther north since Tolui had left with Basan and Unegen. It should have been a simple enough matter to determine whether Yesugei’s children still lived, or at least to find their bones. Eeluk thought back to his first winter as khan and shuddered. It had been bitter even on the trip south. For those in the north, it would have been cruelly hard, on the young and the old alike. Hoelun and her children would not have lasted long, he was almost certain. Yet it nagged at him. What could have delayed Tolui and the other men? The young wrestler was a useful man to have close, Eeluk knew. His loyalty was unquestioning, in comparison with some of the older men. Eeluk knew there were those who still denied his right to lead the tribe, fools who could not accept the new order. He made sure they were watched and, when the time came, they would find men like Tolui outside their gers one dawn. He would take their heads himself, as a khan should. It was never far from his thoughts that he had won the tribe with strength—and only strength could hold it. Disloyalty could grow unchecked until they found the courage to challenge him. Had he not felt the seeds of it long before Yesugei was killed? In his most secret heart, he had.

When the warning horns sounded, Eeluk lurched to his feet, taking his sword from where it lay propped against the arm of his chair. The red bird screeched, but he ignored it, shaking his head to clear it of fumes as he strode out into the cold air. He could already feel the rush of blood and excitement he relished. He hoped for raiders, or Tolui’s return with the children of the old khan. One or the other would bring blood to his sword, and he never found sleep so sweet and dreamless as when he had killed a man.

His horse was brought for him and he mounted carefully rather than stumble. He could feel the airag in him, but it just made him stronger. He turned bleary red eyes on his bondsmen as they gathered and then dug in his heels, sending his stallion careering out to meet the threat.

Eeluk whooped into the cold wind as the riders formed around him in perfect formation. They were Wolves and they were to be feared. He never felt as alive as at that moment, when disloyalties were forgotten and a single enemy had to be faced. That was what he craved, rather than the petty problems and feuds of the families. What did he care about those? His sword and bow were ready for their defense, and that was all he had to give them. They could grow and increase their numbers, just as the goats did in their care. Nothing else mattered as long as the warriors rode and he led them.

At full gallop, Eeluk lowered his sword over the stallion’s ears and called “Chuh!” for more speed, feeling the airag burn out of him. He wished there could be an enemy host coming against them, a battle to test his courage and make him feel again the intoxication of walking close to death. Instead, he saw only two figures on the plain, riding dark brown ponies too heavily laden to be a threat. The disappointment was bitter in his throat, but he quelled it, forcing the cold face. The Wolves would take whatever the two men owned, leaving them with their lives unless they chose to fight. Eeluk hoped they would as he drew close, his men riding around and taking positions.

With drunken care, Eeluk dismounted and walked to face the strangers. To his surprise, he saw that they were both armed, though they were not fool enough to draw their swords. It was rare to see long blades in the hands of wanderers. The skill to fold and beat steel was highly sought after amongst the tribes, and a good sword would be a valuable possession. Yet the pair did not look prosperous. Their clothes may once have been good quality, but were filthy with ancient dust and dirt. Through the vagueness of the black airag in his blood, Eeluk’s interest was aroused.

As he strode closer, he watched the men carefully, remembering Yesugei’s lessons on judging his enemies. One was old enough to be father to the second, but he looked strong despite his gray hair, braided and oiled into a queue down his back. Eeluk felt a prickling sense of danger in the way he was standing, and ignored the younger one, knowing by instinct to watch the elder for a first move. He could not have explained his decision, but it had saved his life more than once.

Despite being surrounded by mounted warriors, neither man bowed his head. Eeluk frowned at them, wondering at their strangeness and their confidence. Before he could speak, the older of the two men seemed to start, his sharp eyes picking out the leaping wolf on Eeluk’s armor. He murmured something to his companion and both relaxed visibly.

“My name is Arslan,” the older said clearly, “and this is my son, Jelme. We are pledged to the Wolves and we have found you at last.” When Eeluk did not reply, the man looked around him at the faces of the bondsmen. “Where is the one called Yesugei? I have honored my vow. I have found you at last.”

Eeluk glowered at the strangers as they sat in the warmth of his ger. Two of his bondsmen stood outside the door in the cold, ready to come at his call. Inside, only Eeluk was armed. Despite that, he felt a constant tension in their presence, for no reason he could bring clearly to his thoughts. Perhaps it was the utter lack of fear in both of them. Arslan had shown no surprise or awe at the great ger Eeluk had had constructed. He had handed over his own sword without a backwards glance. When Arslan’s gaze drifted over the weapons on the walls, Eeluk was almost sure he had seen a faint sneer appear on his face, gone as quickly as it came. Only the red bird had held his attention, and to Eeluk’s irritation, Arslan had made a clicking sound in the back of his throat and run a hand down the red-gold feathering of her chest. She had not reacted and Eeluk felt his own simmering anger increase.

“Yesugei was killed by Tartars almost five years ago,” Eeluk said, when they had settled themselves and drunk their bowls of tea. “Who are you to come to us now?”

The younger man opened his mouth to answer, but Arslan touched him lightly on the arm and he subsided.

“It would have been earlier if you had stayed in the north. My son and I have ridden more than a thousand days to find you and honor the vow I made to your father.”

“He was not my father,” Eeluk snapped. “I was first among his bondsmen.” He saw the two men exchange glances.

“It was no idle rumor then, that you abandoned Yesugei’s sons and wife on the plain?” Arslan asked softly.

Eeluk found himself becoming defensive under the man’s quiet scrutiny.

“I am khan of the Wolves,” he replied. “I have ruled them for four years and they are stronger than they have ever been. If you are pledged to the Wolves, you are pledged to me.”

Once again, he saw Arslan and his son glance at each other, and Eeluk grew angry.

“Look at me when I am talking to you,” he ordered.

Obediently, Arslan faced the man on the throne of wood and leather, saying nothing.

“How did you come by long blades like the ones you carried?” Eeluk asked.

“It is my craft to make them, my lord,” Arslan said softly. “I was once the armorer for the Naimans.”

“You were banished?” Eeluk asked immediately. He wished he had not drunk as much before they came. His thoughts felt sluggish and he still sensed danger from the older man, for all his calm speech. There was an economy of movement about him, a suggestion of hardness that Eeluk recognized. The man may have been a swordsmith, but he was a warrior also. His son was as lean as a rope, but whatever it was that made a man dangerous was not there in him, and Eeluk could dismiss him from his thoughts.

“I left the khan after he took my wife for his own,” Arslan replied.

Eeluk started suddenly, remembering a story he had heard years before.

“I have heard of this,” he began, straining his memory. “You are the one who challenged the khan of the Naimans? You are the oath-breaker?”

Arslan sighed, remembering old pain. “It was a long time ago and I was younger, but yes. The khan was a cruel man and, though he accepted my challenge, he returned first to his ger. We fought and I killed him, but when I went to claim my wife, I found he had cut her throat. It is a tired story and I have not thought of it for many years.”

Arslan’s eyes were dark with grief but Eeluk did not believe him.

“I heard of it even in the south where the air is hot and wet. If you are the same man, you are said to be very skilled with the blade. Is it true?”

Arslan shrugged. “Stories always exaggerate. Perhaps I was once. My son is better than I am now. Yet I have my bellows and I can build a forge. I have my skills and I can still make weapons of war. I met Yesugei when he was hunting with his hawk. He saw the value for his families and offered to break tradition, to bring us back into a tribe.” He paused for a moment, looking back over the years. “I was alone and despairing when he found me. My wife had been taken by another and I did not want to live. He offered me sanctuary with the Wolves, if I could bring her out with my son. He was a great man, I think.”

“I am greater,” Eeluk replied, irritated to have Yesugei praised in his own ger. “If you have the skills you claim, the Wolves will still welcome you with honor.”

For a long time, Arslan did not respond or look away. Eeluk could feel the tension grow in the ger, and he had to force himself not to let his fingers drop to his sword hilt. He saw the red bird look up in her hood, as if she too felt the strained air between them.

“I pledged myself to Yesugei and his heirs,” Arslan said.

Eeluk snorted. “Am I not khan here? The Wolves are mine and you have offered yourself to the Wolves. I accept you both and I will offer you a ger, sheep, salt, and safety.”

Once again, the silence stretched and became uncomfortable, until Eeluk wanted to curse. Then Arslan nodded, bowing his head.

“You do us a great honor,” he replied.

Eeluk smiled. “Then it is settled. You have come at a time when I will need good weapons. Your son will be one of my bondsmen if he is as quick with a sword as you say. We will ride to war with blades from your forge. Believe me when I say it is time for the Wolves to rise.”

In the musty darkness of a new ger, Jelme turned to his father, keeping his voice low.

“Are we staying here, then?”

His father shook his head unseen in the gloom. Aware of the possibility of listening ears, he pitched his voice at barely more than a breath.

“We are not. This man who calls himself khan is just a yapping dog with blood on his hands. Can you see me serving another like the khan of the Naimans? Yesugei was a man of honor, a man I could follow without regret. He came across me when I was picking wild onions, with just a little knife. He could have stolen everything I had, yet he did not.”

“You would have killed him if he had tried,” Jelme said, smiling in the darkness. He had seen his father fight and knew that, even unarmed, he was more than a match for most swordsmen.

“I might have surprised him,” Arslan replied without pride, “but he did not know that. He was hunting alone, and I sensed he did not want company, but he treated me with honor. He shared meat and salt with me.” Arslan sighed, remembering. “I liked him. I am sorry to hear he has gone from the plains. This Eeluk is weak where he, Yesugei, was strong. I will not have my beautiful swords in his hands.”

“I knew it,” Jelme said. “You did not give him your oath, and I guessed. He did not even hear the words you used. The man is a fool, but you know he will not let us go.”

“No, he will not,” Arslan said. “I should have listened to the rumors about the new khan. I should not have brought you into danger.”

Jelme snorted. “Where else would I go, Father? My place is at your side.” He thought for a moment. “Shall I challenge him?”

“No!” Arslan said in a harsh whisper. “A man who could leave children on the plains to freeze with their mother? He would have you taken and beheaded without even drawing his own blade. We have made a mistake coming here, but now all we can do is watch for a time to leave. I will build my forge with new bricks of clay and that will take time. I will send you out for wood and herbs, anything to get you away from the camp. Learn the names of the guards and have them become used to you foraging for materials. You can find a place to store what we need and, when the time is right, I will bring the ponies out.”

“He will send guards with us,” Jelme answered.

Arslan chuckled. “Let him. I have not met a man I cannot kill. We will be gone from here by the end of summer, and the forge I will leave them will be useless for anything except scrap iron.”

Jelme sighed for a moment. It had been a long time since he had seen the inside of a ger, and part of him did not relish the thought of returning to hard nights and the bitterness of the winters.

“There are some pretty women here,” he said.

His father sat up as he heard the longing in his son’s voice. He did not reply for some time.

“I have not given thought to it, my son. Perhaps I am being foolish. I will not marry again, but if you want to remain and make a place amongst these people, I will stay with you. I cannot drag you behind me for the rest of my life.”

Jelme reached out in the dark to find his father’s arm.

“I go where you go, you know that. Your vow binds me as much as it does you.”

Arslan snorted. “A vow to the dead binds no one. If Yesugei had lived, or if his children survived, I would go to them with a clear heart. As it is, there is no life for us but here or on the plains with the real wolves. Do not answer me tonight. Sleep; we will talk again in the morning.”

Eeluk rose at dawn, his head hammering with pain and slick sweat foul on his skin. He had called for more airag after Arslan and Jelme had gone to the ger, and at most he had slept for a hand’s breadth of the stars moving in the sky. He felt terrible, but as he came out of his ger and surveyed the camp, he was startled to see Arslan and his son already awake. The two newcomers were exercising together, their swords drawn as they stretched and moved in what looked like a dance, to Eeluk’s sleepy eyes.

Already, a few of the bondsmen had gathered around them, some of them laughing and making crude comments. The two men ignored the others as if they did not exist, and for those with an eye to see, the balance and agility they practiced revealed a very high level of skill. Arslan was bare-chested and his skin was a patchwork of scarring. Even Eeluk was impressed at the markings, from the white lattice of old cuts on his arms, to knots of burns and arrowheads on his shoulders and chest. The man had fought and, as he spun in the air, Eeluk saw only a few wounds in the paler skin of his back. The pair were impressive, Eeluk admitted reluctantly. Arslan shone with sweat, though was not breathing heavily. Eeluk watched glowering, trying to recall the conversation of the previous night. He noticed that the bondsmen had fallen silent, and he snorted to himself as father and son finished the routine. He did not trust them. As he stood and scratched himself he saw two of his bondsmen engage Arslan in conversation, clearly asking questions about the exercises they had seen. Eeluk wondered if the newcomers could be spies, or even assassins. The older man, in particular, had the look of a killer, and Eeluk knew he would have to force a little obedience, or have his authority questioned in his own camp.

Despite his misgivings, their arrival was a blessing from the sky father, at a time when he planned a campaign against the Olkhun’ut. The Wolves were growing and he felt the spring tide in his gut and blood, calling him to war. He would need good swords for every young warrior of the families, and perhaps Arslan was the man to produce them. The armorer they had was an old drunk and only his valuable craft prevented him being left out in the snow each winter. Eeluk smiled to himself at the thought that Arslan would make chain mail and blades for the Wolves to grow in strength.

When Eeluk dreamed, it was always of death. The oldest woman had cast the bones in his ger and prophesied a great bloodletting under his banners. Perhaps Arslan was a messenger from the spirits, as the legends told. Eeluk stretched, feeling his strength as his bones cracked and his muscles tightened deliciously. He had woken his ambition after the death of Yesugei. There was no telling where it would take him.

It was four days after the arrival of Arslan and his son that Tolui and Basan returned to the gers of the Wolves, dragging a battered figure behind them. Eeluk rode out with the others and he yelled hoarsely when he saw his men had returned with a live captive. He wanted it to be Bekter, but somehow it was sweeter still to see Temujin staring back at him through swollen eyes.

The journey had been hard on Temujin, but he stood as straight and tall as he could as Eeluk dismounted. He had been dreading the moment ever since they had caught him, and now that it had come, exhaustion and pain made him numb.

“Am I granted guest rights, then?” he said.

Eeluk snorted and backhanded a blow across his face that tumbled him to the ground.

“Welcome home, Temujin,” Eeluk said, showing strong white teeth. “I have waited a long time to see you with your belly on the ground.” As he spoke he raised his leg and pressed Temujin facedown into the dust. Little by little he increased the pressure, and there was a light in his eye that made the other warriors silent.

It was Basan who broke the silence. “My lord, Unegen is dead. The others escaped.”

Eeluk seemed to drag himself back from far away to answer, releasing the silent figure under his boot.

“They all survived?” he said, surprised.

Basan shook his head. “Bekter is dead. I understand the others still live. We found their camp and burned it.”

Eeluk did not care that Unegen had fallen. The man had been one of the old bondsmen. None of them could truly see Eeluk as khan, he knew. As the years passed he was slowly leavening their numbers with younger men, hungry for blood and conquest.

“You have done well,” he said, addressing Tolui and seeing how he swelled his chest with pride. “You may have the pick of my own horses and a dozen skins of airag. Get yourself drunk. You have earned a khan’s praise.”

Tolui was pleased and bowed as low as he could.

“You honor me, my lord,” he said, stealing a sideways look at Temujin. “I would enjoy seeing him humbled.”

“Very well, Tolui. You shall be there. The spirits need blood to feed their hunger. He shall be the stain on the ground that sends us on to victory and greatness. We have a swordsmith come to us. The son of a khan will be our sacrifice. The sky father will bring us sweet women and a thousand tribes under our feet. I can feel it in my blood.”

Temujin struggled to his knees. His body was raw and aching from the journey and his wrists felt as if they were on fire. He spat on the ground and thought of his father as he looked around him.

“I have known sheep shit with more honor than you,” he told Eeluk slowly. He tried not to wince as one of the bondsmen approached and used the hilt of his sword to batter him unconscious. It took three blows before he fell, his eyes still open on the dusty ground.

Temujin woke again with warm water spattering his clothes and face. He gasped and struggled to his feet, crying out in pain as he found one of his fingers had been broken and his right eye was too clotted with blood to open. He hoped they had not blinded him, but part of him was past caring. It was so dark, he could not understand where he was. Above his head, he could see bars blocking the distant starlight and he shivered. He was in a frozen hole, the wooden lattice too far above for him to jump. He pressed his good hand to the walls and found the earth was slick with wetness. His feet were submerged in water and above him he heard low chuckles.

To his horror, a soft grunt was followed by another rain of stinking liquid. The bondsmen were urinating into the hole and laughing as they did so.

Temujin covered his head with his hands and fought against a black despair. He knew he could end his life in that filthy hole, perhaps with rocks dropped in to break his legs and arms. There was no justice in the world, but he had known that ever since the death of his father. The spirits took no part in the lives of men once they had been born. A man either endured what the world sent his way, or was crushed.

The men grunted as they lifted a heavy stone onto the crisscross of branches. When they had gone, Temujin tried to pray for a little while. To his surprise, it gave him strength and he crouched against the frozen muddy walls until dawn, unable to do more than drift in and out of sleep. It was a small comfort that his bowels had nothing in them. He felt as if he had always been hungry and sore. There had been a life once where he was happy and could ride to the red hill with his brothers. He held on to the thought like a light in the darkness, but it would not stay with him.

Before dawn, he heard footsteps approach and a dark figure leaned out over the lattice, blocking more of the stars. Temujin winced in anticipation of another emptying bladder, but instead the dark figure spoke.

“Who are you?” came a low voice.

Temujin did not look up, but he felt his pride rekindle and he replied, “I am the eldest surviving son of Yesugei, who was khan to the Wolves.”

For an instant, he saw flashing lights at the edges of his vision, and he thought he might pass out. He remembered old words his father had used, and he spoke them recklessly.

“I am the land, and the bones of the hills,” he said fiercely, “I am the winter. When I am dead, I will come for you all in the coldest nights.”

He stared up defiantly, determined not to show his misery. The shadow did not move, but after a time, it murmured a few words and then vanished, letting the light of the stars shine down into the pit.

Temujin hugged his knees and waited for the dawn.

“Who are you to tell me not to despair?” he murmured.

CHAPTER 18

TEMUJIN WATCHED THE SUN pass overhead, its fire damped by heavy cloud, so that he was able to gaze on the orange disk with only a little discomfort. The thin warmth was welcome each morning after the frozen night. When he drifted back to consciousness, his first act was to pull his feet free of the slurry of ice and mud, then stamp and pump his limbs until his blood began moving again. He had used one corner of the little pit for his wastes, but it was still practically underfoot, and by the third day, the air was thick and nauseating. Flies buzzed down through the lattice overhead and he spent time batting gently at them, keeping them alive as long as possible for sport.

They had thrown bread and mutton down to him, laughing at his attempts to catch the pouches before they fell into the slop. His stomach had squeezed painfully the first time he had eaten one from the ground, but it was that or starve, and he forced it down with nothing more than a shrug. Every day, he marked the moving shadows cast by the sun with small stones in the mud; anything to dull the passage of time and his own misery.

He did not understand why Eeluk had left him in the pit rather than give him a quick death. In the hours alone, Temujin fantasized about Eeluk being overcome with shame, or finding himself unable to hurt a son of Yesugei. Perhaps he had even been struck down by a curse or a disfiguring disease. It amused Temujin to imagine it, but in reality, Eeluk was probably just away hunting, or planning something vicious. He had long ago found the real world much less satisfying than his own imagination.

When the rock was removed and the lattice thrown aside, it was almost with a sense of relief that he realized death was coming at last. Temujin raised his arms and allowed himself to be dragged out. He had heard the voices of the families as they gathered, and guessed something of the sort was coming. It did not help that one of the men pulling him out took a grip on his broken finger, leaving him gasping as the bone grated.

Temujin fell to his knees as they let go. He could see more than a hundred faces around him, and as his eyes cleared, he began to recognize people he had once known. Some of them jeered and the smallest children threw sharp-edged stones at him. Others looked troubled, the strain forcing them into the cold face.

He prepared himself for death, an ending. The years since the abandonment had been a gift, despite their hardship. He had known joy and sorrow, and he vowed to give up his spirit with dignity intact. His father and his blood demanded it, no matter what the cost.

Eeluk sat in his great chair, brought into the sun for the occasion. Temujin glanced at him before looking away, preferring to watch the faces of the families. In spite of everything he had suffered, it was strangely comforting to see them all again. Ignoring Eeluk, Temujin nodded and smiled at some of the ones he had known well. They did not dare return his gestures, but he saw their eyes soften slightly.

“I would have brought him here in honor,” Eeluk bellowed suddenly to the crowd. He lowered his great head and wagged it seriously back and forth. “But I found him living like an animal without the graces of men. Yet even a rat can bite, and when he killed my bondsman, I had this tribeless wanderer dragged back for justice. Shall we give it to him? Shall we show him the Wolves have not grown soft?”

Temujin watched the families as Eeluk’s bondsmen cheered mindlessly. Some of them yelled agreement, but many more stood in silence and watched the dirty young man who stared back with his yellow eyes. Slowly, Temujin rose to his feet. He stank of his own filth and he was covered in fly bites and sores, but he stood unbending and waited for the blade to come.

Eeluk drew the sword with a wolf’s head carved into the bone hilt.

“The spirits have abandoned his family, my Wolves. Look at his state now and believe it. Where is the luck of Yesugei?”

It was a mistake to mention the old khan’s name. Many heads bowed automatically at its sound and Eeluk flushed in anger. It was suddenly not enough to take Temujin’s head, and he sheathed the blade.

“Tie him to a pony,” he said. “Drag him bloody and then leave him in the pit. Perhaps I will kill him tomorrow.”

As he watched, Tolui backed up a brown gelding and tied a long rope to the saddle. The crowd parted excitedly, craning to see this strange sport. As his wrists were fastened to the rope, Temujin turned his pale gaze on Eeluk for a few moments, then spat on the ground. Eeluk grinned hugely.

Tolui turned round in the saddle, his expression a mixture of smugness and malice.

“How fast can you run?” he said.

“Let’s find out,” Temujin said, licking cracked lips. He could feel sweat break out in his armpits. He had been able to summon courage to stand before a blade. The thought of being torn behind a galloping horse was more than he could bear.

He tried to brace himself, but Tolui dug his heels into the pony’s flanks and yelled wildly. The rope snapped tight and Temujin was jerked into a run, his weak legs already stumbling. Tolui rode recklessly, enjoying himself. It did not take long for Temujin to fall.

When Tolui finally returned to the encampment, Temujin was a dead weight on the rope. It was difficult to see a patch of skin that was not scraped raw and bloody. His clothes had been reduced to dusty rags that fluttered in the breeze as Tolui cut the rope at last. Temujin did not feel it as he slumped to the ground. His hands were almost black and his mouth hung open, red spittle drooling from where he had bitten his tongue. He saw Basan standing at the door of his family ger, his face pale and strained as Temujin stared at him.

Eeluk strode out to greet Tolui, casting an amused glance at the torn figure he had once considered important. He was glad he had not ended it too quickly. He felt lighter in step for the decision, as if a weight had been lifted. In fact, he was in the best of spirits and mock-wrestled with Tolui for a moment before the bondsman returned Temujin to the hole in the ground and dropped the lattice back into place.

Temujin sat in the icy filth, barely conscious of his surroundings. He had found a tooth in the muck at the bottom, large enough to have come from the jaw of a man. He did not know how long he had been sitting staring at it. Perhaps he had slept; he couldn’t be certain. Pain and despair had exhausted his senses to the point where he could not be sure if he dreamed or was awake. He ached in every bone, and his face was so fat with bruising that he could see only through a slit around one eye. The other was still crusted with thick blood, and he dared not pick at it. He did not want to move at all, in fact, with the threat of pain from endless scrapes and cuts. He had never felt so battered in his life, and it was all he could do not to cry out or weep. He kept his silence, finding a strength of will he had not known he possessed until that moment. It was made hard in a furnace of hatred, and he relished the core of him that would not bend, nurturing it as he found he could endure and live.

“Where is my father? Where is my tribe?” he murmured, screwing his face up against the grief. He had ached to be returned to the Wolves, but they cared nothing for him. It was no small thing to cast off the last threads of his childhood, the shared history that bound him to them. He remembered the simple kindness of old Horghuz and his family, when he and his brothers were alone. For a time he could not measure, he stood slumped against the walls of earth, thoughts moving slowly like ice on a river.

Something grated above his head and he jerked in fear, coming awake as if he had been dreaming. Some part of him had been aware of a moving shadow on the floor of the pit. He looked blearily upwards and saw to his dull astonishment that the lattice had vanished. The stars shone down without restriction and he could only stare, unable to understand what was happening. If he had not been wounded, he might have tried to climb, but he could barely move. It was excruciating to see a chance to escape and not be able to take it. He had done his best to spread the damage as much as possible, but his right leg felt as if it had been shredded. It still seeped blood sluggishly into the muck around him, and he could no more jump than fly out of the hole like a bird.

He found himself chuckling almost hysterically at the thought that his unknown savior had left, expecting him to make his own way out. In the morning, the fool would find him still in the pit, and Eeluk would not leave him unguarded again.

Something came slithering down the wall and Temujin jerked away, thinking it was a snake. His mind was playing tricks as he felt the rough fibers of a braided rope and the beginnings of hope. Above him, he saw the shadow block the stars, and he strained to keep his voice low.

“I can’t climb out,” he said.

“Tie yourself on,” came the voice from the night before, “but help me as I pull.”

With clumsy fingers, Temujin tied it round his waist, wondering again who would risk Eeluk’s wrath. He did not doubt that if they were discovered, his rescuer would join him in the pit and suffer the same fate.

As the rope bit into his back, Temujin’s legs scrabbled uselessly at the earth walls. He found he could dig his hands in as he climbed, though the effort was like setting his skin on fire. He felt a scream bubbling along inside him until involuntary tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes. Still he made no sound until, at last, he lay on the frozen ground in a silent encampment.

“Get away as far as you can,” his rescuer said. “Use the mud of the riverbanks to hide your scent. If you survive, I will come to you and take you farther away.” In the starlight, Temujin could see he was gray-haired and had powerful shoulders, but to his surprise, he did not know the man. Before he could respond, the stranger pressed a bag into his hand and Temujin’s mouth watered at the odor of onions and mutton. The bag was warm and he gripped it as if it were his last hope.

“Who are you to save me?” he whispered. Part of him was yelling that it didn’t matter, that he had to run, but he couldn’t bear not knowing.

“I was pledged to your father, Yesugei,” Arslan replied. “Now go, and I will follow you in the confusion of the search.”

Temujin hesitated. Could Eeluk have staged it all to find the location of his brothers? He could not risk telling a stranger of the cleft in the hills.

“When you leave,” Temujin said, “ride five days north, sunrise to sunset. Find a high hill to watch for me. I will come if I can and lead you to my family. You have my thanks forever, nameless one.”

Arslan smiled at the courage of the younger man. In many ways, he reminded the swordsmith of his son, Jelme, though there was a fire in this one that would be hard to extinguish. He had not intended to give his name, in case the young warrior was captured and forced to reveal it. Under Temujin’s gaze he nodded, making a decision.

“My name is Arslan. I travel with my son, Jelme. If you live, we will meet again,” he said, taking Temujin’s arm in a brief clasp that almost made him cry out in sudden pain. Arslan replaced the lattice and stone, then walked away, moving like a cat in the frozen starlight. Temujin could do no more than shuffle as he took a different direction, concentrating on staying alive and going as far as he could before the hunt began.

In the blue-gray light of dawn, two young boys dared each other to go to the edge of the pit and stare down at the captive. When they finally found the courage to peer over the edge, there was no one there looking back and they ran for their parents, calling an alarm.

When Eeluk came from his ger, his face was tight with excitement. The powerful red bird gripped a leather sleeve around his right forearm, her dark beak open far enough to show a sliver of dark tongue. Two hunting dogs leapt around him, sensing his mood and barking madly.

“Go out in threes,” Eeluk shouted to his warriors as they gathered. “I will take the western point—and whoever brings him back will have a new deel and two knives with horn handles from my hand. Tolui, you are with me. Mount up, my brothers. Today we hunt.”

He watched as the bondsmen and the lesser warriors formed their groups, checking equipment and supplies before leaping into the saddles of their ponies. Eeluk was pleased to see their mood was light, and he congratulated himself on the decision to bring Temujin back to the camp. Perhaps seeing him beaten and dragged bloody was a final proof that the sky father loved the new khan of the Wolves. There had been no lightning strike to punish Eeluk, after all. Even the oldest of the crones should be satisfied with what he had achieved.

It crossed his mind to wonder how Temujin had escaped the pit, but that was a problem for his return. The young man could not have gone far with his injuries. When they brought him in, Eeluk would ask him how he had climbed the slick walls, or who had helped him. He frowned at that thought. Perhaps there were traitors among the families. If there were, he would root them out.

He wound his reins around his fist and mounted, enjoying the feeling of strength in his legs. The red bird spread her wings to balance as he settled himself. Eeluk grinned tightly, feeling his heart begin to beat faster. It usually took a little time for him to come fully awake, but the prospect of hunting a wounded man had fired his blood and he was ready to gallop. The red bird sensed it in him and ducked her head, tugging at the hood with a long claw. Eeluk pulled away the leather restraint and the eagle flew from his forearm, lunging upwards with a screech. He watched her beat the air for height, his arm rising without her weight until it was almost a greeting or a farewell. On such a morning, he could feel the land. Eeluk glanced around the camp and nodded to Tolui.

“Come. Let’s see how far he has managed to run.”

Tolui grinned at his lord and master, digging in his heels and sending his mount surging forward. The hunting dogs broke off their howling to run alongside, hungry for a kill. The air was cold, but the warriors wore padded deels and the sun was on the rise.

Temujin lay very still and watched a fly crawl across the mud in front of his face. He had slathered himself in river clay to mask his scent, but he did not know whether it would work or not. He had gone as far as he could in the dark, though by the end he was limping and sobbing with every step. It was strange how much weakness he could show when he was on his own. He did not mind the sting of his tears on his raw skin when there was no one else to witness it. Every step was an agony and yet he had pushed himself on, remembering Hoelun’s words on the first nights in the cleft in the hills. There would be no rescue; no end to their suffering unless they made it themselves. He kept going, relying on the dark to hide his movement from the watchers on the hills.

By the time dawn had come, he had been hobbling like a wounded animal, almost doubled over with pain and weakness. He had collapsed at last by the bank of a stream, lying panting there with his head turned to the pale sky that heralded the sunrise. They would discover his escape by first light, he realized. How far had he come? He watched the first gold spark touch the dark horizon, instantly too harsh on his eyes. He began digging his swollen hands into the clay, crying out as his broken finger jarred yet again.

He was mindless for a time and there was relief in that. The mud worked loose in a paste he could squeeze between his fingers as he smeared it over his skin and clothes. It was cool, but it itched appallingly as it dried.

He found himself staring at his broken finger, seeing the swollen joint and the purple skin beneath the mud. He jerked from a daze then, suddenly afraid that time was slipping away in his exhaustion. His body was at the very end of its endurance, and all he wanted to do was give up and pass out. At the heart of him, at the deepest part, there was still a spark that wanted to live, but it had been smothered in the muddy, dumb thing that wallowed on the bank and could barely turn its face to feel the sun move in the sky.

In the distance he heard dogs baying and he surfaced from the cold and the exhaustion. He had eaten Arslan’s ration of food long before, and he was starving again. The dogs sounded close and he feared suddenly that the stinking river mud would be no protection at all. He heaved himself along the slope of the bank, hidden by the grasses on the edge as he moved in spasms, flopping and weak. The howling dogs were even closer and his heart beat in fluttery panic, terrified at the thought of them tearing at him, ripping his flesh from his bones. He could not yet hear the hooves of riders, but he knew he had not made it far enough.

With a groan at the icy sting, he pulled himself into the water, heading out to the deepest point and a thick bed of reeds. The part of him that could still think forced him to ignore the first patch. If they saw where he had been lying, they would search all around it.

The river numbed the worst of his pain, and though it was still shallow, he used the current to push himself downstream on his hands and knees, scrabbling in the soft mud. He felt live things move between his fingers, but the cold had reduced him to a core of sensation that had no link to the world. They would see the cloud of muck he had disturbed. It was surely hopeless, but he did not stop, searching for deeper water.

The river wound around a corner, under ancient overhanging trees. On the other side was a bank of blue ice that had survived the winter in constant shadow. The rushing water had eaten a shelf beneath it, and though he feared the biting cold, he made for it without hesitation.

He wondered vaguely how long he could survive in the freezing water. He forced his way in under the ridge of ice and knelt in the mud with just his eyes and nose above the surface. They would have to enter the water to see him, but he did not doubt the hunters would send dogs up and down the stream.

The cold had numbed every part of him and he thought he was probably dying. He jammed his jaw shut against chattering teeth, and for a little while, he forgot what was happening and simply waited like a fish, frozen and blank of thought. He could see his breath as mist on the surface of the clear water as the cloud of muck settled around him.

He heard the excited yelping of dogs nearby, but his thoughts moved too slowly to feel fear. Was that a shout? He thought it was. Perhaps they had found the trail he had made across the clay. Perhaps they had recognized it as the mark a man would make if he dragged himself on his belly like a beast. He did not care any longer. The cold seemed to have reached inside him and clutched at his heart, slowing it with a terrible force. He could feel each beat as a burst of warmth in his chest, but it was growing weaker with every passing moment.

The yelping of the dogs grew quieter after a time, though he remained where he was. In the end, it was not a conscious decision that made him move, more the impulse of flesh that did not want to die. He almost drowned as a wave of weakness struck and he struggled to keep his head above the water. Slowly, he pushed himself out into the deeper water, sitting in it with limbs so heavy he could barely move them.

He pushed himself to the far bank and lay on the dark clay again, scoring its perfect smoothness as he pulled himself up under the overhanging grass and passed out at last.

When he woke, it was still light, but there was no sound near him but the river itself, rushing past with snow melt from the mountains. Pain had woken him as the blood moved in his limbs, weeping into the water from his torn skin. He flopped one arm over and dragged himself a little farther from the water, almost sobbing at the pain of his awakening flesh. He managed to raise himself enough to peer through the trees and saw no one close.

Eeluk would not give up, Temujin was certain. If the first hunt failed, he would send the entire tribe out to search for him, covering the land for a day’s ride around the camp. They knew he could not have gone farther, and they would certainly find him eventually. He lay staring up at the sky and realized there was only one place to go.

As the sun set, Temujin staggered to his feet, shivering so powerfully it felt as if he would shake himself apart. When his legs failed him, he crawled for a time across the grass. The torches of the camp could be seen from far away, and he realized he had not come such a great distance in his weakened state. Most of the hunters had probably taken a wider path to search for him.

He waited until the last rays of the sun had gone and the land was dark again and cold. His body seemed to be willing to bear him onward for a little longer, and he had long ceased to wonder at how far he could push his broken, damaged limbs. The river had unstuck his swollen eye and he found with relief that he could see out of it a little, though everything was blurred and it watered constantly, like tears.

He dreaded the dogs of the camp, though he hoped the river mud would keep his scent down. The thought of one of those vicious animals running out to savage him was a constant fear, but he had no other choice. If he stopped his hobbling crawl, he would be found in the second sweep of hunters in the morning. He went on, and when he looked back, he was surprised to see how far he had come.

He knew the ger he wanted and thanked the sky father that it was close to the edge of the quiet camp. He lay on his belly for a long time, at the edges, watching for the slightest movement. Eeluk had placed his sentries looking outward, but they would have needed the sight of an owl to see the muddy figure creeping forward on the dark earth.

After an age, Temujin reached out to touch the felt wall of a ger, feeling its dry coarseness with something like ecstasy. Every sense was heightened, and though his pain had returned, he felt alive and light-headed. He thought of trying to gain an entry under the wall, but it would have been pegged down and he did not want someone to shout in fear or think he was a wolf. He grinned to himself at the thought. He made a very ragged wolf, stealing down from the hills for warmth and milk. Clouds hid the stars and, in the darkness, he reached the little door to the ger and pushed it open, closing it behind him and standing panting in the deeper dark within.

“Who is it?” he heard a woman ask. To his left, he heard a rustle of blankets and another deeper voice.

“Who is there?” Basan said.

He would be reaching for a knife, Temujin knew.

“Temujin,” he whispered.

Silence greeted his name and he waited, knowing his life hung in the balance. He heard the strike of flint on steel, the flash lighting their faces for an instant. Basan’s wife and children were all awake and Temujin could only stare dully at them while Basan lit an oil lamp and shuttered the flame down to barely more than a glowing cinder.

“You cannot stay here,” Basan’s wife said.

Temujin saw the fear in her face, but he turned in mute appeal to his father’s bondsman and waited.

Basan shook his head, appalled at the shambling figure that stood hunched in his home.

“They are looking for you,” Basan said.

“Hide me, then, for a day, until the search is over,” Temujin replied. “I claim guest rights.” He did not hear an answer and he slumped suddenly, the last of his strength vanishing. He slid to his knees and his head lolled forward.

“We cannot send him away,” he heard Basan tell his wife. “Not to be killed.”

“He will kill us all,” she said, her voice rising in volume.

Blearily, Temujin watched Basan cross the ger to her, holding her face in both his hands.

“Make him tea and find something to eat,” he told her. “I will do this for his father.”

She did not respond, though she moved to the kettle and began stoking the little iron stove, her face hard. Temujin felt himself lifted in Basan’s strong arms and then darkness overwhelmed him.

Eeluk did not think to search the gers of the families. His initial good humor faded visibly as the second day passed and then the third with no sign of the fugitive. At the end of the fourth day, Basan returned to Temujin to report that Arslan and his son had also vanished. They had ridden north that morning with one of the bondsmen, but none of them had returned by sunset and Eeluk was beside himself with rage. He had sent men to the ger he had given the swordsmith and found that his most valuable tools had vanished along with him. No one was expecting the bondsman to come back, and the wailing of his family could be heard long into the night. The mood of the Wolves had soured and Eeluk had knocked a man unconscious for questioning his decision to send them out again.

Temujin could barely remember the first two days. A fever had set in, perhaps from the stinking air of the pit. The freezing river had cleaned his skin and may have saved him. Basan’s wife had tended his wounds with stern efficiency, bathing away the worst of the remaining filth and dabbing at the blood and pus with a cloth dipped in boiled airag. He had groaned at her touch and had a memory of her hand over his mouth to stifle the sound.

Basan had left them to join the other men each morning, after stern warnings to his two sons not to say a word to anyone. They watched Temujin with owlish curiosity, frightened by the stranger who said nothing and bore such awful wounds. They were old enough to understand that their father’s life depended on their silence.

Eeluk had taken to drinking more and more heavily as his search parties returned empty-handed day after day. By the end of a week, he gave a drunken order for the families to continue farther north, leaving the pit and their bad luck behind them. That night, he retired to his ger with two of the youngest girls in the tribe, and their families had dared not complain. Basan took a late watch from midnight until dawn, seeing a chance to spirit Temujin out of the camp at last. The families were unhappy and nervous and he knew there would be eyes watching and listening whenever he moved. Though it was fraught with danger, Temujin would be discovered when the gers were dismantled, so it was that night or nothing.

It was hard to do anything in the tight-knit society of the tribe without it being noticed. Basan waited as close to midnight as he could, leaving the top felt off the ger and peering up at the stars as they crept across the bowl of sky above. As a result, they were all shivering by the time he judged the tribe was as quiet and still as it was going to get. Those who were still awake would not remark on a trusted bondsman going out to take his watch, though Basan had agonized over giving Temujin one of his ponies. He had eleven and loved them all as his children. In the end, he had chosen a small black mare and brought her to the door of his ger, tying on saddlebags with enough food to keep Temujin alive for the trip.

Temujin stood in the deepest shadow and struggled to find words to express his gratitude. He had nothing to give even the children, and he felt ashamed for the burden and fear he had brought into their home. Basan’s wife had not warmed to him, though Basan’s oldest son seemed to have lost his nervousness and replaced it with awe when he heard who the stranger was in their home. The little boy had visibly summoned his courage when Basan told them it would be that night, and approached Temujin with all the self-consciousness of his twelve years. To Temujin’s surprise, the boy had gone down on one knee and reached out for his hand, pressing it down on the top of his head, where Temujin could feel his scalp lock of hair against the bristly skin.

Temujin found his throat tight with emotion at the boy’s simple gesture. “Your father is a brave man,” he murmured. “Be sure to follow his steps.”

“I will, my khan,” the boy replied.

Temujin stared at him and Basan’s mother hissed in a breath. At the door, Basan heard the exchange and shook his head, troubled. Before Temujin could reply, the bondsman crossed the ger to his son and lifted him to his feet.

“You cannot give an oath to this man, little one. When the time comes, you will pledge your sword and your life to Eeluk, as I have.” He could not meet Temujin’s eyes as he spoke, but the little boy’s resistance fled in his father’s strong grip. He ducked away and scurried to his mother’s embrace, watching them both from under the crook of her arm.

Temujin cleared his throat. “My father’s spirit watches us,” he murmured, seeing his frozen breath like a plume of mist. “You do him honor in saving me.”

“Walk with me now,” Basan said, embarrassed. “Do not speak to anyone and they will think you are another of the guards on the hills.” He held open the door and Temujin ducked through it, wincing at the pain from his scabs. He wore a clean tunic and leggings under a padded winter deel that belonged to Basan. Beneath the thick layers, the worst of his wounds were heavily bandaged. He was far from healed, but he yearned to be placed in a saddle. He would find his tribe among the wanderers of the plains, and the Wolves would not catch him again.

Basan walked deliberately slowly through the encampment, trusting in the dark to hide the identity of his companion if anyone was fool enough to brave the cold. There was a chance someone might notice that he returned without his mare, but he had no choice. It did not take long to leave the gers behind, and no one challenged them. The two men walked together in silence, leading the pony by the reins until the camp of the Wolves was far behind. It was late and Basan would have to work up a sweat to reach his post without causing comment. When they were hidden in the shadow of a hill, he pressed the reins into Temujin’s hands.

“I have wrapped my second bow and placed it here,” he said, patting a bundle tied to the saddle. “There is a little food, but I have left you two arrows with it, for when you need to hunt. Lead her on foot until you are far away, or the watchers will hear your hooves. Stay in the shadow of the hills as long as you can.”

Temujin nodded, reaching out to clasp the bondsman by his arm. The man had been his captor with Tolui and then saved his life and risked his own family to do it. He did not understand him, but he was grateful.

“Watch for me on the horizon, Basan,” he said. “I have scores to settle with the Wolves.”

Basan looked at him, seeing again the determination that reminded him chillingly of Yesugei when he was young.

“That is your father talking,” he said, shivering suddenly.

Temujin returned his gaze for a long moment, then clapped him on the shoulder.

“When you see me again, I promise your family will be safe,” he said, then clicked in his throat to start the mare walking once more. Basan watched him go before he realized he was late and began to run. By the time Temujin passed out of the hill shadow, only Basan would be there to see him go, and his horn would remain silent.

CHAPTER 19

KACHIUN SAT ALONE on a gentle slope, breaking his fast with a little hard bread and the last of the spiced mutton. He and Khasar had managed to recapture most of the herd Tolui had scattered, and Hoelun had slaughtered and smoked enough to keep him for many days of his lonely watch for his brother. The supply had dwindled despite his attempts to eat sparingly, and he knew he would have to hunt marmots and birds the following day if he was not to starve.

As he munched the dry meat, he found himself missing his family and wondered if they still lived. He knew as well as anyone that a family of wanderers was vulnerable on the plains, even if they moved by night. As the brothers had once ambushed a pair of herdsmen, so his family could be attacked for the little flock or the ponies they rode. He did not doubt Khasar would give a good account of himself, but against two or three warriors out to raid, there could be only one outcome.

Kachiun sighed to himself, sick of the way the world had turned its face against them all. When Temujin had been there, they had dared to hope for something more than lives spent in fear of every stranger. Somehow his brother’s presence made him stand a little taller and remember how it had once been when Yesugei was alive. Kachiun feared for them all and his imagination threw up unwanted bloody images as the days passed.

It was hard being alone. Kachiun had felt the strangeness of his position as Hoelun led her last three children away to the west. He had stood watch for many nights as a little boy, though always with an older warrior to see he did not fall asleep. Even those long hours had not prepared him for the dreadful loneliness of the empty plains. He knew there was a chance that he would never see his family again, his mother or Temujin. The sea of grass was vast beyond imagining, and if they were dead, he might not even find their bones.

After the first few days, he had found it comforting to talk aloud to himself as he scanned the distant hills, just to hear a voice. The place he had chosen was high up in the cleft, near where he and Temujin had killed Bekter, so long ago. He still shuddered as he passed that spot each dawn on his way up to the watching post. He told himself that Bekter’s spirit would not stay there, but his knowledge of the rituals was hazy. Kachiun remembered old Chagatai referring to more than one soul. One would ride the winds far above, but wasn’t a part of it bound to the earth? He didn’t mind taking the path in the light of the morning sun, but when he left it too late and it was growing dark as he came back, it was easy to imagine Bekter standing there in the shadow of the trees, white and deadly. Kachiun shuddered at the thought. His memories of Bekter seemed to have become frozen in that single moment when he had released a shaft to punch into his back. What had gone before was just mist, a different life. He remembered his terror that Bekter would somehow pluck out the shaft and turn on him in fury. The world had changed when Bekter fell onto the damp leaves, and Kachiun sometimes wondered if he was still paying for that day. Temujin had said the spirits gave you just enough wit and strength to live and then took no further interest, but part of Kachiun feared there was a price to pay for every savage act. He had been a child, but he could have refused to follow Temujin.

He chuckled to himself at the idea. None of the brothers could refuse Temujin. He had more of his father about him than Kachiun had realized in the first days. It had become more and more evident as Kachiun saw Temujin bargain and trade with wanderer families like old Horghuz and his wife. Despite his age, he was never taken lightly, and if he had been killed, Kachiun would honor him by trying to follow the same path. He would find his mother and build a safe place somewhere with clean water and good grazing. Perhaps they would find a small tribe willing to take on a family. Hoelun could marry again, and they would be warm and safe.

It was a dream, and though he knew it, he spent many hours in the fantasy, imagining something that was more than a little like his childhood around the gers of the Wolves, with horses to race in the sun. He had not spent every day thinking of the future then, and he missed the certainty of his old life, the solid path before his feet. On the high hill with the wind blowing his hair, he missed it all and grieved again for Temujin. The wound in Kachiun’s thigh was still sore, but Hoelun had stitched the red holes closed and Kachiun scratched idly at them as he sat and listened to the breeze.

Temujin had not escaped his pursuers, Kachiun was certain. He remembered Tolui as a spiteful bully, much given to pinches and sneers when no one else was looking. The thought of Temujin in his power made Kachiun twist his hands together in the sleeves of his deel. The family of Yesugei had been given a hard life, and no one could say they had not struggled. There had been times like the morning of Tolui’s arrival when he had really begun to hope for a normal life. Now, it had all been taken from them, and though he waited, he no longer believed he would see Temujin return to the cleft in the hills. If the sky father was just, he would bring suffering to Eeluk and his bondsmen, but that too was just a dream. There was no justice in the world and evil men prospered. Kachiun struggled not to despair as he wrapped his deel around him, but there were times when he hated as ferociously as Temujin did. There should be justice. There should be revenge.

He finished the last of the meat, digging his fingers into the seams of the cloth bag in search of some final morsel. He was tired and stiff from sitting for so long, but the coldness was more than just the wind. Somewhere to the west, Hoelun might be riding into danger, and he was not there to kill for her and die with her. Only stubbornness kept him at his post as the days fled.

Temujin saw two men in the far distance, high on a hill. His heart soared that it might be Arslan and his son, though he made sure his bow was strung and ready. If they were raiders, he vowed he would have their hearts on a slow fire. His injuries would not prevent him from firing Basan’s bow, and he was in no mood to be playing games after everything he had suffered.

Though it rubbed his bloody scabs away, he had ridden for five days, sunrise to sunset, as he had instructed Arslan to do. The cleft in the hills was many miles away from that desolate place, but by then he knew he could trust men who had deserted Eeluk. The new khan of the Wolves was not cunning enough to plan so far ahead, though Yesugei might once have been. Temujin shaded his eyes against the setting sun to watch the two men guide their ponies down a steep hill, leaning back in the saddles to balance. He grunted to himself as he saw one of them dismount and walk alone toward him, raising his hands. The meaning was clear and Temujin raised his bow in response. It could only be Arslan.

Temujin trotted forward, still keeping his bow ready. The man may have saved him from the pit, but it would be a long time before Temujin trusted anyone again. He stopped and let Arslan cross the final paces between them, seeing the man’s sure step on the springy grass. He walked as Yesugei had walked, and the memory brought a sudden pain that never reached Temujin’s face.

“I knew you would escape them,” Arslan said, smiling gently as he came close. “I did not expect you for many more days, though I see you have found yourself a fine mare.”

“She was a present from a man who remembered my father,” Temujin said stiffly. “But tell me, what do you think will happen here?”

Arslan blinked and chuckled. “I think you will wave to my son to join us and we will sit and share our food. As the camp is ours, I grant you guest rights.”

Temujin cleared his throat. He owed the man a huge debt and was uncomfortable with the burden of it.

“Why did you help me?” he asked.

Arslan looked up, seeing the barely faded bruising and the hunched way the young man sat in the saddle. Yesugei would have been proud of such a son, he thought.

“I swore my oath to your father, Temujin. You are his eldest surviving son.”

Temujin’s eyes glinted as he thought of Bekter. Would this man have come to aid his older brother? Temujin could only marvel at the turns of fate.

“You do not know me,” he said.

Arslan became very still. “I do not. I thought about standing by while you rotted in that pit, but I am not a man who stands by. Even if I had not met your father, I would have pulled you out.”

Temujin flushed. “I…am grateful that you did,” he said, looking away at the hills.

“We will not talk of it,” Arslan said. “It is behind. For now, I will say you do not know me, but you will learn my word is iron.”

Temujin snapped a glance at the man, looking for mockery. Instead, he found only stern control.

“Your father used to say that, yes,” Arslan went on. “It drew me to him and I believed it. If you are half the man he was, my son and I will take oath to you and bind ourselves in honor to your line.”

Temujin stared back at the man, sensing the quiet strength in him. He carried no weapons, but the mare had taken three steps away from Arslan while they talked, aware like her rider of a predator under rigid control. He wondered if Arslan thought there was a host of warriors waiting for Temujin’s return. The thought occurred to him that a man who weighed himself by his word might remain bound even when he discovered there was nothing but a few scrawny brothers hiding in the hills. The temptation was there, but Temujin ignored it, unable to play false with one who had saved his life.

“I have no tribe, nor wealth, nor anything but my own family in hiding,” Temujin said. “I have nothing to offer you, or your son. If you choose to ride on, I will make my own way back to them and still bless you for your help.”

“You said you were the land and the bones of the hills,” Arslan said softly. “I believe you were speaking with the words of your father. I will follow you.”

“Call your son to me, then,” Temujin said, suddenly exasperated. He did not want to begin to hope, but he had been changed in his captivity. He could no longer be satisfied with mere survival. He looked down at Arslan and he imagined a trail of fire and blood across the tribes that would end in the gers of the Wolves. He had seen it in the darkest days in the pit. While the flies had buzzed around him, his imagination had been in flames.

As Jelme approached, Temujin dismounted and hobbled to the two men.

“If you will call me khan, your will is no longer yours,” he said, remembering his father speaking the same words. “Kneel to me.”

Both Jelme and his father went down on one knee, and Temujin pressed his damaged hands on their heads.

“I ask you for salt, milk, horses, gers, and blood.”

“They are yours, my khan,” both men said together.

“Then you are kin and we are of one tribe,” Temujin said, surprising them. “I call you brothers and we are one people.”

Both Arslan and Jelme raised their heads, struck by his tone and everything it meant. The wind picked up, rushing down from the mountains. Temujin turned his head in the direction of where his family would be hiding. He knew he could find his tribe among men scorned by all the others, among the wanderers and the herdsmen. Men like old Horghuz and his family, killed by Tolui. They were few, but they were hardened in fire. They had been cast out and many would hunger as he did: for a tribe, and for a chance to strike back at a world that had abandoned them.

“It is begun here,” Temujin whispered. “I have had enough of hiding. Let them hide from me.”

When Kachiun saw the three men riding south, he did not know who they were. He took careful note of their path and slipped back into the cleft in the hills with his bow and quiver ready. He knew the lie of the land better than anyone, and he raced down the inner slopes, leaping over fallen trees and old wood until he was panting.

He took his position close to where they would pass, well hidden in the undergrowth. There was murder in his heart as he prepared himself. If Tolui and Basan had returned with their captive, Kachiun would risk two long shots and trust his skill. He had trained for it and neither Khasar nor Temujin were his master with the bow. He waited in silence for the clop of hooves, ready to kill.

When they came into sight, Kachiun’s heart pounded with excitement as he recognized his brother. Just seeing Temujin alive lifted his spirits from where they had sunk in the days alone. He pressed his lips tight and only then realized he had been murmuring his brother’s name aloud. He had been too long on his own, he admitted to himself as he sighted down the arrow at the older of the pair riding with Temujin.

Kachiun hesitated, his sharp eyes taking in every detail of the three men. Temujin sat tall in the saddle and there was no sign of ropes or a rein tied to the other men. Would they trust a captive not to gallop away at the slightest chance for freedom? Something was wrong, and he adjusted his grip on the drawn bow, the powerful muscles of his shoulders beginning to quiver. He would not let them past—he could not—but if he fired a shot in warning, he would have lost his chance to kill them swiftly. Both men were armed with bows, though he saw they were unstrung. They did not ride like men in hostile territory. Kachiun saw they carried long swords like the one Yesugei had worn on his hip. Nothing about them made sense, and while he hesitated, they had drawn level with his position in the trees.

He risked it all.

“Temujin!” Kachiun roared, rising from his crouch and pulling the bowstring back to his ear.

Temujin saw the figure out of the corner of his eye.

“Hold! Hold, Kachiun!” he shouted, raising his arms and waving.

Kachiun saw the two strangers vanish from sight in the instant of his warning, as fast as cats. Both dropped on the far side of their ponies, using the animals to shield them from attack. Kachiun breathed in relief as Temujin nodded to him, leaning over to dismount with a terrible awkwardness.

Kachiun’s heart thumped at the sight. The Wolves had hurt his brother, but he was here and he was safe. Temujin limped visibly as they ran together and Kachiun embraced him, overcome. It would be all right.

“I did not know if they were friends or enemies,” Kachiun said breathlessly.

Temujin nodded, steadying him with a clasp around the back of his neck.

“Bondsmen, brother,” Temujin said. “Arslan and Jelme, who brought me out of my captivity. They have come to us from our father’s spirit.”

Kachiun turned to the two men as they approached.

“Then you are always welcome in my camp,” he said. “I have a couple of ducks to feed you if you are hungry. I want to hear the tale.”

Temujin nodded and Kachiun realized he had not smiled since he had first caught sight of him. His brother had changed in his time away, grown darker somehow under the weight of his experiences.

“We’ll stay the night here,” Temujin confirmed. “But where is my mother and the others?”

“They have ridden west. I stayed alone in case you could make it back. I…was almost ready to leave. I had lost hope of seeing you again.”

Temujin snorted. “Never lose faith in me, little brother. My word is iron and I will always come home.”

To his astonishment, Kachiun found there were tears in his eyes. He blinked them away, embarrassed in front of the strangers. He had been too long alone and had lost his cold face completely. He struggled to bring his soaring emotions back under control.

“Come. I will make a fire and cook the meat,” he said.

Temujin nodded. “As you say. We have ground to cover at first light. I want to catch up with our mother.”

The three men followed Kachiun back to his camp, a damp place barely worthy of the name, with a litter of old bones around a small firepit. Kachiun set about starting a flame, his hands clumsy as he knelt over old ashes.

“There is a wanderer family half a day’s ride to the west,” he said as he worked the flint and steel. “Three men and two women. They came past here yesterday evening.” He saw Temujin look up with interest and misunderstood the light in his eye.

“We can avoid them if we take a line directly south before cutting through the black hills,” he said, grunting in satisfaction as the flame licked up around his tinder.

Temujin stared at the little fire. “I do not want to avoid them, brother. They may not know it, but they are my blood as much as you are yourself.”

Kachiun paused and sat back on his haunches. “I do not understand,” he said, seeing Arslan and Jelme exchange glances. “What do we want with wanderers?”

“They are the great tribe,” Temujin replied, almost to himself. His voice was so quiet that Kachiun had to strain to hear. “I will give them a family again. I will bring them in and I will make them hard and I will send them against those who killed our father. I will write the name of Yesugei in Tartar blood and, when we are strong, I will come back from the north and scatter the Wolves in the snow.”

Kachiun shivered suddenly. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he heard the click of old bones on the wind.

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.”

EPILOGUE

THE FORT AT THE BORDER of Chin lands was a massive construction of wood and stone. The few men of the Kerait who had come with their khan into exile looked nervous as they approached. They had seen nothing like the huge building, with its wings and courtyards. The entrance was a great gate of wood studded with iron into which a smaller door had been set. Two guards stood there, dressed in armor very like that worn by Wen Chao’s men. They resembled statues in the morning sun, polished and perfect.

Togrul glanced up at the high walls, seeing more armed soldiers watching them. The border itself was no more than a simple track. On the journey, Wen Chao had boasted of a great wall across thousands of miles, but that was far to the south. He had made straight for the fort as soon as they sighted it, knowing that to do otherwise was to invite a quick death. The Chin lords did not welcome men who crept into their territory. Togrul felt out of his depth and in awe of the tallest building he had ever seen. He could not hide his excitement as Wen Chao’s litter was placed on the ground and the ambassador stepped out.

“Wait here. I have papers I must show to them before we can pass,” Wen Chao said. He too seemed animated, with his homeland in view. It would not be long before he was back in the heart of Kaifeng, and little Zhang would have to grind his teeth in private over his success.

Togrul stepped down from the cart, watching closely as Wen Chao approached the guards and spoke to them. They glanced back at the party of Mongols, soldiers, and slaves, but one of them bowed and opened the small door in the gate, vanishing inside. Wen Chao showed no impatience as he waited. He had survived years away from comfort, after all.

Yuan watched in silence as the commander of the fort came out and examined Wen Chao’s papers. He could not hear what was said and he ignored the questioning glances Togrul sent his way. He too was tired of the tribesmen, and the sight of Chin lands reminded him of his family and friends.

At last, the commander seemed satisfied. He passed back the papers and Wen spoke to him again, as to a subordinate. The authority from the first minister demanded instant obedience, and the guards stood as stiffly as if they were being inspected. Yuan saw the door open again and the commander stepped inside it, taking his soldiers with him. Wen hesitated before following and turned to the watching group. His gaze found Yuan and rested there, troubled. He spoke in the Chin dialect of the court, in the most formal style.

“These men will not be allowed to enter, Yuan. Should I leave you with them?”

Yuan narrowed his eyes and Togrul took a step forward.

“What did he say? What is happening?”

Wen Chao’s glance did not waver from Yuan.

“You failed me, Yuan, when you failed to kill the khan in his tent. What value is your life to me now?”

Yuan stood very still, showing no trace of fear. “Tell me to stand and I will stand. Tell me to come and I will come.”

Wen Chao nodded slowly. “Then come to me, and live, knowing that your life was mine to take.”

Yuan crossed the distance to the door and stepped inside. Togrul watched in growing panic.

“When do we cross over?” his wife asked.

Togrul turned to her and when she saw the terrible fear in his expression, her face crumpled. When the Chin ambassador spoke again, it was in the language of the tribes. He hoped it would be the last time the foul sounds crossed his lips.

“I am sorry,” he said, turning away and passing through the door. It closed behind him.

“What is this?” Togrul shouted desperately. “Answer me! What is happening?” He froze at a movement on the high walls of the fort. A line of men stood there and, to Togrul’s horror, he saw they were bending bows pointing down at him.

“No! I was promised!” Togrul roared.

Arrows spat through the air, hammering into them even as they turned in terror. Togrul fell to his knees with his arms outstretched, a dozen shafts in his flesh. His daughters screamed, the sounds cut off in thumping blows that hurt Togrul as much as his own agony. For a moment, he cursed the men who stole amongst the tribes as allies, ruling them with gold and promises. The thin grass under him was the dust of Mongol lands, filling his lungs and choking him. The anger faded and the morning was quiet once more.

AFTERWORD

The greatest joy a man can know is to conquer his enemies and drive them before him. To ride their horses and take away their possessions, to see the faces of those who were dear to them bedewed with tears, and to clasp their wives and daughters in his arms.

—Genghis Khan

The events of his youth that went to create Genghis Khan make extraordinary reading. Very few contemporary records survive and even the most famous of them, The Secret History of the Mongols, was almost lost. The version in his own language commissioned by Genghis did not survive the centuries. Fortunately, a version was rendered phonetically in Chinese, and it is from that writing that we have most of our knowledge of Temujin of the Borjigin—the Blue Wolves. A translation into English by Arthur Waley became my chief source for this work.

Though the exact meaning of the name is disputed, Temujin-Uge was a Tartar killed by Yesugei, who then named his son after the warrior he had defeated. The name has similarities to the Mongolian word for “iron,” and that is generally accepted as its meaning, though it could just be coincidence. Temujin was born holding a clot of blood in his hand, which would have frightened those who looked for such omens.

Temujin was tall for a Mongol, with “cat’s eyes.” Even amongst a hardy people, he was noted for his ability to endure heat and cold and was indifferent to wounds. He had complete mastery of his own body in terms of endurance. As a people, the Mongols have excellent teeth and eyesight, black hair, and reddish skin and believe themselves to be related to the Native American tribes who crossed the Bering Strait while it was frozen and so entered Alaska around fifteen thousand years ago. The similarities between the peoples are startling.

In modern Mongolia, the majority of the population still hunt with a bow or rifle, herd sheep and goats, and revere ponies. They practice shamanism, and any high place will be marked with lengths of blue cloth to honor the sky father. “Sky burial,” that is, laying out bodies to be torn apart by wild birds in high places, is as I have described it.

The young Temujin was taken to his mother’s old tribe, the Olkhun’ut, to find him a wife, though his mother, Hoelun, was taken in the other way of finding a woman—by Yesugei and his brothers kidnapping her from her husband. Yesugei was almost certainly poisoned by his Tartar enemies, though exact details are sketchy.

With his father gone, the tribe chose a new khan and abandoned Hoelun and seven children, down to Temulun, a baby girl. I have not included a half brother, Belgutei, in this story, as he did not play a major part and there were too many similar names already. In the same way, I have changed names where I felt the original was too long or too complex. “Eeluk” is far simpler than “Tarkhutai-kiriltukh.” Mongolian is not an easy language to pronounce, though it is worth mentioning that they have no “k” sound, so that “Khan” would be said as “Haan.” Kublai Khan, the grandson of Genghis, would have been pronounced as “Hoop-lie Haan.” It is true that “Genghis” is perhaps better rendered as “Chinggis,” but “Genghis” is how I learned it first and the one that resonates for me.

Hoelun and her children were not expected to survive and it is a testament to that extraordinary woman that the first winter did not kill her children. We do not know exactly how they survived starvation and temperature plunging as low as -20°, but the death of Bekter shows how close to the ragged edge they were during that period. That said, my guide in Mongolia slept in his deel in very low temperatures, so that his hair had frozen to the ground on waking. They are a hardy people and, to this day, practice the three sports of wrestling, archery, and horse-riding to the exclusion of everything else.

Temujin killed Bekter much as I have described it, though it was Khasar, not Kachiun, who fired the second shot. After Bekter stole food, both boys ambushed him with bows. To understand this act, I think it must first be necessary to see your family starve. Mongolia is an unforgiving land. The boy Temujin was never cruel, and there is no record of him ever taking pleasure from the destruction of his enemies. He was capable, however, of utter ruthlessness.

When the tribe sent men back to see what had become of the family they had abandoned, they met fierce resistance and arrow fire from the brothers. After a chase, Temujin hid from them deep in a thicket for nine days without food before starvation eventually forced him out. He was captured, but escaped and hid in a river. The bank of blue ice I described is not in The Secret History, though I saw such a thing on my travels in Mongolia. I changed the name of Sorkhansira to Basan for the man who saw him in the water and did not give him away. It was Sorkhansira who hid Temujin in his own ger. When the search failed, Sorkhansira gave him a licorice-colored mare with a white mouth, food, milk, and a bow with two arrows before sending him back to his family.

Temujin’s wife, Borte, was stolen by the Merkit tribe rather than the Tartars as I have it. He was wounded in the attack. She was missing for some months rather than days. As a result, the paternity of the first son, Jochi, was never absolutely certain, and Temujin never fully accepted the boy. In fact, it was because his second son, Chagatai, refused to accept Jochi as their father’s successor that later Genghis named his third son, Ogedai, as heir.

Cannibalism in the sense of eating the heart of an enemy was rare, but not unheard of amongst the tribes of Mongolia. Indeed, the best part of the marmot, the shoulder, was known as “human meat.” In this too there is a link to the practices and beliefs of Native American tribes.

Togrul of the Kerait was indeed promised a kingdom in northern China. Though at first he was a mentor to the young raider, he came to fear Temujin’s sudden rise to power and failed in an attempt to have him killed, breaking the cardinal rule of the tribes that a khan must be successful. Togrul was forced into banishment and killed by the Naimans, apparently before they recognized him.

To be betrayed by those he trusted seems to have ignited a spark of vengeance in Temujin, a desire for power that never left him. His childhood experiences created the man he would become, who would not bend or allow fear or weakness in any form. He cared nothing for possessions or wealth, only that his enemies fall.

The Mongolian double-curved bow is as I have described it, with a draw strength greater than the English longbow that was so successful two centuries later against armor. The key to its strength is the laminate form, with layers of boiled horn and sinew to augment the wood. The layer of horn is on the inner face, as horn resists compression. The layer of sinew is on the outer face, as it resists expansion. These layers, as thick as a finger, add power to the weapon, until heaving back on it is the equivalent of lifting two men into the air by two fingers—at full gallop. The arrows are made of birch.

Archery is what won Genghis his empire—that and incredible maneuverability. His riders moved far faster than modern armored columns and could live off a mixture of blood and mare’s milk for long periods, needing no supply lines.

Each warrior would carry two bows, with thirty to sixty arrows in two quivers, a sword if they had one, a hatchet, and an iron file for sharpening arrowheads—attached to the quiver. As well as weapons, they carried a horsehair lasso, a rope, an awl for punching holes in leather, needle and thread, an iron cooking pot, two leather bottles for water and ten pounds of hard milk curd (to eat at the rate of a half pound per day). Each ten-man unit had a ger on a remount, so was completely self-sufficient. If they had dried mutton, they would make it edible by tenderizing it under the wooden saddle for days on end. It is significant that the word in Mongolian for “poor” is formed from the verb meaning “to go on foot,” or “to walk.”

One story I did not use is that his mother, Hoelun, showed her boys how an arrow could be snapped, but a bundle of them resisted—the classic metaphor for group strength.

Temujin’s alliance with Togrul of the Kerait allowed him to build his followers into a successful raiding group under the protection of a powerful khan. If Temujin had not come to see the Chin as the puppet-masters of his people for a thousand years, he may well have remained a local phenomenon. As it was, however, he had a vision of a nation. The incredible martial skills of the Mongol tribes had always been wasted against each other. From nothing, surrounded by enemies, Temujin rose to unite them all.

What came next would shake the world.

GENGHIS: LORDS OF THE BOW

A Delacorte Press Book / April 2008

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it, while based on historical events, are the work of the author’s imagination.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2008 by Conn Iggulden

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Iggulden, Conn.

Genghis : lords of the bow / Conn Iggulden.

p. cm.

1. Genghis Khan, 1162–1227—Fiction. 2. Mongols—Kings and rulers—

Fiction. 3. Mongols—History—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Lords of the bow.

PR6109.G47G464 2008

823'.92—dc22

2007030293

www.bantamdell.com

eISBN: 978-0-440-33755-3

v3.0_r1

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Genghis: Lords of the Bow

Copyright

Dedication

Thanks to John Flicker

Epigraph

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Part Two

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Historical Note

To my daughter, Sophie

Thanks to John Flicker, who kept Genghis on the right path and improved the battle at the pass.

Behold a people shall come from the north, and a great nation. They shall hold the bow and the lance; they are cruel and will not show mercy; their voice shall roar like the sea, and they shall ride upon horses every one put in array, like a man to the battle.

—JEREMIAH 50: 41–42

PROLOGUE

THE KHAN OF THE NAIMANS WAS OLD. He shivered in the wind as it blew over the hill. Far below, the army he had gathered made its stand against the man who called himself Genghis. More than a dozen tribes stood with the Naimans in the foothills as the enemy struck in waves. The khan could hear yelling and screams on the clear mountain air, but he was almost blind and could not see the battle.

“Tell me what is happening,” he murmured again to his shaman.

Kokchu had yet to see his thirtieth year, and his eyes were sharp, though shadows of regret played over them. “The Jajirat have laid down their bows and swords, my lord. They have lost their courage, as you said they might.”

“They give him too much honor with their fear,” the khan said, drawing his deel close around his scrawny frame. “Tell me of my own Naimans: do they still fight?”

Kokchu did not respond for a long time as he watched the roiling mass of men and horses below. Genghis had caught them all by surprise, appearing out of the grasslands at dawn when the best scouts said he was still hundreds of miles away. They had struck the Naiman alliance with all the ferocity of men used to victory, but there had been a chance to break their charge. Kokchu silently cursed the Jajirat tribe, who had brought so many men from the mountains that he had thought they might even win against their enemies. For a little time, their alliance had been a grand thing, impossible even a few years before. It had lasted as long as the first charge, and then fear had shattered it and the Jajirat had stepped aside.

As Kokchu watched he swore under his breath, seeing how some of the men his khan had welcomed even fought against their brothers. They had the mind of a pack of dogs, turning with the wind as it blew strongest.

“They fight yet, my lord,” he said at last. “They have stood against the charge and their arrows sting the men of Genghis, hurting them.”

The khan of the Naimans brought his bony hands together, the knuckles white. “That is good, Kokchu, but I should go back down to them, to give them heart.”

The shaman turned a feverish gaze on the man he had served all his adult life. “You will die if you do, my lord. I have seen it. Your bondsmen will hold this hill against even the souls of the dead.” He hid his shame. The khan had trusted his counsel, but when Kokchu watched the first Naiman lines crumple, he had seen his own death coming on the singing shafts. All he had wanted then was to get away.

The khan sighed. “You have served me well, Kokchu. I have been grateful. Now tell me again what you see.”

Kokchu took a quick, sharp breath before replying.

“The brothers of Genghis have joined the battle now. One of them has led a charge into the flanks of our warriors. It is cutting deeply into their ranks.” He paused, biting his lip. Like a buzzing fly, an arrow darted up toward them, and he watched it sink to its feathers in the ground just a few feet below where they crouched.

“We must move higher, my lord,” he said, rising to his feet without looking away from the seething mass of killing far below.

The old khan rose with him, aided by two warriors. They were cold-faced as they witnessed the destruction of their friends and brothers, but they turned up the hill at Kokchu’s gesture, helping the old man to climb.

“Have we struck back, Kokchu?” he asked, his voice quavering. Kokchu turned and winced at what he saw. Arrows hung in the air below, seeming to move with oily slowness. The Naiman force had been split in two by the charge. The armor Genghis had copied from the Chin was better than the boiled leather the Naimans used. Each man wore hundreds of finger-width lengths of iron sewn onto thick canvas over a silk tunic. Even then, it could not stop a solid hit, though the silk often trapped the arrowhead. Kokchu saw the warriors of Genghis weather the storm of shafts. The horse-tail standard of the Merkit tribe was trampled underfoot, and they too threw down their weapons to kneel, chests heaving. Only the Oirat and Naimans fought on, raging, knowing they could not hold for long. The great alliance had come together to resist a single enemy, and with its end went all hope of freedom. Kokchu frowned to himself, considering his future.”

The men fight with pride, my lord. They will not run from these, not while you are watching.” He saw a hundred warriors of Genghis had reached the foot of the hill and were staring balefully up at the lines of bondsmen. The wind was cruelly cold at such a height, and Kokchu felt despair and anger. He had come too far to fail on a dry hill with the cold sun on his face. All the secrets he had won from his father, surpassed even, would be wasted in a blow from a sword, or an arrow to end his life. For a moment, he hated the old khan who had tried to resist the new force on the plains. He had failed and that made him a fool, no matter how strong he had once seemed. In silence Kokchu cursed the bad luck that still stalked him.

The khan of the Naimans was panting as they climbed, and he waved a weary hand at the men who held his arms.

“I must rest here,” he said, shaking his head.

“My lord, they are too close,” Kokchu replied. The bondsmen ignored the shaman, easing their khan down to where he could sit on a ledge of grass.

“Then we have lost?” the khan said. “How else could the dogs of Genghis have reached this hill, if not over Naiman dead?”

Kokchu did not meet the eyes of the bondsmen. They knew the truth as well as he, but no one wanted to say the words and break the last hope of an old man. Below, the ground was marked in curves and strokes of dead men, like a bloody script on the grass. The Oirat had fought bravely and well, but they too had broken at the last. The army of Genghis moved fluidly, taking advantage of every weakness in the lines. Kokchu could see groups of tens and hundreds race across the battlefield, their officers communicating with bewildering speed. Only the great courage of the Naiman warriors remained to hold back the storm, and it would not be enough. Kokchu knew a moment’s hope when the warriors retook the foot of the hill, but it was a small number of exhausted men and they were swept away in the next great charge against them.

“Your bondsmen still stand ready to die for you, my lord,” Kokchu murmured. It was all he could say. The rest of the army that had stood so bright and strong the night before lay shattered. He could hear the cries of dying men.

The khan nodded, closing his eyes.

“I thought we might win this day,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “If it is over, tell my sons to lay down their swords. I will not have them die for nothing.”

The khan’s sons had been killed as the army of Genghis roared over them. The two bondsmen stared at Kokchu as they heard the order, their grief and anger hidden from view. The older man drew his sword and checked the edge, the veins in his face and neck showing clearly, like delicate threads under the skin.

“I will take word to your sons, lord, if you will let me go.”

The khan raised his head.

“Tell them to live, Murakh, that they might see where this Genghis takes us all.”

There were tears in Murakh’s eyes and he wiped them away angrily as he faced the other bondsman, ignoring Kokchu as if he were not there.

“Protect the khan, my son,” he said softly. The younger man bowed his head and Murakh placed a hand on his shoulder, leaning forward to touch foreheads for a moment. Without a glance at the shaman who had brought them to the hill, Murakh strode down the slope.

The khan sighed, his mind full of clouds. “Tell them to let the conqueror through,” he whispered. Kokchu watched as a bead of sweat hung on his nose and quivered there. “Perhaps he will be merciful with my sons once he has killed me.”

Far below, Kokchu saw the bondsman Murakh reach the last knot of defenders. They stood taller in his presence; exhausted, broken men who nonetheless raised their heads and tried not to show they had been afraid. Kokchu heard them calling farewell to one another as they walked with a light step toward the enemy.

At the foot of the hill, Kokchu saw Genghis himself come through the mass of warriors, his armor marbled in blood. Kokchu felt the man’s gaze pass over him. He shivered and touched the hilt of his knife. Would Genghis spare a shaman who had drawn it across his own khan’s throat? The old man sat with his head bowed, his neck painfully thin. Perhaps such a murder would win Kokchu’s life for him, and at that moment, he was desperately afraid of death.

Genghis stared up without moving for a long time, and Kokchu let his hand fall. He did not know this cold warrior who came from nowhere with the dawn sun. Kokchu sat at the side of his khan and watched the last of the Naimans go down to die. He chanted an old protective charm his father had taught him, to turn enemies to his side. It seemed to ease the tension in the old khan to hear the tumbling words.

Murakh had been first warrior to the Naimans and had not fought that day. With an ululating yell, he tore into the lines of Genghis’s men without a thought for his defense. The last of the Naimans shouted in his wake, their weariness vanishing. Their arrows sent the men of Genghis spinning, though they rose quickly and snapped the shafts, showing their teeth as they came on. As Murakh killed the first who stood against him, a dozen more pressed him on all sides, making his ribs run red with their blows.

Kokchu continued the chant, his eyes widening as Genghis blew a horn and his men pulled back from the panting Naiman survivors.

Murakh still lived, standing dazed. Kokchu could see Genghis call to him, but he could not hear the words. Murakh shook his head and spat blood on the ground as he raised his sword once more. There were only a few Naimans who still stood, and they were all wounded, their blood running down their legs. They raised their blades, staggering as they did so.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

“You have fought well,” Genghis shouted. “Surrender to me and I will welcome you at my fires. I will give you honor.”

Murakh grinned at him through red teeth. “I spit on Wolf honor,” he said.

Genghis sat very still on his pony before finally shrugging and dropping his arm once more. The line surged forward and Murakh and the others were engulfed in the press of stamping, stabbing men.

High on the hill, Kokchu rose to his feet, his chant dying in his throat as Genghis dismounted and began to climb. The battle was over. The dead lay in their hundreds, but thousands more had surrendered. Kokchu did not care what happened to them.

“He is coming,” Kokchu said softly, peering down the hill. His stomach cramped and the muscles in his legs shuddered like a horse beset with flies. The man who had brought the tribes of the plains under his banners was walking purposefully upwards, his face without expression. Kokchu could see his armor was battered and more than a few of its metal scales hung by threads. The fight had been hard, but Genghis climbed with his mouth shut, as if the exertion was nothing to him.

“Have my sons survived?” the khan whispered, breaking his stillness. He reached out and took hold of the sleeve of Kokchu’s deel.

“They have not,” Kokchu said with a sudden surge of bitterness. The hand fell away and the old man slumped. As Kokchu watched, the milky eyes came up once more and there was strength in the way he held himself.

“Then let this Genghis come,” the khan said. “What does he matter to me now?”

Kokchu did not respond, unable to tear his gaze from the warrior who climbed the hill. The wind was cold on his neck and he knew he was feeling it more sweetly than ever before. He had seen men faced with death; he had given it to them with the darkest rites, sending their souls spinning away. He saw his own death coming in the steady tread of that man, and for a moment he almost broke and ran. It was not courage that held him there. He was a man of words and spells, more feared amongst the Naimans than his father had ever been. To run was to die, with the certainty of winter coming. He heard the whisper as Murakh’s son drew his sword, but took no comfort from it. There was something awe inspiring about the steady gait of the destroyer. Armies had not stopped him. The old khan lifted his head to watch him come, sensing the approach in the same way his sightless eyes could still seek out the sun.

Genghis paused as he reached the three men, gazing at them. He was tall and his skin shone with oil and health. His eyes were wolf-yellow and Kokchu saw no mercy in them. As Kokchu stood frozen, Genghis drew a sword still marked with drying blood. Murakh’s son took a pace forward to stand between the two khans. Genghis looked at him with a spark of irritation, and the young man tensed.

“Get down the hill, boy, if you want to live,” Genghis said. “I have seen enough of my people die today.”

The young warrior shook his head without a word, and Genghis sighed. With a sharp blow, he knocked the sword aside and swept his other hand across, plunging a dagger into the young man’s throat. As the life went out of Murakh’s son, he fell onto Genghis with open arms. Genghis gave a grunt as he caught the weight and heaved him away. Kokchu watched the body tumble limply down the slope.

Calmly, Genghis wiped his knife and replaced it in a sheath at his waist, his weariness suddenly evident.

“I would have honored the Naimans, if you had joined me,” he said.

The old khan stared up at him, his eyes empty. “You have heard my answer,” he replied, his voice strong. “Now send me to my sons.”

Genghis nodded. His sword came down with apparent slowness. It swept the khan’s head from his shoulders and sent it tumbling down the hill. The body hardly jerked at the tug of the blade and only leaned slightly to one side. Kokchu could hear the blood rolling on the rocks as every one of his senses screamed to live. He paled as Genghis turned to him and he spoke in a desperate torrent of words.

“You may not shed the blood of a shaman, lord. You may not. I am a man of power, one who understands power. Strike me and you will find my skin is iron. Instead, let me serve you. Let me proclaim your victory.”

“How well did you serve the khan of the Naimans to have brought him here to die?” Genghis replied.

“Did I not bring him far from the battle? I saw you coming in my dreams, lord. I prepared the way for you as best I could. Are you not the future of the tribes? My voice is the voice of the spirits. I stand in water, while you stand on earth and sky. Let me serve you.”

Genghis hesitated, his sword perfectly still. The man he faced wore a dark brown deel over a grubby tunic and leggings. It was decorated with patterns of stitching, swirls of purple worn almost black with grease and dirt. The boots Kokchu wore were bound in rope, the sort a man might wear if the last owner had no more use for them.

Yet there was something in the way the eyes burned in the dark face. Genghis remembered how Eeluk of the Wolves had killed his father’s shaman. Perhaps Eeluk’s fate had been sealed on that bloody day so many years before. Kokchu watched him, waiting for the stroke that would end his life.

“I do not need another storyteller,” Genghis said. “I have three men already who claim to speak for the spirits.”

Kokchu saw the curiosity in the man’s gaze and he did not hesitate. “They are children, lord. Let me show you,” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he reached inside his deel and removed a slender length of steel bound clumsily into a hilt of horn. He sensed Genghis raise his sword and Kokchu held up his free palm to stay the blow, closing his eyes.

With a wrenching effort of will, the shaman shut out the wind on his skin and the cold fear that ate at his belly. He murmured the words his father had beaten into him and felt the calm of a trance come sharper and faster than even he had expected. The spirits were with him, their caress slowing his heart. In an instant, he was somewhere else and watching.

Genghis opened his eyes wide as Kokchu touched the dagger to his own forearm, the slim blade entering the flesh. The shaman showed no sign of pain as the metal slid through him, and Genghis watched, fascinated, as the tip raised the skin on the other side. The metal showed black as it poked through, and Kokchu blinked slowly, almost lazily, as he pulled it out.

He watched the eyes of the young khan as the knife came free. They were fastened on the wound. Kokchu took a deep breath, feeling the trance deepen until a great coldness was in every limb.

“Is there blood, lord?” he whispered, knowing the answer.

Genghis frowned. He did not sheathe his sword, but stepped forward and ran a rough thumb over the oval wound in Kokchu’s arm.

“None. It is a useful skill,” he admitted grudgingly. “Can it be taught?”

Kokchu smiled, no longer afraid. “The spirits will not come to those they have not chosen, lord.”

Genghis nodded, stepping away. Even in the cold wind, the shaman stank like an old goat and he did not know what to make of the strange wound that did not bleed.

With a grunt, he ran his fingers along his blade and sheathed it.

“I will give you a year of life, shaman. It is enough time to prove your worth.”

Kokchu fell to his knees, pressing his face into the ground. “You are the great khan, as I have foretold,” he said, tears staining the dust on his cheeks. He felt the coldness of whispering spirits leave him then. He shrugged his sleeve forward to hide the growing spot of blood.

“I am,” Genghis replied. He looked down the hill at the army waiting for him to return. “The world will hear my name.” When he spoke again, it was so quiet that Kokchu had to strain to hear him.

“This is not a time of death, shaman. We are one people and there will be no more battles between us. I will summon us all. Cities will fall to us, new lands will be ours to ride. Women will weep and I will be pleased to hear it.”

He looked down at the prostrate shaman, frowning.

“You will live, shaman. I have said it. Get off your knees and walk down with me.”

At the foot of the hill, Genghis nodded to his brothers Kachiun and Khasar. Each of them had grown in authority in the years since they had begun the gathering of tribes, but they were still young and Kachiun smiled as his brother walked amongst them.

“Who is this?” Khasar asked, staring at Kokchu in his ragged deel.

“The shaman of the Naimans,” Genghis replied.

Another man guided his pony close and dismounted, his eyes fastened on Kokchu. Arslan had once been swordsmith to the Naiman tribe, and Kokchu recognized him as he approached. The man was a murderer, he remembered, forced into banishment. It was no surprise to find such as he amongst Genghis’s trusted officers.

“I remember you,” Arslan said. “Has your father died, then?”

“Years ago, oath-breaker,” Kokchu replied, nettled by the tone. For the first time, he realized he had lost the authority he had won so painfully with the Naimans. There were few men in that tribe who would have looked on him without lowering their eyes, for fear that they would be accused of disloyalty and face his knives and fire. Kokchu met the gaze of the Naiman traitor without flinching. They would come to know him.

Genghis watched the tension between the two men with something like amusement.

“Do not give offense, shaman. Not to the first warrior to come to my banners. There are no Naimans any longer, nor ties to tribe. I have claimed them all.”

“I have seen it in the visions,” Kokchu replied immediately. “You have been blessed by the spirits.”

Genghis’s face grew tight at the words. “It has been a rough blessing. The army you see around you has been won by strength and skill. If the souls of our fathers were aiding us, they were too subtle for me to see them.”

Kokchu blinked. The khan of the Naimans had been credulous and easy to lead. He realized this new man was not as open to his influence. Still, the air was sweet in his lungs. He lived and he had not expected even that an hour before.

Genghis turned to his brothers, dismissing Kokchu from his thoughts.

“Have the new men give their oath to me this evening, as the sun sets,” he said to Khasar. “Spread them amongst the others so that they begin to feel part of us, rather than beaten enemies. Do it carefully. I cannot be watching for knives at my back.”

Khasar dipped his head before turning away and striding through the warriors to where the defeated tribes still knelt.

Kokchu saw a smile of affection pass between Genghis and his younger brother Kachiun. The two men were friends and Kokchu was beginning to learn everything he could. Even the smallest detail would be useful in the years to come.

“We have broken the alliance, Kachiun. Did I not say we would?” Genghis said, clapping him on the back. “Your armored horses came in at the perfect time.”

“As you taught me,” Kachiun replied, easy with the praise.

“With the new men, this is an army to ride the plains,” Genghis said, smiling. “It is time to set the path, at last.” He thought for a moment.

“Send out riders in every direction, Kachiun. I want the land scoured of every wanderer family and small tribe. Tell them to come to the black mountain next spring, near the Onon River. It is a flat plain that will hold all the thousands of our people. We will gather there, ready to ride.”

“What message shall they take?” Kachiun asked.

“Tell them to come to me,” he said softly. “Tell them Genghis calls them to a gathering. There is no one to stand against us now. They can follow me or they can spend their last days waiting for my warriors on the horizon. Tell them that.” He looked around him with satisfaction. In seven years, he had gathered more than ten thousand men. With the survivors of the defeated allied tribes, he had almost twice that number. There was no one left on the plains who could challenge his leadership. He looked away from the sun to the east, imagining the bloated, wealthy cities of the Chin.

“They have kept us apart for a thousand generations, Kachiun. They have ridden us until we were nothing more than savage dogs. That is the past. I have brought us together and they will be trembling. I’ll give them cause.”

CHAPTER 1

IN THE SUMMER DUSK, the encampment of the Mongols stretched for miles in every direction, the great gathering still dwarfed by the plain in the shadow of the black mountain. Ger tents speckled the landscape as far as the eye could see, and around them thousands of cooking fires lit the ground. Beyond those, herds of ponies, goats, sheep, and yaks stripped the ground of grass in their constant hunger. Each dawn saw them driven away to the river and good grazing before returning to the gers. Though Genghis guaranteed the peace, tension and suspicion grew each day. None there had seen such a host before, and it was easy to feel hemmed in by the numbers. Insults imaginary and real were exchanged as all felt the pressure of living too close to warriors they did not know. In the evenings, there were many fights between the young men, despite the prohibition. Each dawn found one or two bodies of those who had tried to settle an old score or grudge. The tribes muttered among themselves while they waited to hear why they had been brought so far from their own lands.

In the center of the army of tents and carts stood the ger of Genghis himself, unlike anything seen before on the plains. Half as high again as the others, it was twice the width and built of stronger materials than the wicker lattice of the gers around it. The construction had proved too heavy to dismantle easily and was mounted on a wheeled cart drawn by eight oxen. As the night came, many hundreds of warriors directed their feet toward it, just to confirm what they had heard and marvel.

Inside, the great ger was lit with mutton-oil lamps, casting a warm light over the inhabitants and making the air thick. The walls were hung with silk war banners, but Genghis disdained any show of wealth and sat on a rough wooden bench. His brothers lay sprawled on piled horse blankets and saddles, drinking and chatting idly.

Before Genghis sat a nervous young warrior, still sweating from the long ride that had brought him amongst such a host. The men around the khan did not seem to be paying attention, but the messenger was aware that their hands were never far from their weapons. They did not seem tense or worried at his presence, and he considered that their hands might always be near a blade. His people had made their decision and he hoped the elder khans knew what they were doing.

“If you have finished your tea, I will hear the message,” Genghis said.

The messenger nodded, placing the shallow cup back on the floor at his feet. He swallowed his last gulp as he closed his eyes and recited, “These are the words of Barchuk, who is khan to the Uighurs.”

The conversations and laughter around him died away as he spoke, and he knew they were all listening. His nervousness grew.

“ ‘It is with joy that I learned of your glory, my lord Genghis Khan. We had grown weary waiting for our people to know one another and rise. The sun has risen. The river is freed of ice. You are the gurkhan, the one who will lead us all. I will dedicate my strength and knowledge to you.’ ”

The messenger stopped and wiped sweat from his brow. When he opened his eyes, he saw that Genghis was looking at him quizzically and his stomach tightened in fear.

“The words are very fine,” Genghis said, “but where are the Uighurs? They have had a year to reach this place. If I have to fetch them . . .” He left the threat dangling.

The messenger spoke quickly. “My lord, it took months just to build the carts to travel. We have not moved from our lands in many generations. Five great temples had to be taken apart, stone by stone, each one numbered so that it could be built again. Our store of scrolls took a dozen carts by itself and cannot move quickly.”

“You have writing?” Genghis asked, sitting forward with interest.

The messenger nodded without pride. “For many years now, lord. We have collected the writings of nations in the west, whenever they have allowed us to trade for them. Our khan is a man of great learning and has even copied works of the Chin and the Xi Xia.”

“So I am to welcome scholars and teachers to this place?” Genghis said. “Will you fight with scrolls?”

The messenger colored as the men in the ger chuckled. “There are four thousand warriors also, my lord. They will follow Barchuk wherever he leads them.”

“They will follow me, or they will be left as flesh on the grass,” Genghis replied.

For a moment, the messenger could only stare, but then he dropped his eyes to the polished wooden floor and remained silent.

Genghis stifled his irritation. “You have not said when they will come, these Uighur scholars,” he said.

“They could be only days behind me, lord. I left three moons ago and they were almost ready to leave. It cannot be long now, if you will have patience.”

“For four thousand, I will wait,” Genghis said softly, thinking. “You know the Chin writing?”

“I do not have my letters, lord. My khan can read their words.”

“Do these scrolls say how to take a city made of stone?”

The messenger hesitated as he felt the sharp interest of the men around him.

“I have not heard of anything like that, lord. The Chin write about philosophy, the words of the Buddha, Confucius, and Lao Tzu. They do not write of war, or if they do, they have not allowed us to see those scrolls.”

“Then they are of no use to me,” Genghis snapped. “Get yourself a meal and be careful not to start a fight with your boasting. I will judge the Uighurs when they finally arrive.”

The messenger bowed low before leaving the ger, taking a relieved breath as soon as he was out of the smoky atmosphere. Once more he wondered if his khan understood what he had promised with his words. The Uighur ruled themselves no longer.

Looking around at the vast encampment, the messenger saw twinkling lights for miles. At a word from the man he had met, they could be sent in any direction. Perhaps the khan of the Uighurs had not had a choice.

Hoelun dipped her cloth into a bucket and laid it on her son’s brow. Temuge had always been weaker than his brothers, and it seemed an added burden that he fell sick more than Khasar or Kachiun, or Temujin himself. She smiled wryly at the thought that she must now call her son “Genghis.” It meant the ocean and was a beautiful word twisted beyond its usual meaning by his ambition. He who had never seen the sea in his twenty-six years of life. Not that she had herself, of course.

Temuge stirred in his sleep, wincing as she probed his stomach with her fingers.

“He is quiet now. Perhaps I will leave for a time,” Borte said. Hoelun glanced coldly at the woman Temujin had taken as a wife. Borte had given him four perfect sons and for a time Hoelun had thought they would be as sisters, or at least friends. The younger woman had once been full of life and excitement, but events had twisted her somewhere deep, where it could not be seen. Hoelun knew the way Temujin looked at the eldest boy. He did not play with little Jochi and all but ignored him. Borte had fought against the mistrust, but it had grown between them like an iron wedge into strong wood. It did not help that his three other boys had all inherited the yellow eyes of his line. Jochi’s were a dark brown, as black as his hair in dim light. While Temujin doted on the others, it was Jochi who ran to his mother, unable to understand the coldness in his father’s face when he looked at him. Hoelun saw the young woman glance at the door to the ger, no doubt thinking of her sons.

“You have servants to put them to bed,” Hoelun chided. “If Temuge wakes, I will need you here.”

As she spoke her fingers drifted over a dark knot under the skin of her son’s belly, just a few fingerbreadths above the dark hair of his groin. She had seen such an injury before, when men lifted weights too heavy for them. The pain was crippling, but most of them recovered. Temuge did not have that kind of luck, and never had. He looked less like a warrior than ever as he had grown to manhood. When he slept, he had the face of a poet, and she loved him for that. Perhaps because his father would have rejoiced to see the men the others had become, she had always found a special tenderness for Temuge. He had not grown ruthless, though he had endured as much as they. She sighed to herself and felt Borte’s eyes on her in the gloom.

“Perhaps he will recover,” Borte said.

Hoelun winced. Her son blistered under the sun and rarely carried a blade bigger than an eating knife. She had not minded as he began to learn the histories of the tribes, taking them in with such speed that the older men were amazed at his recall. Not everyone could be skilled with weapons and horses, she told herself. She knew he hated the sneers and gibes that followed him in his work, though there were few who dared risk Genghis hearing of them. Temuge refused to mention the insults and that was a form of courage all its own. None of her sons lacked spirit.

Both women looked up as the small door of the ger opened. Hoelun frowned as she saw Kokchu enter and bow his head to them. His fierce eyes darted over the supine figure of her son, and she fought not to show her dislike, not even understanding her own reaction. There was something about the shaman that set her teeth on edge, and she had ignored the messengers he had sent. For a moment, she drew herself up, struggling between indignation and weariness.

“I did not ask for you,” she said coldly.

Kokchu seemed oblivious to the tone. “I sent a slave to beg a moment with you, mother to khans. Perhaps he has not yet arrived. The whole camp is talking of your son’s illness.”

Hoelun felt the shaman’s gaze fasten on her, waiting to be formally welcomed as she looked at Temuge once more. Always he was watching, as if inside, someone else looked out. She had seen how he pushed himself into the inner circles around Genghis, and she could not like him. The warriors might reek of sheep turds, mutton fat, and sweat, but those were the smells of healthy men. Kokchu carried an odor of rotting meat, though whether it was from his clothes or his flesh, she could not tell.

Faced with her silence, he should have left the ger, or risked her calling for guards. Instead, he spoke brazenly, somehow certain that she would not send him away.

“I have some healing skill, if you will let me examine him.”

Hoelun tried to swallow her distaste. The shaman of the Olkhun’ut had only chanted over Temuge, without result.

“You are welcome in my home, Kokchu,” she said at last. She saw him relax subtly and could not shake the feeling of being too close to something unpleasant.

“My son is asleep. The pain is very great when he is awake, and I want him to rest.”

Kokchu crossed the small ger and crouched down beside the two women. Both edged unconsciously away from him.

“He needs healing more than rest, I think.” Kokchu peered down at Temuge, leaning close to smell his breath. Hoelun winced in sympathy as he reached out to Temuge’s bare stomach and probed the area of the lump, but she did not stop him. Temuge groaned in his sleep and Hoelun held her breath.

After a time, Kokchu nodded to himself.

“You should prepare yourself, old mother. This one will die.”

Hoelun jerked out a hand and caught the shaman by his thin wrist. Her strength surprised him.

“He has wrenched his gut, shaman. I have seen it many times before. Even on ponies and goats have I seen it, and they always live.”

Kokchu undid her shaking clasp with his other hand. It pleased him to see fear in her eyes. With fear, he could own her, body and soul. If she had been a young Naiman mother, he might have sought sexual favors in return for healing her son, but in this new camp, he needed to impress the great khan. He kept his face still as he replied, “You see the darkness of the lump? It is a growth that cannot be cut out. Perhaps if it were on the skin, I would burn it off, but it will have run claws into his stomach and lungs. It eats him mindlessly and it will not be satisfied until he is dead.”

“You are wrong,” Hoelun snapped, but there were tears in her eyes.

Kokchu lowered his gaze so that she would not see his triumph glitter there. “I wish I was, old mother. I have seen these things before and they have nothing but appetite. It will continue to savage him until they perish together.” To make his point, he reached down and squeezed the swelling.

Temuge jerked and came awake with a sharp breath. “Who are you?” Temuge said to Kokchu, gasping. He struggled to sit up, but the pain made him cry out and he fell back onto the narrow bed. His hands tugged at a blanket to cover his nakedness, and his cheeks flushed hotly under Kokchu’s scrutiny.

“He is a shaman, Temuge. He is going to make you well,” Hoelun said. Temuge broke into fresh sweat and she dabbed the cloth to his skin as he settled back. After a time, his breathing slowed and he drifted into exhausted sleep once more. Hoelun lost a little of her tension, if not the terror Kokchu had brought into her home.

“If it is hopeless, shaman, why are you still here?” she said. “There are other men and women who need your healing skill.” She could not keep the bitterness from her voice and did not guess that Kokchu rejoiced in it.

“I have fought what eats him twice before in my life. It is a dark rite and dangerous for the man who practices it as well as for your son. I tell you this so you do not despair, but it would be foolish to hope. Consider him to have died, and if I win him back, you will know joy.”

Hoelun felt a chill as she looked into the shaman’s eyes. He smelled of blood, she realized, though no trace of it showed on his skin. The thought of him touching her perfect son made her clench her hands, but he had frightened her with his talk of death and she was helpless against him.

“What will you have me do?” she whispered.

He sat very still while he considered. “It will take all my strength to bring the spirits to your son. I will need a goat to take in the growth and another to cleanse him with blood. I have the herbs I need, if I am strong enough.”

“What if you fail?” Borte asked suddenly.

Kokchu took a deep breath, letting it shudder from his lips. “If my strength fails as I begin the chant, I will survive. If I reach the final stage and the spirits take me, then you will see me torn out of my body. It will live for a time, but without the soul it will be empty flesh. This is no small thing, old mother.”

Hoelun watched him, once more suspicious. He seemed so plausible, but his quick eyes were always watching, seeing how his words were received.

“Fetch two goats, Borte. Let us see what he can do.”

It was dark outside, and while Borte brought the animals, Kokchu used the cloth to wipe Temuge’s chest and belly. When he pressed his fingers into Temuge’s mouth, the young man woke again, his eyes bright with terror.

“Lie still, boy. I will help you if I have the strength,” Kokchu told him. He did not look round as the bleating goats were brought in and dragged to his side, his attention fully on the young man in his care.

With the slowness of ritual, Kokchu took four brass bowls from his robe and placed them on the ground. He poured gray powder into each one and lit a taper from the stove. Soon snakes of white-gray smoke made the air chokingly thick in the ger. Kokchu breathed deeply, filling his lungs. Hoelun coughed into her hand and flushed. The fumes were making her dizzy, but she would not leave her son alone with a man she did not trust.

In a whispering voice, Kokchu began to chant in the most ancient tongue of their people, almost forgotten. Hoelun sat back as she heard it, remembering the sounds from the healers and shamans of her youth. It brought back darker memories for Borte, who had heard her husband recite the old words on a night long before, butchering men and forcing slivers of burned heart between her lips. It was a language of blood and cruelty, well suited to the winter plains. There was no word in it for kindness, or for love. As Borte listened the ribbons of smoke seeped into her, making her skin numb. The tumbling words brought a rush of vicious images and she gagged.

“Be still, woman,” Kokchu growled at her, his eyes wild. “Be silent while the spirits come.” His chant resumed with greater force, hypnotic as he repeated phrases over and over, growing in volume and urgency. The first goat bleated in desperation as he held it over Temuge, looking into the young man’s terrified eyes. With his knife, Kokchu slit the goat’s throat and held it while its blood poured and steamed over Hoelun’s son. Temuge cried out at the sudden warmth, but Hoelun touched her hand to his lips and he quietened.

Kokchu let the goat fall, still kicking. His chant grew faster and he closed his eyes, reaching deep into Temuge’s gut. To his surprise, the young man remained silent and Kokchu had to squeeze the lump hard to make him cry out. The blood hid the sharp twist as he undid the strangled piece of gut and shoved it back behind the wall of muscle. His father had shown him the ritual with a real tumor and Kokchu had seen the old man chanting while men and women screamed, sometimes yelling back over their open mouths so that his spittle entered their throats. Kokchu’s father had taken them so far past exhaustion that they were lost and they were mad and they believed. He had seen obscene growths shrink and die after that point of agony and faith. If a man gave himself utterly to the shaman, sometimes the spirits rewarded that trust.

There was no honor in using the craft to fool a young man with a torn stomach, but the rewards would be great. Temuge was brother to the khan and such a man would always be a valuable ally. He thought of his father’s warnings about those who abused the spirits with lies and tricks. The man had never understood power, or how intoxicating it could be. The spirits swarmed around belief like flies on dead meat. It was not wrong to make belief swell in the camp of the khan. His authority could only increase.

Kokchu breathed heavily as he chanted, rolling his eyes up in his head as he pushed his hand deeper into Temuge’s belly. With a cry of triumph, he made a wrenching movement, pulling out a small piece of calf’s liver he had hidden from sight. In his grip, it jerked like something alive and Borte and Hoelun recoiled from it.

Kokchu continued to chant as he yanked the second goat close. It too struggled, but he forced his hand past its yellow teeth, though they gnawed at his knuckles. He pushed the foul meat down the gullet until the animal could do nothing but swallow in jerking spasms. When he saw the throat move, he stroked it hard, forcing the liver into the goat’s stomach before letting it go.

“Do not let her touch the other animals,” he said, panting, “or it will spread and live again, perhaps even get back into your son.” Sweat dripped from his nose as he watched them.

“It would be better to burn the goat to ashes. She must not be eaten, as the flesh contains the growth. Be sure with this. I do not have the strength to do it again.”

He let himself slump as if his senses had left him, though he still breathed like a dog in the sun.

“The pain has gone,” he heard Temuge say wonderingly. “It is sore, but nothing like it was before.” Kokchu sensed Hoelun lean over her son and heard him gasp as she touched the place where his gut had come through his stomach muscle.

“The skin is whole,” Temuge said. Kokchu could hear the awe in his voice and chose that moment to open his eyes and sit up. He was dull-eyed and squinted through the haze of smoke.

His long fingers hunted in the pockets of his deel, pulling out a piece of twisted horsehair stained with old blood.

“This has been blessed,” he told them. “I will bind it over the wound so that nothing may enter.”

No one spoke as he took a grubby ribbon of cloth from his deel and made Temuge sit up. Kokchu chanted under his breath as he wound it around the young man’s gut, covering the stiff piece of hair with line after line of cloth and heaving each one tight until it was hidden from view. When he had knotted it, Kokchu sat back, satisfied that the gut would not pop out and spoil all his work.

“Keep the charm in place for a turn of the moon,” he said wearily. “Let it fall and perhaps the growth will find its home once more.” He closed his eyes, as if exhausted. “I must sleep now, for tonight and most of tomorrow. Burn that goat before you leave her to spread the growth. She will be dead in a few hours at the most.” Given that he had laced the liver with enough poison to kill a full-grown man, he knew he spoke the truth. There would be no suspiciously healthy animal to spoil his achievement.

“Thank you for what you have done,” Hoelun said. “I do not understand it . . .”

Kokchu smiled tiredly. “It took me twenty years of study to begin my mastery, old mother. Do not think to understand it in a single evening. Your son will heal now, as he would have done if the growth had not begun to writhe in him.” He thought for a moment. He did not know the woman, but surely she would tell Genghis what had happened. To make certain, he spoke again.

“I must ask that you do not tell anyone of what you have seen. There are still tribes where they kill those who practice the old magic. It is seen as too dangerous.” He shrugged. “Perhaps it is.” With that, he knew the tale would spread right through the camp before he woke the next day. There were always some who wanted a charm against illness, or a curse on an enemy. They would leave milk and meat at his ger, and with power came respect and fear. He longed for them to be afraid, for when they were, they would give him anything. What did it matter if he had not saved a life this time? The belief would be there when another life hung in his hands. He had dropped a stone in the river and the ripples would go far.

Genghis and his generals were alone in the great ger as the moon rose above the host of his people. The day had been busy for all of them, but they could not sleep while he remained awake, and there would be yawns and bleary eyes the following day. Genghis seemed as fresh as he had that morning, when he had welcomed two hundred men and women from a Turkic tribe so far to the northwest that they could not understand more than a few words of what he said. Still, they had come.

“Every day brings more of them, with two moons left of summer,” Genghis said, looking round proudly at men who had been with him since the first days. At fifty years of age, Arslan was growing old after the years of war. He and his son, Jelme, had come to Genghis when he had nothing but his wits and his three brothers. Both had remained utterly loyal through hard years, and Genghis had let them prosper and take wives and wealth. Genghis nodded to the swordsmith who had become his general, pleased to see the man’s back as straight as ever.

Temuge did not attend their discussions, even when he was well. Of all the brothers, he had shown no aptitude for tactics. Genghis loved him, but he could not trust him to lead others. He shook his head, realizing that his thoughts were wandering. He too was weary, though he would not allow it to show.

“Some of the new tribes have never even heard of the Chin,” Kachiun said. “The ones who came this morning dress like nothing I’ve ever seen. They are not Mongols, as we are.”

“Perhaps,” Genghis said. “But I will make them welcome. Let them prove themselves in war before we judge them. They are not Tartars, or blood enemies to any man here. At least I will not be called to untangle some grudge going back a dozen generations. They will be useful.”

He took a draught from a rough clay cup, smacking his lips at the bitterness of the black airag.

“Be wary in the camp, my brothers. They have come because not to come invites us to destroy them. They do not trust us yet. Many of them know only my name and nothing else.”

“I have men listening at every fire,” Kachiun said. “There will always be some who seek an advantage in such a gathering. Even as we speak here, there will be a thousand other conversations discussing us. Even whispers will be heard. I will know if I have to act.”

Genghis nodded to his brother, proud of him. Kachiun had grown into a stocky man with an immense breadth of shoulder from his bow practice. They shared a bond that Genghis could claim with no one else, not even Khasar.

“Still, my back itches when I walk through the camp. While we wait, they grow restless, but there are more to come and I cannot move yet. The Uighurs alone will be valuable. Those who are already here may test us, so be ready and let no insult go unpunished. I will trust you in your judgment, even if you throw a dozen heads at my feet.”

The generals in the ger met each other’s eyes without smiling. For every man they had brought to the great plain, two more had come. The advantage they held was that not one of the strongest khans knew the extent of their support. Anyone riding into the shadow of the black mountain saw a single host and gave no thought to the fact that it was composed of a hundred different factions, watching each other in mutual mistrust.

Genghis yawned at last. “Get some sleep, my brothers,” he said wearily. “Dawn is close and the herds have to be moved to new grass.”

“I will look in on Temuge before I sleep,” Kachiun said.

Genghis sighed. “Let us hope the sky father makes him well. I cannot lose my only sensible brother.”

Kachiun snorted, throwing open the small door to the outside air. When they had all left, Genghis rose, cracking the stiffness out of his neck with a swift jerk of his hands. His family ger was nearby, though his sons would be asleep. It was one more night when he would thump into the blankets without his family knowing he had come home.

CHAPTER 2

GENGHIS EYED HIS YOUNGER BROTHER with disquiet. Temuge had spent the morning telling anyone who would listen about the cure Kokchu had wrought. The camp was a stifling place despite its size, and any news spread quickly. By noon it would be in the mouths of the newest wanderers off the plains.

“So how do you know it was not a strangled bit of gut?” Genghis said, watching him. Temuge seemed to stand a little taller than usual in the family ger, and his face was lit with excitement and something more. Whenever he mentioned Kokchu’s name, his voice would dip almost to a murmur. Genghis found his awe irritating.

“I saw him pull it out of me, brother! It squirmed and writhed in his hand and I nearly vomited to see it. When it was gone, the pain went with it.” Temuge touched his hand to the place and winced.

“Not completely gone, then,” Genghis noted.

Temuge shrugged. The area above and below the bandage was a mass of purple and yellow, though it was already beginning to fade. “It was eating me alive before. This is no worse than a bruise.”

“Yet you say there is no cut,” Genghis said, wonderingly.

Temuge shook his head, his excitement returning. He had explored the area with his fingers in the darkness before dawn. Under the tight cloth, he could feel a split in the muscle that was still incredibly tender. He felt sure it was from there the growth had been torn. “He has power, brother. More than any one of the charlatans we have seen before. I trust what I saw. You know the eyes do not lie.”

Genghis nodded. “I will reward him with mares, sheep, and new cloth. Perhaps a new knife and boots. I cannot have the man who saved my brother looking like a beggar.”

Temuge winced in sudden doubt. “He did not want the story to get out, Genghis. If you reward him, everyone will know what he did.”

“Everyone does know,” Genghis replied. “Kachiun told me at dawn and three more have come to talk about it before I saw you. There are no secrets in this camp, you should know that.”

Temuge nodded thoughtfully. “Then he cannot mind, or he will forgive if he does.” He hesitated before going on, nervous under his brother’s gaze.

“With your permission, I will learn from him. I think he would take me as a pupil and I have never felt such a desire to know. . .” He broke off as Genghis frowned.

“I had hoped you would resume your duties with the warriors, Temuge. Do you not want to ride with me?”

Temuge flushed and looked at the floor. “You know as well as I do that I will never be a great officer. Perhaps I could learn to be competent, but the men will always know I was raised for my blood and not my skill. Let me learn from this Kokchu. I do not think he would be unwilling.”

Genghis sat perfectly still as he considered. Temuge had more than once been the subject of mirth in the tribes. His archery was abysmal and he won no respect with his red-faced efforts with a sword. He could see his youngest brother was trembling, his face tight with fear that Genghis would refuse. Temuge was out of place in the tribes and there had been many evenings when Genghis had wished for him to find something he could do. Yet he was reluctant to let him go so easily. Men like Kokchu stood apart from the tribes. They were feared certainly, and that was good, but they were not part of the family. They were not made welcome and greeted as old friends. Genghis shook his head slightly. Temuge too had always been outside the tribes, a watcher. Perhaps this was the way his life would go.

“On the condition that you practice with a blade and bow for two hours each day. Give your word on that and I will confirm your choice, your path.”

Temuge nodded, smiling shyly. “I will. Perhaps I will be more useful to you as a shaman than I ever was as a warrior.”

Genghis’s eyes became cold. “You are still a warrior, Temuge, though it has never been easy for you. Learn what you want from this man, but in your private heart, remember that you are my brother and our father’s son.”

Temuge felt tears come to his eyes and dipped his head before his brother could see and be ashamed for him.

“I do not forget it,” he said.

“Then tell your new master to come to me and be rewarded. I will embrace him in front of my generals and let them know he is valuable to me. My shadow will ensure you are treated with courtesy in the camp.”

Temuge bowed low before turning away and Genghis was left alone, his thoughts twisting darkly. He had hoped Temuge would harden himself and ride with his brothers. He had yet to meet a shaman he liked, and Kokchu had all the arrogance of his kind. Genghis sighed to himself. Perhaps it was justified. The healing had been extraordinary and he remembered how Kokchu had passed a blade through his own flesh without a drop of blood. The Chin were said to have workers of magic, he recalled. It might be useful to have men to match them. He sighed again. Having his own brother as one of that breed had never been in his plans.

Khasar strolled through the camp, enjoying the bustle and noise. New gers were springing up on every spare bit of ground, and Genghis had ordered deep latrine pits dug at every intersection. With so many men, women, and children in one place, new problems had to be tackled each day, and Khasar found no interest in the details. Kachiun seemed to enjoy the challenges and had organized a group of fifty strong men to dig the pits and help erect the gers. Khasar could see two of them building a shelter for bundles of new birch arrows to protect them from rain. Many warriors made their own, but Kachiun had ordered vast numbers for the army and every ger Khasar passed had women and children busy with feathers, thread, and glue, bundling them up in fifties to be taken away. The forges of the tribes roared and spat all night to make the arrowheads, and every dawn brought new bows to the ranges for testing.

The vast camp was a place of life and work, and it pleased Khasar to see his people so industrious. In the distance, a newborn child started squalling and he smiled to hear it. His feet followed tracks in the grass that had been worn down to the clay beneath. When they left, the camp would look like a vast drawing of shapes, and he struggled to picture it.

Relaxed as he was, he did not at first take notice of the disturbance at a meeting of paths ahead of him. Seven men stood in an angry knot, wrestling to pull a reluctant stallion to the ground. Khasar paused to watch them geld the animal, wincing as one flailing hoof caught a man in the stomach and left him writhing on the ground. The pony was young and powerfully muscled. It fought the men, using its huge strength against the ropes they had on it. Once it was down, they would truss the legs and render it helpless for the gelding knife. They seemed hardly to know what they were doing, and Khasar shook his head in amusement, beginning to walk past the struggling group.

As he edged around the kicking beast, it reared, pulling one of the men off his feet. The pony snorted in fury and backed up into Khasar, stepping on his foot so that he shouted in pain. The closest man to him reacted to the noise, backhanding him across the face to get him out of their way.

Khasar erupted with a fury to match the bound horse. He hammered a blow in return. The man staggered, dazed, and Khasar saw the others drop their ropes, their eyes dangerous. The pony took advantage of the unexpected freedom to bolt, racing away through the camp with its head down. All around them, the other stallions of the herd whinnied in response to its calls, and Khasar was left facing furious men. He stood before them without fear, knowing they would recognize his armor.

“You are Woyela,” he said, looking to break the tension. “I will have your horse recaptured and brought to you.”

They said nothing as they exchanged glances. Each of them shared a resemblance and Khasar realized they were the sons of the Woyela khan. Their father had arrived only a few days before, bringing five hundred warriors as well as the families. He had a reputation for quick temper and a prickly sense of honor. As the men crowded around Khasar he thought the same traits had been passed to his sons.

Khasar hoped for a moment that they would let him go without a fight, but the one he had struck was wild with anger and it was he who pressed closest, bolstered by the presence of his brothers. A livid mark showed on the side of his face where Khasar had hit him.

“What right do you have to interfere?” one of the others snapped. They were deliberately crowding him and Khasar could see the bustle of the camp had stopped around them. There were many families watching the exchange, and with a sinking feeling, he knew he could not back away without shaming Genghis, perhaps even risking his hold on the camp.

“I was trying to get past,” he ventured through gritted teeth, readying himself. “If your bullock of a brother had not struck me, you would have had that pony on the ground by now. Next time, truss his legs first.”

One of the largest spat on the ground near his feet, and Khasar clenched his fists as a voice cut through the air.

“What is this?” The effect on the men was instant and they stood still. Khasar glanced at an older man who bore the same stamp of features. It could only be the khan of the Woyela, and Khasar could do nothing but bow his head. It had not yet come to blades and he knew better than to insult the one man who might control his sons.

“You are brother to the man who calls himself Genghis,” the khan said. “Yet this is a Woyela camp. Why are you here to anger my sons and spoil their work?”

Khasar flushed in irritation. No doubt Kachiun would have been informed of the confrontation and would have men on the way, but he did not trust himself to answer at first. The khan of the Woyela was clearly enjoying the situation, and Khasar did not doubt he had seen it from the beginning. When he had mastered his temper, he spoke slowly and clearly to the khan.

“I struck the man who struck me. There is no cause to see blood spilled today.”

In reply the khan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. He had a hundred warriors within easy call, and his sons were ready to beat humility into the man who stood so proudly before him.

“I might have expected such a response. Honor cannot be set aside when it is not convenient. This part of the camp is Woyela land. You trespass upon it.”

Khasar assumed the cold face of the warrior to hide his irritation. “My brother’s orders were clear,” he said. “All tribes may use the land while we gather. There is no Woyela ground here.”

The khan’s sons muttered amongst themselves as they heard his words, and the khan himself seemed to stiffen.

“I say there is and I see no one of rank to challenge my word. Yet you will hide in your brother’s shadow.”

Khasar took a slow breath. If he claimed the protection of Genghis, the incident would end. The khan of the Woyela was not such a fool as to challenge his brother in the camp, with a vast army at his call. Yet the man watched him like a snake ready to strike, and Khasar wondered if it had been chance that put the brothers and the wild stallion in his path that morning. There would always be those willing to test men who presumed to lead them in war. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Kachiun enjoyed politics and maneuvering, but he had no taste for it, nor for the posturing of the khan and his sons.

“I will not spill blood here,” he began, seeing the triumph in the khan’s eyes, “but I will not need my brother’s shadow.” As he spoke he slammed his fist into the chin of the nearest brother, knocking him cold. The others roared and leaped at him almost as one. Blows rained on his head and shoulders as he moved backwards, then braced his legs and struck hard into a face, feeling the nose break. Khasar enjoyed fighting as much as any man who had grown up amongst brothers, but the odds were impossible and he almost went down as his head was snapped back and hard thumping blows crashed against his armor. At least he was protected there, and as long as he remained on his feet, he could duck and slip their punches while hammering back at them with everything he had.

Even as he formed the thought, one of them took him around the waist and dumped him on the ground. Khasar kicked out hard, hearing a yelp as he covered his head against their stamping boots. Where was Kachiun, by the spirits? Khasar could feel blood pouring from his nose, and his lips had begun to swell. His head was ringing from a kick to his right ear. Much more of this and he would be permanently injured.

He felt the weight of one of them straddling him, trying to pull Khasar’s arms away from his face. Khasar peered through a gap at the man. He chose his moment and shoved a thumb hard into his attacker’s eye. It seemed to give under his strike, and he hoped he had blinded him. The Woyela son rolled off with a cry, and if anything, the kicks intensified.

A shout of pain came from somewhere close and, for a moment, Khasar was left alone to try to get to his feet. He saw a stranger had leaped among the Woyela brothers, knocking one to the ground and kicking another hard in the knee. The newcomer was little more than a boy, but he could punch with all his weight behind a blow. Khasar smiled at him through broken lips, but he was too dazed to rise.

“Stop this!” ordered a voice behind him, and Khasar knew a moment of hope before he realized Temuge had not arrived with a dozen men to help him. His younger brother ran straight up to the struggling mass and heaved one of the Woyela men away.

“Get Kachiun,” Khasar shouted, his heart sinking. Temuge would accomplish nothing but getting himself beaten, and then there would be blood. Genghis might accept one brother fighting, but a second would be a personal attack on his family too great to ignore. The khan of the Woyela seemed oblivious to the danger, and Khasar heard him laugh as one of his sons smashed a fist into Temuge’s face, knocking him to his knees. The young stranger too had lost the advantage of surprise, and he was suffering under a rain of kicks and punches. The Woyela sons were laughing as they transferred their efforts to the two newcomers, and Khasar raged to hear Temuge cry out in pain and humiliation, fending off their kicks as he struggled to rise.

Another sound came then, a series of hard cracks that had the sons of the Woyela yelping and falling back. Khasar continued to protect his head on the ground until he heard Kachiun’s voice, tight with fury. He had brought men with him and it had been their sticks Khasar had heard.

“Stand, if you can, brother. Tell me who you want dead,” Kachiun snapped to Khasar.

As Khasar lowered his hands, he spat red phlegm onto the grass and levered himself to his feet. His face was a mass of bruising and blood, and the khan of the Woyela stiffened at the sight, his amusement fading.

“This was a private matter,” the khan said quickly as Kachiun glared at him. “Your brother claimed no formal rank.”

Kachiun looked at Khasar, who shrugged, wincing as his bruised body protested.

Temuge too had regained his feet, looking as pale as milk. His eyes were cold and his shame made him angrier than Khasar or Kachiun had ever seen him. The third man straightened painfully and Khasar nodded to him in thanks. He too had been battered, but he grinned infectiously as he rested his hands on his knees and panted.

“Be careful,” Kachiun murmured to his brothers, barely loud enough to hear. He had brought a bare dozen of his workers, all he could grab when he heard of the fight. They would last only moments before the armed men of the Woyela. Hard eyes in the crowd watched the scene, and the khan regained some of his confidence.

“Honor has been satisfied,” he declared. “There is no grudge between us.” He turned to Khasar to see how his words had been received. Khasar stood smiling crookedly. He had heard the sound of marching feet coming closer. All of those who stood there stiffened in alarm at the jingling approach of armored warriors. It could only be Genghis.

“There is no grudge?” Kachiun hissed at the khan. “That is not for you to decide, Woyela.”

All eyes turned to see Genghis coming. He walked with Arslan and five other men in full armor. All carried drawn blades and the Woyela sons glanced at each other in dawning worry at what they had done. They had talked of testing one of the brothers of Genghis, and that part had gone beautifully. Only the arrival of Temuge had dragged them into deeper water, and none of them knew how it would be resolved.

Genghis took in the scene, his face a mask. His gaze lingered on Temuge and for a moment the yellow eyes tightened at the sight of his little brother’s trembling hands. The khan of the Woyela spoke before anyone else.

“This is already settled, lord,” he said. “It was merely a diversion, a fight over a horse.” He swallowed dryly. “There is no need for you to rule on this.”

Genghis ignored him.

“Kachiun?”

Kachiun controlled his anger to reply in a calm voice. “I do not know what started it. Khasar can tell you that.”

Khasar winced at hearing his name. Under Genghis’s stare, he considered his words carefully. The entire camp would hear eventually and he could not be seen to complain like a child to his father. Not if he expected to lead them in war afterwards.

“I am satisfied with my part in this, brother,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I have need to discuss it further with these men, I will do so on another day.”

“You will not,” Genghis snapped, understanding the implied threat as well as the Woyela sons did themselves. “I forbid it.”

Khasar bowed his head. “As you say, lord,” he replied.

Genghis looked at Temuge, seeing the shame at his public beating, coupled with the bright rage that had surprised Khasar and Kachiun before.

“You too are marked, Temuge. I cannot believe you were part of this.”

“He tried to stop it,” Kachiun replied. “They knocked him to his knees and—”

“Enough!” Temuge snapped. “In time, I will return every blow.” Blushing red, he seemed close to tears, like a child. Genghis stared at him and his own anger suddenly broke free. With a grunt, he shook his head and strode through the brothers of the Woyela. One of them was too slow and Genghis barged him down with his shoulder, barely seeming to feel the impact. The khan raised his hands in a plea, but Genghis grabbed his deel and yanked him forward. As he unsheathed his sword, the Woyela warriors drew their own in a rasp of metal.

“Hold!” Genghis roared at them, a voice that had carried across a hundred battles. They ignored the order and as they closed, Genghis jerked the khan upwards like a marmot in his grip. In two quick slashes, he brought his sword across the man’s thighs, gashing the muscles.

“If my brother was made to kneel, Woyela, you will not stand again,” he said. The khan was bellowing and blood poured over his feet as he fell. Before the warriors could reach him, Genghis raised his gaze to stare them down.

“If I see one sword in a hand in ten heartbeats more, not a single Woyela man, woman, or child will live past this evening.”

The officers amongst the warriors hesitated, raising their arms to hold back the others. Genghis stood before them without a trace of fear while the khan at his feet fell to one side, moaning. The sons still stood frozen, horrified at what they had seen. With an effort of will, the khan made a gesture that his officers chose to interpret as assent. They sheathed their swords and the warriors followed, their eyes wide. Genghis nodded. “When we ride, you Woyela will be the guards for my brother,” he said. “If you will have them?”

Khasar murmured assent, his swollen face blank.

“Then this is finished. There is no blood feud and I have seen justice served.”

Genghis caught the eyes of his brothers and they fell in with him as he strode back to the great ger and the business of the day. Khasar clapped a hand on the young man who had helped him, taking him along rather than leaving him to be beaten again.

“This one came to help me,” Khasar said as they walked. “He knows no fear, brother.”

For an instant, Genghis glanced at the young man, seeing his pride. “What is your name?” he asked gruffly, still seething at what he had seen.

“Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.”

“Come and see me when you want a good horse and armor,” he said.

Tsubodai beamed and Khasar punched him lightly in the shoulder, approving. Behind them, the Woyela khan was left to be tended by his women. With such wounds, he would never stand straight, or perhaps even walk again.

As Genghis and his brothers strode through the tribes gathered in the shadow of the black mountain, there were many who looked on them with awe and approval. He had shown he would not be challenged, and one more small victory had been won.

The Uighurs were sighted as the summer waned and the floodwaters from the hills swelled the Onon River to the bursting point. The plains were still a vivid green and skylarks leaped and fluttered as the Uighur carts passed them.

It was an impressive display of strength and Genghis answered it with five thousand of his horsemen in ranks before the great camp. He did not come to meet them himself, knowing that his absence would be taken as subtle disapproval for their lateness. Instead, the Woyela took a position around Khasar as he rode to meet the new arrivals, and none of the khan’s sons dared do more than stare at the back of his head.

As the Uighurs drew close, Khasar approached the cart that led the dark snake of people and animals. His eyes flickered over the warriors, judging their quality. They were well armed and seemed fierce and alert, though he knew appearances could be deceiving. They would learn the tactics that had brought victory to Genghis, or be reduced to carrying messages amongst the host.

The Uighurs were horse traders as well as scholars, and Khasar was pleased to see the vast herd that accompanied them. There had to be three ponies for every warrior, and he knew the camp would be busy over the next month as the other tribes came to bargain and replenish their bloodlines.

At his raised hand, the warriors around the lead cart drew up in a defensive position, their hands on the hilts of swords. The Uighurs must have had a good supply of ore for so many to carry blades, Khasar thought. Perhaps there would be trade in steel as well. There were still too many in the camp with nothing but a knife to complement their bows. Khasar directed his gaze to a small gray-haired man on the front of the cart. It was he who had held up an arm to halt the column, and Khasar saw how the warriors looked to him for orders. Though the man’s deel was of simple cut, it had to be the Uighur khan, Barchuk. Khasar decided to give him honor by speaking first.

“You are welcome in the camp, lord,” he said formally. “You are the last of the great tribes to arrive, but my lord Genghis has received your message in goodwill and allocated grazing land for your families.”

The small man nodded thoughtfully as he looked past Khasar to the riders who waited in formation.

“I can see we must be the last. I can hardly believe there are any more warriors in the world, given the size of the host on this plain. You are the first men we have seen in many days of travel.” He shook his head in wonder at the thought. “The Uighurs will pledge to Genghis, as I have promised. Show us where to pitch our gers and we will do the rest.”

In comparison to some of the pricklier khans, Khasar appreciated the man’s bluntness. He smiled. “I am his brother, Khasar,” he said. “I will show you myself.”

“Step up beside me, then, Khasar. I am hungry for news.” The khan patted the wooden bench of the cart and Khasar dismounted, sending his horse back to the first rank of Woyela warriors with a slap on its rump.

“If we are the last, perhaps it will not be long before Genghis points this great arrow at his enemies,” the khan said as Khasar clambered up beside him. Barchuk clicked in his cheek at the oxen, and the cart moved off with a lurch. Khasar watched how the Uighur warriors kept formation around them and was pleased. They could ride, at least.

“Only he can say, lord.” The bruises he had taken from the Woyela had almost faded, though he felt Barchuk’s eyes drift over them without comment. The camp had been quiet for a time after seeing the Woyela humbled, but with the end of summer, they were restless again and, now that the Uighurs had arrived, he thought his brother would move in just a few days. He felt his own excitement mounting at the idea. They had the tribes and Genghis would take their oaths of loyalty. After that, war would come and he and his brothers would take the Chin foot off the necks of their people.

“You seem cheerful, Khasar,” Barchuk observed as he guided the cart around a hump in the grass. The older man was wiry with strength and his eyes seemed constantly amused.

“I was thinking that we have never before come together, lord. Always there has been some blood feud or Chin bribery to keep us at each other’s throats.” He waved an arm to encompass the camp on the plain. “This? This is a new thing.”

“It may end in destruction for our people,” Barchuk murmured, watching him closely.

Khasar grinned. He remembered Kachiun and Genghis debating the same point and he echoed their words. “Yes, but not one of us, not one man, woman, or child, will be alive in a hundred years. Everyone you see here will be bones.”

He saw Barchuk frown in puzzlement and wished he had Kachiun’s ability to speak as he went on.

“What is the purpose of life if not to conquer? To steal women and land? I would rather be here and see this than live out my life in peace.”

Barchuk nodded. “You are a philosopher, Khasar.”

Khasar chuckled. “You are the only one who thinks it. No, I am the geat khan’s brother and this is our time.”

CHAPTER 3

BARCHUK OF THE UIGHURS SPOKE FOR HOURS as the sun set outside the great ger. Genghis was fascinated by the man’s knowledge, and if he came across a concept he did not understand, he made the khan go over and over it until the meaning was clear.

Of all subjects, anything to do with the Chin had Genghis leaning forward in his seat like a hawk, his eyes bright with interest. The Uighurs had come from land to the far southwest, bordering the Gobi Desert and the Chin kingdom of Xi Xia. Genghis reveled in every detail Barchuk could provide of Chin trade caravans, their dress and customs, and, most of all, their weapons and armor. It was true that merchants may not have had the best of guards, but each scrap of information fell upon the desert of Genghis’s imagination like spring water, vanishing deep.

“Peace has brought you wealth and security,” Genghis said as Barchuk paused to clear his throat with a gulp of tea. “Perhaps you could have approached the king of the Xi Xia to ally against me. Did you consider it?”

“Of course,” Barchuk replied, disarming him with honesty. “But if I have given you the impression of their friendship, it is false. They trade with us because they have markets for the skins of snow leopards from the mountains, for hard woods, even seeds of rare plants to aid them in their study of healing. In return, they sell us raw iron, carpets, tea, and sometimes a scroll they have already copied many times.” He paused and smiled wryly at the gathering of men. “They bring their litters and their guards into Uighur towns, but their distaste can be read on every face, even those they call slaves.” The memories had brought a flush of irritation to his face and he wiped his brow before continuing. “Since I have learned their language, I know them too well to ask for support. You have to see them to understand, lord. They care nothing for those who are not Xi Xia subjects. Even the Chin regard them as a separate people, though they share many of the same customs. They pay tribute to the Chin emperor and, though under his protection, still consider themselves apart from their powerful neighbor. Their arrogance is colossal, lord.”

Barchuk leaned forward, reaching out to tap Genghis on his knee. He did not seem to notice the way the surrounding men bristled.

“We have had their scraps for many generations, lord, while they kept the best meat behind their forts and walls.”

“And you would see them broken,” Genghis murmured.

“I would. All I ask is that their libraries are turned over to the Uighur for study. In addition, we have seen rare gems and a stone that is like milk and fire. They do not trade such items no matter what we offer.”

Genghis watched the khan closely as he spoke. Barchuk knew he had no right to demand spoils from war. The tribes were not paid to fight and anything they won or looted was theirs by tradition. Barchuk asked a great deal, but Genghis could not think of another group who might want the libraries of the Xi Xia. The very idea made him want to smile.

“You may have the scrolls, Barchuk. My word on it. Anything else goes to the victors and is in the hands of the sky father. I can give you no special claim.”

Barchuk sat back and gave a reluctant nod. “It is enough, with everything else we will win from them. I have seen my people ridden down in the road by their horses, lord. I have seen them starve while the Xi Xia grew fat on crops they would not share. I have brought my warriors to extract a price for their arrogance and our towns and fields are empty behind us. The Uighur are with you, gers, horses, salt, and blood.”

Genghis reached out and the two men bound the oath with a quick clasp that hid the seriousness of such a declaration. The tribes waited outside the ger and Genghis would demand a similar oath from them all as soon as he was ready. To offer it in private was a demonstration of support that Genghis did not treat lightly.

“I ask one thing of you, Barchuk, before we go out to them,” he said.

Barchuk paused in the middle of rising and his face became a mask as he realized the talk was not over.

“My youngest brother has expressed an interest in learning,” Genghis said. “Stand, Temuge, where he can see you.” Barchuk looked round at the slender young man who rose and bowed to him. He acknowledged the gesture with a stiff dip of his head before turning back to Genghis.

“My shaman, Kokchu, will lead him in this, when the time comes, but I would like them to read and learn whatever they think is worthwhile. I include the scrolls you already own as well as any we might win from our enemies.”

“The Uighurs are yours to command, lord,” Barchuk said. It was not too much to ask and he did not understand why Genghis seemed ill at ease bringing up the subject. Temuge beamed at his back and Kokchu bowed his head as if he had received a great honor.

“It is settled, then,” Genghis said. His eyes were shadowed, flickering in the lamps that had been lit against the evening gloom. “If the Xi Xia are as rich as you say, they will be the first to see us on the move. Will the Chin support them?”

Barchuk shrugged. “I cannot say for certain. Their lands border one another, but the Xi Xia have always been separate in their kingdom. The Chin may raise an army against you to counter any later threat. Or they may let them die to the last man without lifting a hand. No one can say how their minds work.”

Genghis chuckled. “If you had told me ten years ago that the Kerait were facing a great host, I would have laughed and counted myself lucky not to be in the path of the battle. Now I call them brothers. It does not matter if the Chin come against us. If they do, I will break them all the faster. In truth, I would rather face them on a plain than have to climb the walls of their cities.”

“Even cities can fall, lord,” Barchuk said softly, his own excitement mounting.

“And they will,” Genghis replied. “In time, they will. You have shown me the underbelly of the Chin in these Xi Xia. I will gut them there and then pull their heart out.”

“I am honored to serve, lord,” Barchuk replied. He stood and bowed low, holding the pose until Genghis made a gesture for him to rise.

“The tribes have assembled,” Genghis said, standing and stretching his back. “If we are to cross the desert, we will need to collect water and feed for the horses. Once I have the oath, there is nothing more holding us to this place.” He paused for a moment.

“We came here as tribes, Barchuk. We leave as a nation. If you are recording events in those scrolls as you describe, be sure to write that.”

Barchuk’s eyes shone, fascinated by the man who commanded the great host. “I will see it done, lord. I will teach the script to your shaman and your brother that they might read them to you.”

Genghis blinked in surprise, intrigued at the image of his brother repeating words trapped on stiff calfskin.

“It would be interesting to see such a thing,” he said. He took Barchuk by the shoulder, giving him honor by letting him leave the great ger in his company. The generals fell in behind. Outside, they could hear the hushed murmur of the gathered tribes as they waited for the one who would lead them.

Even in the summer darkness, the camp glowed yellow under the stars, lit by ten thousand fluttering flames. The center had been cleared in a vast ring around the ger of Genghis, and the warriors of a hundred factions had left their families to stand together in the flickering light. From one man to the next, their armor could be a piece of stiff leather or the helmets and neat sets of iron scales copied from the Chin. Some carried the stamp of their tribes, while most were blank, showing that they were new and that there was only one tribe under the sky. Many of them held swords, fresh from the forges that had been working night and day since coming to the plain. Huge holes had been dug by sweating men under the sun while others carted ore back to the flames and watched in excitement as the swordsmiths turned out weapons they could hold. More than one man had burned his fingers reaching for them before they had cooled properly, but they had never dreamed of owning a long blade and they did not mind.

The wind always blew across the plain, but that evening the breeze was gentle as they waited for Genghis.

When the khan came out, Barchuk of the Uighurs was guided down the steps of the cart and stood in the first rank around the wheels of wood and iron. Genghis stood for a moment, looking over the heads of the crowd and marveling at the size of it. His brothers, Arslan and Jelme, and last the shaman, Kokchu, stepped down from the height, each one pausing to take in the ranks stretching away in pools of light.

Then he was alone and he closed his eyes for a moment. He gave thanks to the sky father for bringing him to that place, with such an army to follow him. He said a few brief words to the spirit of his father in case that man could see him. Yesugei would be proud of his son, he knew. He had broken new ground for his people, and only the spirits could tell where the path would end. As he opened his eyes he saw Borte had brought his four sons to stand in the front rank, three of them too young to be left on their own. Genghis nodded sharply to them, his gaze lingering on the eldest, Jochi, and Chagatai, whom he had named after the shaman of the Wolves. At almost nine, Jochi was in awe of his father and he lowered his eyes, while Chagatai merely stared, his nervousness obvious.

“We came here from a hundred different tribes,” Genghis roared. He wanted his voice to carry, but even a throat trained on the field of battle could only reach so far. Those who could not hear would have to follow the lead of those who could.

“I have brought Wolves to this plain, Olkhun’ut and Kerait. I have brought Merkit and Jajirat, Uirat and Naimans. Woyela have come here, Tuvan, Uighurs and Uriankhai.” As he named each group, there was a stir from where they sat. He noticed how they remained together even for that night. There would be no easy assimilation for those who counted tribal honor above all else. It did not matter, he told himself. He would raise their gaze higher. His memory was faultless as he named each tribe that had ridden to join him in the shadow of the black mountain. He left no one out, knowing that the omission would be noted and remembered.

“More, I have called those who had no tribe,” he went on, “but still had honor and heeded the call of blood to blood. They rode to us in trust. And I say to you all, there are no tribes under the sky father. There is only one Mongol nation and it begins this night, in this place.”

Some of those who listened cheered, while others remained stony-faced. Genghis kept the warrior’s mask on his own features. He needed them to understand there was no loss of honor in what he asked.

“We are brothers in blood, separated too long ago for anyone here to know. I claim a greater family of all tribes, a blood tie to you all. I call you as brothers to my standard and we will ride as one family, one nation.” He paused, judging the response. They had heard the idea before, whispered in the gathering from tribe to tribe. Still, it shook them to hear it from him. The bulk of the men did not cheer, and he had to crush a sudden spike of irritation. The spirits knew he loved them, but his own people were maddening at times.

“We will pile spoils enough to equal the mountain at your backs. You will have ponies and wives and gold, oils and sweetmeats. You will take lands for your own and you will be feared wherever they hear your names. Every man here will be a khan to those who bow to him.”

They cheered that, at least, and Genghis risked a small smile, pleased he had found the right tone. Let the lesser khans worry about the ambition of those around them. He meant every word of it.

“To the south is the great desert,” he called to them. Silence fell on the instant and he could feel their attention like a force. “We will cross it at a speed the Chin kingdoms cannot imagine. We will fall on the first of them like wolves on lambs and they will scatter before our swords and bows. I will give you their riches and their women for your own. That is where I will plant my standard, and the ground will shake as I do. The earth mother will know her sons and brothers have found their inheritance and she will rejoice to hear thunder on the plains.”

The cheering came again and Genghis raised his arms for quiet, though it pleased him.

“We will ride into the dry country, taking all the water we need for one sudden strike. After that, we will not stop until the sea bounds us in every direction. I am Genghis who say this and my word is iron.”

They roared in appreciation and Genghis snapped his fingers at Khasar, who stood waiting on the ground below. Khasar handed up a heavy pole of silver birch onto which eight horse tails had been tied. The crowd murmured as they saw it. Some recognized the black of the Merkit, or the red tail of the Naimans, bound with the others. Every one of them had been the khan’s standard for one of the great tribes, and Genghis had them all on the plain. As he took the staff, Khasar handed up a horse tail dyed with Uighur blue.

Barchuk’s eyes narrowed at this most potent of symbols, but with the host at his back, he was still filled with excitement and the vision of the future. As he felt Genghis’s eyes flicker over him, he bowed his head.

With nimble fingers, Genghis bound the tip of the last horse tail to the others and planted the butt on the wood at his feet. The breeze caught the colored standard, so that the tails whipped and twisted as if alive.

“I have bound the colors,” he called to them. “When they are bleached white, there will be no difference between them. They will be the standard of a nation.” At his feet, his officers raised their swords and the host responded, caught up in the moment. Thousands of weapons jabbed the sky and Genghis nodded to them, overwhelmed. It took a long time for the noise to end, though he held up his free hand and patted the air with it.

“The oath you will take is binding, my brothers. Yet it is no stronger than the blood that binds us already. Kneel to me.”

The front ranks dipped immediately and the rest followed in ripples outward as they saw what was happening. Genghis watched closely for hesitation, but there was none. He had them all.

Kokchu climbed the steps back up to the cart, his expression carefully blank. In his wildest ambition, he had not dreamed of such a moment. Temuge had put in the word for him, and Kokchu congratulated himself on bringing the young man to the point where he would make the suggestion.

As the tribes knelt Kokchu reveled in his status. He wondered if Genghis had considered he would be the only one amongst them who did not take the oath. Khasar, Kachiun, and Temuge knelt on the grass with all the others, khans and warriors alike.

“Under one khan, we are a nation,” Kokchu called over their heads, his heart pounding in excitement. The words echoed back to him, filling the valley in waves as those behind repeated them. “I offer gers, horses, salt, and blood, in all honor.”

Kokchu gripped the railing of the cart as they chanted. After that night, they would all know the shaman to the great khan. He glanced upwards as the words came in surges from further and further back. Under those clear skies, the spirits would be writhing in wild and simple joy, unseen and unfelt by anyone but the most potent of his calling. In the chant of thousands, Kokchu sensed them swirling in the air and he exulted. At last the tribes fell silent and he let out a long breath.

“Now you, shaman,” Genghis murmured at his back. Kokchu started in surprise, before falling to his knees and repeating the same oath.

When Kokchu had rejoined the others around the cart, Genghis drew his father’s sword. For those who could see, his eyes glittered with satisfaction.

“It is done. We are a nation and we will ride. Tonight, let no man think of his tribe and mourn. We are a greater family and all lands are ours to take.”

He dropped his arm as they bellowed, this time as one. The smell of roasting mutton was strong on the breeze, and his step was light as the warriors prepared for a night of drink and enough food to make their bellies swell. There would be a thousand children begun by drunken warriors before dawn. Genghis considered returning to Borte in his tent and masked the discomfort at the thought of her accusing eyes. She had done her duty to him, no man could deny it, but the paternity of Jochi remained a doubt, like a thorn in his skin.

He shook his head to clear it of idle thoughts and accepted a skin of black airag from Kachiun. Tonight he would drink himself to insensibility, as khan to all the tribes. In the morning, they would prepare to cross the dry lands of the Gobi Desert and walk the path he had chosen for them.

CHAPTER 4

THE WIND SCREAMED AROUND THE CARTS, carrying a fine mist of sand that made the men and women spit constantly and wince at the grit in their food. Flies tormented them all, tasting the salt from their sweat and leaving red marks where they had bitten. During the day, the Uighurs had shown them how to protect their faces with cloth, leaving only their eyes to peer out at the bleak landscape, shimmering with heat. Those who wore armor found their helmets and neckpieces too hot to touch, but they did not complain.

After a week, the army of Genghis climbed a range of rust-colored hills to enter a vast plain of rippled dunes. Though they had hunted in the foothills, game had become rare as the heat increased. On the blistering sand, the only sign of life was tiny black scorpions scuttling away from their ponies and vanishing into holes. Time and again the carts became bogged down and had to be dug out in the full heat of the day. It was backbreaking work, but every hour lost was one that brought them closer to running out of water.

They had filled thousands of bloated goatskins, tied with sinew and baked hard in the sun. With no other source, the supply dwindled visibly, and in the heat, many of the skins were found to have burst under the weight of the rest. They had carried only enough for twenty days, and already twelve had passed. The warriors drank the blood of their mounts every second day as well as a few cupfuls of warm, brackish water, but they were close to the edge of endurance and became dazed and listless, their lips dry enough to bleed.

Genghis rode with his brothers at the head of the army, squinting into the glare for some sign of the mountains he had been told to expect. The Uighurs had traded deep into the desert, and he depended on Barchuk to guide them. He frowned to himself as he considered the endless flat basin of rippled black and yellow, stretching all the way to the horizon. The heat of the day was the worst he had known; his skin had darkened and his face was seamed in new lines of dirt and sand. He had almost been glad of the cold on the first night, until it grew so biting that the furs in the gers gave little protection. The Uighurs had shown the other tribesmen how to heat rocks in the fire and then sleep on a layer of them as they cooled. More than a few warriors had brown patches on their backs where the rocks had burned their deels, but the cold had been beaten and if they survived the constant thirst, the desert held nothing else that could stop them coming. Genghis wiped his mouth at intervals as he rode, shifting a pebble in his cheek to keep the spittle flowing.

He glanced behind him as Barchuk rode up to his side. The Uighurs had covered the eyes of their ponies with cloth, and the animals rode blind. Genghis had tried that with his own mounts, but those who had not experienced it before bucked and snorted at the cloth until it was removed, then suffered through the hot days. Many of the animals had developed crusts of whitish-yellow muck on their eyelids and would need healing salves if they ever found their way out of the desert. Hardy as they were, they had to be given their share of precious water. On foot, the new nation would die in the desert.

Barchuk pointed to the ground, jabbing his hand and raising his voice over the unremitting wind. “Do you see the blue flecks in the sand, lord?”

Genghis nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.

“They mark the beginning of the last stage before the Yinshan Mountains. There is copper here. We have traded it with the Xi Xia.”

“How much further then before we see these mountains?” Genghis asked hoarsely, refusing to let his hopes rise.

Barchuk shrugged with Mongol impassivity. “We have no certain knowledge, but merchants from Xi Xia are still fresh when they cross our trails in this place, their horses barely marked with dust. It cannot be far now.”

Genghis looked back over his shoulder at the silent mass of riders and carts. He had brought sixty thousand warriors into the desert, as many again of their wives and children. He could not see the end of the tail that stretched back for miles, the forms blurring into one another until they were no more than a dark smear wavering in the heat.

The water was almost gone and soon they would have to slaughter the herds, taking only what meat they could carry and leaving the rest on the sands. Barchuk followed his gaze and chuckled.

“They have suffered, lord, but it will not be long now before we are knocking at the doors of the Xi Xia kingdom.”

Genghis snorted wearily to himself. The Uighur khan’s knowledge had brought them into this bleak place, but they still had only his word that the kingdom was as rich and fertile as he said. No warriors of the Uighur had been allowed to travel beyond the mountains that bordered the desert to the south, and Genghis had no way to plan his attack. He considered this irritably as his horse sent another scorpion skittering over the sand. He had staked them all on the chance at a weak point in the Chin defenses, but he still wondered what it would be like to see a great city of stone, as tall as a mountain. Against such a thing, his horsemen might only stare in frustration.

The sand under his pony’s hooves grew blue-green as they rode, great stripes of the strange colors stretching away in all directions. When they stopped to eat, the children threw it into the air and drew pictures with sticks. Genghis could not share their pleasure, as the supply of water dwindled and each night was spent shivering despite the hot rocks.

There was little to amuse the army before they fell into weary sleep. Twice in twelve days, Genghis had been called to settle some dispute between tribes as heat and thirst made tempers flare. Both times, he had executed the men involved and made it clear that he would not allow anything to threaten the peace of the camp. He considered them to have entered enemy lands, and if the officers could not handle a disturbance, his involvement meant a ruthless outcome. The threat was enough to keep most of the hotheaded warriors from outright disobedience, but his people had never been easy to rule and too many hours in silence made them fractious and difficult.

As the fourteenth dawn brought the great heat once more, Genghis could only wince as he threw off his blankets and scattered the stones under him to be collected for the next night by his servants. He felt stiff and tired, with a film of grit on his skin that made him itch. When little Jochi stumbled into him in some game with his brothers, Genghis cuffed him hard, sending him weeping to his mother for solace. They were all short-tempered in the desert heat, and only Barchuk’s promises of a green plain and a river at the end kept their eyes on the horizon, reaching out to it in imagination.

On the sixteenth day, a low rise of black hills appeared. The Uighur warriors riding as scouts came back at a canter, their mounts sending up puffs of sand and laboring through its grip. Around them, the land was almost green with copper, and black rocks poked through like sharp blades. Once more the families could see lichen and scrub bushes clinging to life in the shadow of the rocks, and at dawn the hunters brought hares and voles caught in their night traps. The mood of the families lifted subtly, but they were all suffering from thirst and sore eyes, so that tempers remained foul in the camp. Despite their tiredness, Genghis increased the patrols around the main force and had the men drill and practice with their bows and swords. The warriors were dark and whip-thin from the desert, but they took to the work with grim endurance, each man determined not to fail under the eyes of the great khan. Slowly, imperceptibly, the pace increased once more, while the heavier carts drifted to the rear of the procession.

As they drew closer to the hills, Genghis saw that they were far higher than he had realized. They were made of the same black rock that broke through the sand around him, sharp and steep. Climbing them was impossible and he knew there would have to be a pass through the peaks or he would be forced to travel right around their length. With their water supply almost gone, the carts were lighter, but he knew they had to find Barchuk’s valley quickly or they would begin to die. The tribes had accepted him as khan, but if he had brought them to a place of heat and death, if he had killed them, they would take revenge while they still had the strength. Genghis rode straight-backed in the saddle, his mouth a mass of sores. Behind him, the tribes muttered sullenly.

Kachiun and Khasar squinted through the heat-hazed air at the foot of the cliffs. With two of the scouts, they had ridden ahead of the main army to look for a pass. The scouts were experienced men and the sharp eyes of one had pointed out a promising cut between peaks. It started well enough as the steep slopes gave way into a narrow canyon that echoed to the hooves of the four riders. On either side, the rocks extended up toward the sky, too high for a man to climb alone, never mind with carts and horses. It took no special skill in tracking to see the ground had been worn away in a wide path, and the small group kicked their mounts into a canter, expecting to be able to report a way through to the Xi Xia kingdom beyond the hills

As they rode around a kink in the trail, the scouts drew rein in astonishment, awed to silence. The end of the canyon was blocked by a huge wall of the same black stone as the mountains themselves. Each block on its own would have been heavier than anything the tribes could move, and the wall seemed strange, somehow wrong to their eyes. They had no craftsmen who worked in stone. With its neat lines and smooth surfaces, it was clearly the work of man, but the sheer size and scale was something they had only seen in wild rocks and valleys. At the base was the final proof that it was not a natural thing. A gate of black iron and wood was set into the base of the wall, ancient and strong.

“Look at the size of it!” Kachiun said, shaking his head. “How are we going to get through that?”

The scouts merely shrugged and Khasar whistled softly to himself.

“It would be easy to trap us in this spiritless place. Genghis must be told quickly, before he follows us in.”

“He’ll want to know if there are warriors up there, brother. You know it.”

Khasar eyed the steep slopes at either side, suddenly feeling vulnerable. It was easy to imagine men dropping stones from the top, and there would be no way to avoid them. He considered the pair of scouts who had accompanied them into the canyon. They had been warriors of the Kerait before Genghis had claimed them. Now they waited impassively for orders, hiding their awe at the size of the wall ahead.

“Perhaps they just built it to block an army from the desert,” Khasar said to his brother. “It might be unmanned.”

As he spoke one of the scouts pointed, directing their gaze to a tiny figure moving along the top of the wall. It could only be a soldier and Khasar felt his heart sink. If there was another pass, Barchuk did not know of it, and finding a way past the mountains would see the army of Genghis begin to wither. Khasar made his decision, knowing it could mean the lives of the two scouts.

“Ride to the foot of the wall, then come straight back,” he said to them. The two men bowed their heads, exchanging a glance in expressionless faces. As one, they dug in their heels and called “Chuh!” to make their mounts run. Sand spattered into the air as they began their race to the foot of the black wall and Khasar and Kachiun watched through eyes slitted against the glare.

“Do you think they will reach it?” Kachiun asked.

Khasar shrugged without speaking, too intent on watching the wall.

Kachiun thought he saw a sharp gesture from the distant guard. The scouts had the sense not to ride together, taking a split path at full gallop and veering right and left to spoil the aim of any archers. For a long time, there was no sound but the echoes of their hooves, and the brothers watched with held breath.

Kachiun swore as a line of archers appeared on the wall.

“Come on,” he urged under his breath. Dark specks flashed down at the two scouts riding wildly in, and Kachiun saw one of them swerve recklessly as he reached the great gate. They could see him slam his fist into the wood as he turned his mount, but the archers were loosing in waves and an instant later he and his horse were pinned with a dozen shafts. The dying man cried out and his mount began the trip back, missing a step and stumbling as it was hit again and again. They fell at last almost together, lying still on the sand.

The second scout was luckier, though he had not touched the wall. For a time, it looked as if he might escape the shafts, and Khasar and Kachiun shouted to him. Then he jerked in the saddle and his horse reared and collapsed, its legs kicking as it rolled over him.

The horse made it back to its feet and limped back to the brothers, leaving the scout’s body broken behind it.

Khasar dismounted and took the loose reins. The leg was broken and the pony would not be ridden again. In silence Khasar tied the reins to his saddle. He wasn’t going to leave the animal behind with so many mouths to feed in the camp.

“We have our answer, brother,” Khasar muttered, “though it’s not the one I wanted. How are we going to get through them?”

Kachiun shook his head. “We will find a way,” he said, glancing back to the dark line of archers watching them. Some of them raised their arms, though whether in mockery or salute, he could not tell. “Even if we have to take it down, stone by stone.”

As soon as Khasar and Kachiun were sighted riding alone, the forces of Genghis were halted in their tracks. Before they could reach the outer lines of mounted warriors, the brothers passed skirmisher groups who remained staring outwards at the mountains they left behind. Genghis and his officers had learned hard lessons in the years of building the tribes into a single army, and galloping boys raced ahead to tell him they were coming in.

Neither man replied to those who called to them. Grim and silent, they rode to their brother’s ger, sitting like a white limpet on its cart. When they reached it, Khasar dismounted in a jump and glanced at the man who stepped forward to take the reins.

“Tsubodai,” he said in greeting, forcing a smile. The young warrior seemed nervous and Khasar recalled he had been promised armor and a good horse. He grimaced at the timing.

“We have many things to discuss with the khan. Claim your horse another time.”

Tsubodai’s face fell with disappointment and Khasar snorted, catching him by the shoulder as he turned away. He recalled the boy’s courage in leaping among the sons of the Woyela. It was a favor he could repay.

“Perhaps there will be a moment when we are done. Come with me, then, if you can be silent.”

Tsubodai regained his grin on the instant, tinged with nervousness at meeting the great khan himself. With a dry mouth, he climbed the steps of the cart and followed the brothers into the shadowed interior.

Genghis was ready for them, his young messenger still panting at his side.

“Where are the scouts?” he demanded, taking in their serious expressions.

“Dead, brother. And the pass is guarded by a wall of black stone as high as a hundred gers, maybe more.”

“We saw perhaps fifty archers drawn out,” Kachiun added. “They were not skilled, as we know it, but they could hardly miss. The wall lies at the end of a narrow pass, a gorge between steep sides of rock. I could not see a way to flank them.”

Genghis frowned, rising from his seat. He made a clicking sound in his throat as he stepped across the ger and passed out into the bright sun. Khasar and Kachiun followed him out, hardly noticing the wide-eyed Tsubodai on their heels.

Genghis stood on the blue-green sand below them, looking up. He held a stick in his hands and gestured with it, drawing a line on the ground.

“Show me,” he ordered.

It was Kachiun who took the stick and drew in neat strokes. Khasar watched in fascination as his brother re-created the canyon he had seen a few hours before. To one side, Kachiun drew a copy of the arched gate and Genghis rubbed his chin in irritation.

“We could tear the carts up to make wooden shields to get men close,” he said doubtfully.

Kachiun shook his head. “That would bring us to the gate against their shafts, but once we were there, they could drop stones on us. From that height, a few planks would be smashed to pieces.”

Genghis raised his head, gazing over the ranks of the families to the treeless expanse of the desert in all directions. They had nothing with which to build.

“Then we will have to draw them out,” he said. “A staged retreat, with valuable items left in our wake. I will send in men in the best armor and they will survive the arrows, but be driven back by them in panic, with much shouting.” He smiled at the prospect. “It will teach our warriors a little humility, perhaps.”

Kachiun rubbed his boot along the edge of the drawing. “It might work if we could know when they open the gate, but the canyon twists. As soon as we are out of sight, we’ll have no way of knowing when they come out. If I could get a couple of boys onto the crags at the sides, they could signal to us, but it is a vicious climb and there’s no cover on those rocks. They would be seen.”

“May I speak, lord?” Tsubodai said suddenly.

Khasar started in indignation. “I told you to be silent. Can you not see this is important?” The gaze of all three men turned on the young warrior, and he blushed darkly.

“I am sorry. I thought of a way we might know when they come out.”

“Who are you?” Genghis asked.

Tsubodai’s voice wavered as he bowed his head. “Tsubodai of the Uriankhai, lord.” He caught himself in embarrassment. “Of the nation, lord, I—” Genghis held up a hand. “I remember. Tell me what you are thinking.”

With a visible effort, Tsubodai swallowed his nervousness and told them. It surprised him that they had not thought of it. The gaze of Genghis in particular seemed to bore into him, and he ended staring away into the middle distance.

Tsubodai suffered in silence while the three men considered. After an age, Genghis nodded.

“That could work,” he said, grudgingly. Tsubodai seemed to grow a little taller.

Khasar flashed a smile at the younger man, as if he were responsible for his cleverness.

“See to it, Kachiun,” Genghis said. He grinned at Tsubodai’s pride. “Then I will ride to see this place you describe.” His mood changed as he considered destroying some of the carts that had carried the families across the desert. With wood so scarce, each one was much mended and handed down through the generations. There was no help for it.

“Take the first ten carts you see and join the wood into a barricade that can be held and moved.”

He saw Kachiun’s gaze drift over the khan’s ger at his back and snorted.

“Begin with the next cart you see, brother. Do not think to have mine.”

Kachiun moved quickly away to gather the men and materials he would need. Genghis remained, facing the young warrior.

“I have promised you a horse and armor. What else would you have from me?”

Tsubodai’s face paled in confusion. He had not thought to add to the khan’s debt, only to solve a problem that had intrigued him.

“Nothing, lord. It is enough to ride with my people.”

Genghis stared at him and scratched the side of his face. “He has courage and intelligence, Khasar. Give him ten men in the attack on the wall.” His yellow eyes flickered back to Tsubodai, who stood rooted in shock. “I will watch to see how you lead more experienced warriors.” He paused for the news to sink in, then added a barb to prick the young man’s swelling confidence: “If you fail them, you will not live beyond the sunset of that day,” he said.

Tsubodai bowed deeply in response, the warning barely denting his excitement.

Genghis grunted to himself, “Have my horse brought, Khasar. I will see this wall and these archers who think to stand in my way.”

CHAPTER 5

THE XI XIA DEFENDERS COULD HAVE NO IDEA how many Mongols had crossed the desert against them. Though Genghis rode up to the edge of bow range with a dozen officers, he kept the main army well back in the twisting canyon. He had decided against sending climbers up the slopes. The plan depended on the defenders thinking of them as unsophisticated herdsmen. Watchers on the peaks would reveal at least some talent for planning and make the fort soldiers suspicious. Genghis chewed his lower lip as he stared up at the Xi Xia fort. Archers clustered like ants on the wall and at intervals one would send a shaft high into the air to get the range for any assault that might follow. Genghis watched the last of them sink into the ground a dozen paces ahead of him. His own men could fire further and he spat contemptuously in the enemy archers’ direction.

The air was thick and still in the canyon, where no winds could blow. The heat of the desert was still strong while the sun crossed overhead and cut their shadows almost to nothing. He touched the sword of his father for luck, then turned his pony in place and rode back to where a hundred warriors waited.

They were silent, as he had ordered, but excitement was visible in their young faces. Like all Mongols, they relished the idea of tricking an enemy even more than overwhelming him by force.

“The wooden shield is lashed together,” Khasar said at his shoulder. “It’s rough, but it will get them to the foot of the wall. I have given them forge hammers to try the gate. Who knows, they might break in.”

“If that happens, have another hundred ready to charge in support,” Genghis said. He turned to Kachiun standing nearby to oversee the last details. “Hold the rest back, Kachiun. It would be an easy killing ground for them to be packed in tight while only a few can climb through. I do not want them running wild.”

“I’ll put Arslan at the head of the second group,” Kachiun replied. It was a good choice and Genghis nodded assent. The swordsmith could follow orders in a storm of arrows.

At their backs, the wall seemed to loom still, though it was lost to direct sight. Genghis had no idea what lay behind the dark stones, or how many men defended the pass. It did not matter. In less than two days, the last water skins would be empty. The tribes would start to drop after that, dying from thirst and his ambitions. The fort had to fall.

Many of the men carried beautiful swords and spears to leave on the sand, anything that might catch the eye of the defenders and make them come out. To a man, they wore the best armor, copies of a Chin design. In the heat, the finger-width iron scales stung bare skin, and their silk undertunics were soon sour with sweat. They gulped from skins of the dwindling water supply. Genghis had imposed no ration on men about to risk their lives.

“We have done all we can, brother,” Khasar said, interrupting his thoughts. Both men watched as Kokchu appeared among the warriors, scattering precious water over them and chanting. Many of the men bowed their heads to receive his blessing, and Genghis frowned to himself. He imagined Temuge doing the same thing in the future and could find no glory in it.

“I should be among the attackers,” Genghis murmured.

Kachiun heard and shook his head. “You cannot be seen to run from anything, brother. Perhaps the plan will go wrong and the tribes will be routed. You cannot be seen as a coward, and not half the army knows the plan here, not yet. It is enough for them to see you watching. I have chosen most for nerve and courage. They will follow orders.”

“They must,” Genghis replied. His brothers moved apart to clear the trail for the assault group and the wide wooden shelter. The men bore it above their heads with pride and the tension built in silence.

“I would see this wall brought down,” Genghis said to them. “If not with blades and hammers, then with guile. Some of you will die, but the sky father loves the warrior spirit and you will be welcomed. You will open a way to the sweet kingdom beyond. Sound the drums and horns. Let them hear and worry in their precious fort. Let the sound carry right to the heart of the Xi Xia and even the Chin in their cities.”

The warriors took deep breaths, readying themselves for the sprint to come. In the distance a bird called shrilly, high on the thermals above the hills. Kokchu exclaimed that it was a good omen, and most of the men looked up to the blue bowl above their heads. A dozen drummers began to pound the rhythms of battle, and the familiar sound lifted them all, making hearts beat faster. Genghis swept his arm down and the army roared and horns wailed. The first group jogged to the point where they could turn into the main canyon and then accelerated, calling a raucous challenge. Echoing back came the warning cries from the fort.

“Now we will see,” Genghis said, clenching and unclenching his sword hand.

The voices of the warriors crashed against the sides of the pass as they ran. They were suffering under the weight of the barricade above their heads, already half blind with sweat. It proved its worth in moments as it bristled with black shafts, the colored feathers quivering. The archers were well disciplined, Genghis saw, loosing together after a barked order. One or two shots were lucky and by the time the barricade reached the wall, there were three still figures lying facedown on the sand in their wake.

A dull booming filled the pass as the hammer men attacked the door in the wall. Archers swarmed above, leaning over to send their arrows straight down at the smallest gaps. Men cried out and fell away from the edges of the wooden shield, their bodies jerking as they were hit again and again.

Genghis swore under his breath as he saw heavy stones being raised to the parapet. He had discussed the possibility with his generals, but still winced in anticipation as an officer wearing a plumed helmet raised his arm and screamed an order. The first stone seemed to fall for a long time, and Genghis heard the crack as it hammered those below to their knees. As they struggled up, the hammer men struck even harder, their blows coming as fast as the beats of the drummers they had left behind.

Two more stones fell before the wooden barricade broke apart. The hammers were thrown to the sand and a great roar of panic went up as the archers above found fresh targets. Genghis clenched his fists as he watched his men scatter. The door in the wall had held and they could do nothing but shake their weapons in rage at the enemy over their heads. Man after man fell, and without warning, they broke back down the pass, racing each other in desperation.

As they ran, more of them were knocked from their feet by waves of buzzing arrows. Barely more than a dozen made it out of range, resting their hands on their knees and panting. Behind them the pass was littered with everything they had dropped in the retreat, the bodies marked by shafts sticking out of them.

Genghis walked slowly to the center of the path, staring up at the jubilant defenders. He could hear their cheering and it was hard to make himself turn his back to them. When he did, the sound intensified and he walked stiffly away until he knew he was lost to sight.

On the highest point of the wall, Liu Ken watched him go, his satisfaction straining the impassive mask he showed the soldiers around him. They were smiling openly and clapping each other on the back as if they had won a great victory. He felt his temper rising at their foolishness.

“Change the shift and get five Sui of fresh archers up here,” he snapped. The smiles vanished. “We’ve lost a thousand shafts in the gorge, so make sure the quivers are full once again. Give every man a drink of water.”

Liu rested his hands on the ancient stone, looking into the pass. They had killed almost all of those who had come into range, and he was pleased with the archers. He made a note to congratulate the officer of the wall. The sound of hammers had worried him, but the door had held. Liu Ken smiled tightly to himself. If it hadn’t, the Mongols would have run straight into a high-walled compound with archers on every side above them. The fort was beautifully designed and he was pleased his tour of duty had not ended before he had seen this test of its construction.

He frowned at the broken pieces of wood on the sand. Everything he had been told of the tribes suggested that if they came at all, they would attack like wild animals. The barricade showed shrewd planning and it nagged at him. He would be sure to put it in his report to the governor of the province. Let him decide how best to respond. Liu mused to himself as he looked down at the scattered dead. The stones had never been used before. Most were moss-covered from years of lying ready on the wall. Those too would have to be replenished from the stores, though there were clerks for that sort of mundane activity. It was about time they did more than allocate food and water for the men, he considered.

Liu turned at the clatter of sandals and swallowed his dismay at the sight of the fort commander coming up the steps to the wall. Shen Ti was an administrator rather than a soldier, and Liu braced himself to answer his inane questions. The climb up to the wall had left the fat man gasping, so Liu had to look away rather than acknowledge his superior’s weakness. He waited without speaking as Shen Ti joined him at the wall and looked down with bright eyes, his breathing still labored.

“We have sent the dogs running,” Shen Ti said, recovering. Liu inclined his head in silent agreement. He had not seen the commander during the attack. No doubt he had been cowering with his concubines in his private rooms on the other side of the fort. With wry humor, Liu thought of the words of Sun Tzu on defensive war. Shen Ti was certainly adept at hiding in “the recesses of the earth,” but only because Liu had been there to scatter the attackers. Still, he owed courtesy to the man’s rank.

“I will leave the bodies for the rest of the day, lord, to be certain none of them are faking death. I will send men out to gather weapons and collect shafts at dawn.”

Shen Ti peered down at the bodies in the canyon. He could see boxes lying on the ground as well as a beautiful spear as long as a man. He knew that if he left it to the soldiers, anything valuable would vanish into private collections. Something sparkled in the green and gold sand and he squinted at it.

“You will supervise them, Liu. Send men down now to check the gate is not damaged. Have them bring anything valuable to me to examine.”

Liu hid a wince at the fat commander’s naked greed. The Uighurs never had anything of value, he thought. There was no reason to expect more than a few bits of shiny metal from those ragged tribesmen. Yet he was not a noble and he bowed as low as he could in full armor.

“As you command, lord.” He left Shen Ti still staring down, a faint smile touching his fleshy lips. Liu snapped his fingers to attract the attention of a group of archers who were taking turns drinking from a water bucket.

“I am going out to strip the dead.” He took a deep breath, aware that he had allowed his bitterness at the shameful order to show. “Get back to your positions and be ready for another attack.”

The men scurried to obey, the water bucket landing with a clang and spinning untended as they rushed back to the wall. Liu sighed to himself before concentrating on the task at hand. No doubt the Uighurs would be made to pay for the attack when the king heard about it. In the peaceful lands of the Xi Xia, it would be the talk of the court, perhaps for months. Trade would be strangled for a generation and punishment raids would be sent out against every Uighur settlement. Liu had no taste for that sort of war, and he considered asking for a transfer back to Yinchuan city. They always needed good guards with experience.

He gave crisp orders to a dozen spearmen to follow him and walked down the cool steps to the outer gate. From the inside, it looked untouched by the assault, and in the shadow of the walls, he considered the fate of anyone foolish enough to break it down. He would not like to be among them, he thought. It was second nature to him to check the inner gate was secure before he raised his hand to the outer locking bar. Sun Tzu was perhaps the greatest military thinker the Chin had ever produced, but he did not consider the difficulties of greedy men like Shen Ti giving the orders.

Liu took a deep breath and pushed open the door, letting in a beam of hard sunlight. The men behind him shuffled in readiness and he nodded to their captain.

“I want two men to stay and guard the door. The rest of you are to collect usable shafts and anything else that might be valuable. If there is trouble, drop it all and run for the gate. There will be no talking and not one of you will go more than fifty paces, even if there are emeralds the size of duck eggs lying in the sand. Acknowledge my orders.”

The soldiers saluted as one and their captain tapped two on the shoulder to remain on guard. Liu nodded, squinting out into the sun as his eyes adjusted. He could not expect high standards from the sort of soldier who ended up in the fort. Almost to a man, they had made some error in the standing army, or offended someone with influence. Even Shen Ti had made some secret error in his political past, he was sure, though the fat man would never unburden himself to a common soldier, no matter what rank he held.

Liu let out a long, low breath, checking a mental list of the defenses. He had done all he could, but still there was a feeling in his bones that he did not like. He stepped over a body, noting that the man wore armor very similar to his own. He frowned at that. There was no record of the Uighurs copying Chin armor. It was rough, but of serviceable quality, and Liu found his sense of unease growing.

Ready to leap back, he trod heavily on an outstretched hand. He heard a bone break, and at the lack of movement, he nodded and went further out. The dead lay thickest near the gate and he could see two sprawling men with arrows through their throats. Heavy hammers had fallen near them and Liu picked one up, propping it against the wall to be taken in on his return. It too was well made.

As he narrowed his eyes on the end of the pass, his men fanned out, stooping to pick up weapons from the sand. Liu began to relax a little, seeing two of them yanking arrows from a body that resembled a porcupine for the density of the strikes. He strode out of the wall’s shadow, wincing at the sudden brightness. Thirty paces ahead of him lay two boxes, and he knew Shen Ti would be watching to see if he found something of worth in them. Why the tribesmen would have brought gold or silver to an attack Liu could not fathom, but he walked across the baking sand toward them, his hand ready on his sword. Could they contain snakes or scorpions? He had heard of such things being used to attack cities, though usually they were thrown over the walls. The tribesmen had brought no catapults or ladders on their assault.

Liu drew his blade and dug the point into the sand, levering the box onto its side. Birds erupted from the confined space, soaring upwards as he threw himself back in shock.

For a moment, Liu stood and stared at the birds, unable to understand why they had been left to bake on the sand. He raised his head to watch them fly and then comprehension dawned and his eyes widened in sudden panic. The birds were the signal. A dull rumbling came to his ears and the ground seemed to vibrate under his feet.

“Get back to the gate!” Liu shouted, waving his sword. Around him, he saw his soldiers staring in shock, some of them with armfuls of arrows and swords. “Run! Get back!” Liu bellowed again. Glancing down the pass, he saw the first dark lines of galloping horses, and he turned to the gate himself. If the fools were too slow, they had only themselves to blame, he thought, his mind racing.

He skidded to a halt in horror before he had run more than a few paces. Around the gate, some of the bodies were leaping up, still with shafts lodged in them. One of them had lain perfectly still while Liu broke his hand under his sandal. Liu swallowed his panic at the thunder growing at his back and he began to run again. He saw the gate begin to close, but one of the enemy was there to shove his arm into the gap. The tribesman cried out in agony as his hand was hacked to pieces inside, but there were others with him to wrench it open and fall on the defenders.

Liu raised his voice in a howl of rage and never saw the arrow that took him in the back of the neck. He tumbled onto the sand, feeling its sting even as the darkness came for him. The inner gate was shut, he was certain. He had seen it closed behind him and there was still a chance. His own blood choked off his thoughts and the sound of hooves faded to nothing.

Tsubodai rose from where he had lain in the sand. The arrow that had felled him had been followed by two more lodged in his armor. His ribs were agony and every step brought fresh pain and the warm sensation of blood trickling down his thigh. The canyon was filled with a sound like thunder as the galloping line came in at full speed. Tsubodai looked upwards as he heard bows thrumming and saw black shafts darting down. A horse screamed behind him as Tsubodai saw the gate was jammed open by bodies and staggered toward it.

He looked around him for the ten men Genghis had placed under his command. He recognized four of the figures rushing at the gate, while the others lay still on the sand, truly dead. Tsubodai swallowed painfully as he stepped over a man he had known from the Uriankhai.

The sound of riders grew into a force at his back until he expected to be hammered from his feet. He thought his wounds had dazed him, for everything seemed to be happening slowly and yet he could hear each labored breath from his open mouth. He shut it, irritated at this show of weakness. Ahead of him, those who had survived the assault were rushing through the gate with swords drawn. Tsubodai heard the snap of bows, muffled by the thick stone of the wall. He had a glimpse of men falling as they went through, spitted on arrows as they looked up and cried out. At that instant, his mind cleared and his senses sharpened. Arrows still sank into the sand around him, but he ignored them. He roared an order to stand back as his warriors reached the gate. His voice was rough, but to his relief, the men responded.

“Make shields of the wood. Take the hammers,” Tsubodai told them, pointing. He heard the jingle of armor as men leaped to the sand all around him. Khasar landed running and Tsubodai grabbed his arm.

“There are archers inside. We can still use the broken wood.”

Arrows vanished into the sand around them, leaving only the black feathers. Calmly, Khasar glanced down at Tsubodai’s hand just long enough to remind the young warrior of his status. As Tsubodai released his grip, Khasar snapped out orders. All around them, men picked up pieces of the original shield and held them over their heads as they rushed through the gate.

As the hammers were taken up again, archers above their heads shot into the pit between the two gates. Even with the rough shield, some of the shafts found their marks. On the hot sand outside, Khasar ordered waves of arrows up against the archers on the outer wall, keeping the Chin soldiers down and spoiling their aim until the army could move. He bit his lip at the exposed position, but until the inner gate was broken, they were all stuck. The dull thump of hammers sounded over the cries of dying men.

“Get in there and make sure they aren’t enjoying a quick rest while we wait,” Khasar shouted to Tsubodai. The young warrior bowed his head and ran to join his men.

He passed under a band of shadow into bright sunlight and had a glimpse of a line of cold-eyed archers shooting shaft after shaft into the killing hole.

Tsubodai barely had time to duck under a piece of broken planking. An arrow scratched his arm as he did and he swore aloud. He recognized only one of his original ten men still alive.

The space between the gates was deliberately small, and no more than a dozen warriors could stand inside at a time. Except for those who wielded hammers with desperate force, the others stood with pieces of wood above their heads, wedged together as best they could. The ground was still sandy and bristled with spent shafts, thicker than the hairs on a dog. Still more were fired down and Tsubodai heard orders shouted in an alien language above his head. If they had stones to drop, the entire assault would be crushed before the inner gate gave way, he thought, fighting terror. He felt enclosed, trapped. The man closest to him had lost his helmet in the attack. He gave a shriek of pain and fell with an arrow’s feathers standing upright in his neck, fired from almost directly above. Tsubodai caught the planking he had held and raised it, wincing with every shuddering impact. The hammer blows went on with maddening slowness, but suddenly Tsubodai heard a grunt of satisfaction from one of the warriors and the sound changed as those closest began kicking at the cracking timbers.

The gate gave way, sending men sprawling on the dusty ground beyond it. The first ones through died instantly as they were met with a volley of crossbow shafts from a line of soldiers. Behind them, Khasar’s men roared in savage anticipation, sensing there was a way in. They pushed forward, compressing the group at the gate as they stumbled over dead men.

Tsubodai could not believe he was still alive. He drew the sword Genghis himself had given him and ran forward in a mass of raging men, freed at last from the confines of the killing ground. The cross-bowmen never had a chance to reload and Tsubodai killed his first enemy with a straight thrust to the throat as the soldier froze in horror. Half of those who came into the fort were wounded and bloody, but they had survived and they exulted as they met the first lines of defenders. Some of the first ones inside climbed wooden steps to a higher level and grinned as they saw the archers still firing down into the killing hole. Mongol bows snapped shafts across the fighting below, striking the Xi Xia bowmen from their feet as if they had been hit by hammers.

The army of Genghis began to funnel through the gate, exploding into the fort. There was little order to the assault in the first charge. Until senior men like Khasar or Arslan took charge, Tsubodai knew he was free to kill as many as he could, and he shouted wildly, filled with excitement.

Without Liu Ken to organize the defense, the Xi Xia warriors broke and ran before the invaders, scattering in panic. Leaving his horse in the pass, Genghis walked through the gate and ducked through the broken inner gate. His face was alight with triumph and pride as his warriors tore through the fort soldiers. In all their history, the tribes had never had a chance to strike back at those who held them down. Genghis did not care that the Xi Xia soldiers thought themselves different from the Chin. To his people, they were all part of that ancient, hated race. He saw that some of the defenders had laid down their weapons, and he shook his head, calling Arslan to him as the swordsman strode past.

“No prisoners, Arslan,” Genghis said. His general bowed his head.

The slaughter became methodical after that. Men were discovered hiding in the fort’s cellars and dragged out for execution. As the day wore on, the dead soldiers were piled on the red stones of a central courtyard. A well there became the eye of the storm as every drythroated man found time to quench his thirst in water, bucket by bucket until they were gasping and soaked. They had beaten the desert.

As the sun began to set, Genghis himself walked to the well, stepping over the piles of twisted dead. The warriors fell silent at his step and one of them filled the leather bucket and handed it to the khan. As Genghis drank at last and grinned, they roared and bayed in voices loud enough to echo back from the walls all around. They had found their way through the maze of rooms and halls, cloisters and walkways, all strange to their eyes. Like a pack of wild dogs, they had reached right to the far side of the fort, leaving the black stones bloody behind them.

The commander of the fort was discovered in a suite of rooms hung with silk and priceless tapestries. It took three men to batter down the door of iron and oak to reveal Shen Ti, hiding with a dozen terrified women. As Khasar strode into the room, Shen Ti tried to take his own life with a dagger. In his terror, the blade slipped in his sweating hands and merely scored a line in his throat. Khasar sheathed his sword and took hold of the man’s fleshy hand over the hilt, guiding it back to the neck a second time. Shen Ti lost his nerve and tried to struggle, but Khasar’s grip was strong and he drew the dagger sharply across, stepping back as blood spurted out and the man flailed in death.

“That is the last of them,” Khasar said. He looked the women over and nodded to himself. They were strange creatures, their skin powdered as white as mare’s milk, but he found them attractive. The scent of jasmine mingled with the stench of blood in the room, and Khasar smiled wolfishly at them. His brother Kachiun had won an Olkhun’ut girl for his wife and had two children already in his ger. Khasar’s first wife had died and he had no one. He wondered if Genghis would let him marry two or three of these foreign women. The idea pleased him enormously and he stepped to the far window, looking out on the lands of the Xi Xia.

The fort was high in the mountains and Khasar had a view of a vast valley, with cliffs stretching away into the haze on either side. Far below, he saw a green land, studded with farms and villages. Khasar breathed deeply in appreciation.

“It will be like picking ripe fruit,” he said, turning to Arslan as the older man entered. “Send someone to fetch my brothers. They should see this.”

CHAPTER 6

THE KING SAT IN THE HIGHEST ROOM of his palace, looking over the flat valley of the Xi Xia. With the dawn mist rising off the fields, it was a landscape of great beauty. If he did not know there was an army out there beyond sight, the land might have seemed as peaceful as any other morning. The canals shone in the sun like lines of gold, carrying precious water to the crops. There were even distant figures of farmers out there, working without thought for the army that had entered their country from the northern desert.

Rai Chiang adjusted his robe of green silk, patterned in gold. Alone, his expression was calm, but as he stared out into the dawn, his fingers picked nervously at a thread, worrying at it until it caught in his nails and snapped. He frowned, looking down at the damage. The robe was a Chin weave, worn to bring him luck in the matter of reinforcements. He had sent a letter with two of his fastest scouts as soon as he heard of the invasion, but the reply was long in coming.

He sighed to himself, his fingers resuming their picking without his being aware of it. If the old Chin emperor had lived, there would be fifty thousand soldiers marching to defend his little kingdom, he was sure of it. The gods were fickle to have taken his ally at the very moment when he needed aid. Prince Wei was a stranger and Rai Chiang did not know whether the arrogant son would have the generosity of his father.

Rai Chiang considered the differences between their lands, wondering if he could have done more to ensure Chin support. His most distant ancestor had been a Chin prince and ruled the province as a personal fiefdom. He would have seen no shame in asking for aid. The Xi Xia kingdom had been forgotten in the great conflict centuries before, unnoticed as greater princes struggled against each other until the Chin empire had been cut in two. Rai Chiang was the sixty-fourth ruler since that bloody period. Since the death of his father, he had spent almost three decades keeping his people free of the Chin shadow, cultivating other allies and never giving offense that could lead to his kingdom being forcibly returned to the fold. One of his sons would one day inherit that uneasy peace. Rai Chiang paid his tribute, sent his merchants to trade and his warriors to swell the ranks of the Imperial army. In return, he was treated as an honored ally.

It was true Rai Chiang had ordered a new script for his people, one that bore little resemblance to Chin writing. The old Chin emperor had sent him rare texts by Lao Tzu and the Buddha Sakyamuni to be translated. Surely that was a sign of acceptance, if not approval. The Xi Xia valley was separate from the Chin lands, bordered by mountains and the Yellow River. With a new language, the Xi Xia would move further from the influence of the Chin. It was a dangerous and delicate game, but he knew he had the vision and energy to find the right future for his people. He thought of the new trade routes he had opened into the west and the wealth that was flowing back along them. All that was endangered by these tribes roaring out of the desert.

Rai Chiang wondered if Prince Wei would realize the Mongols had come round his precious wall in the northeast by entering the Xi Xia kingdom. It would do the Chin no good now the wolf had found the gate to the field.

“You must support me,” he whispered to himself. It galled him to depend on the Chin for military aid, after so many generations easing his people away from their dependence. He did not know yet if he could bear the price Prince Wei would ask for that support. The kingdom could be saved only to become a province again.

Rai Chiang tapped his fingers in irritation at the thought of a Chin army on his land. He needed them desperately, but what if they did not leave when the battle was over? What if they did not come at all?

Two hundred thousand people already sheltered within the walls of Yinchuan, with thousands more gathered outside the closed gates. In the night, the most desperate tried to climb into the city, and the king’s guards were forced to drive them off with swords or shoot a volley of arrows into their midst. The sun rose each day on fresh corpses, and more soldiers had to leave Yinchuan to bury them before they could spread disease, laboring under the sullen stares of the rest. It was a grim and unpleasant business, but the city could only feed so many and the gates remained closed. Rai Chiang worried at the golden threads until beads of blood appeared under his fingernails.

Those who had found sanctuary slept in the streets, the beds of every inn and lodging house long taken. The price of food was rising every day, and the black market thrived, though the guards hanged anyone caught hoarding. Yinchuan was a city of fear as they waited for the barbarians to attack, but three months had gone by with nothing but reports of destruction as the army of Genghis laid waste to everything in their path. They had not yet come to Yinchuan, though their scouts had been seen riding in the far distance.

A gong sounded, making Rai Chiang start. He could hardly believe it was the hour of the dragon already. He had been lost in contemplation, but it had not brought him the usual sense of peace before the day truly began. He shook his head against the malicious spirits that sapped the will of strong men. Perhaps the dawn would bring better news. Preparing himself to be seen, he straightened in his throne of lacquered gold and tucked the sleeve with the broken thread under the other. When he had spoken to his ministers, he would have a new robe brought and a cooling bath to make his blood flow with less turbulence.

The gong sounded again and the doors to the chamber opened in perfect silence. A line of his most trusted advisers walked in, their footsteps muffled by shoes of felt so the polished floor would not be scratched. Rai Chiang regarded them impassively, knowing that they took their confidence from his manner. Let him but show one trace of nervousness and they would feel the storms of panic that blew through the slums and streets of the city below.

Two slaves took up positions on either side of their king, creating a gentle breeze from large fans. Rai Chiang hardly noticed their presence as he saw his first minister could barely maintain his calm. He forced himself to wait until the men had touched their foreheads to the floor and proclaimed their oath of loyalty. The words were ancient and comforting. His father and grandfather had heard them many thousand times in this very room.

At last they were ready to begin the business of the day, and the great doors shut behind them. It was foolish to think they were completely private, Rai Chiang reflected. Anything of note in the throne room became market gossip before the sun set. He watched the ministers closely, looking for some sign that they felt the fear curdling in his breast. Nothing showed and his mood lightened a fraction.

“Imperial Majesty, Son of Heaven, king and father to us all,” his first minister began, “I bear a letter from Emperor Wei of the Chin.” He did not approach himself, but handed the scroll to a bearer slave. The young man knelt and held out the roll of precious paper, and Rai Chiang recognized the personal chop of Prince Wei. Rai Chiang hid the stirring of hope in his breast as he took it and broke the wax seal.

It did not take long to read the message, and despite his control, Rai Chiang frowned. He could sense the hunger for news in the room, and his calm had been affected badly enough for him to read it aloud.

“It is to our advantage when our enemies attack one another. Wherein lies the danger to us? Bleed these invaders and the Chin will avenge your memory.”

There was utter silence in the room as the ministers digested the words. One or two of them had paled, visibly disturbed. There would be no reinforcements. Worse, the new emperor had described them as enemies and could no longer be considered the ally his father had been. It was possible that they had heard the end of the Xi Xia kingdom in those few words.

“Our army is ready?” Rai Chiang said softly into the silence. His first minister bowed deeply before replying, hiding his fear. He could not bring himself to tell his king how poorly prepared the soldiers were for war. Generations of peace had made them more adept at bullying favors from city prostitutes than martial skills.

“The barracks are full, Majesty. With your royal guards to lead them, they will send these animals back into the desert.”

Rai Chiang sat perfectly still, knowing no one there would dare to interrupt his thoughts.

“Who will keep the city safe if my personal guard goes out onto the plains?” he said at last. “The peasants? No, I have sheltered and fed the militia for years. It is time they earned what they have had from my hand.” He ignored the taut expression of his first minister. The man was merely a cousin, and though he ran the city’s scribes with rigid discipline, he was out of his depth with anything requiring original thought.

“Send for my general, that I may plan an attack,” Rai Chiang said. “The time for talk and letters is over, it seems. I will consider the words of . . . Emperor Wei, and my response, when we have dealt with the closer threat.”

The ministers filed out, their nervousness showing in their stiff bearing. The kingdom had been at peace for more than three centuries, and no one there could remember the terrors of war.

“This place is perfect for us,” Kachiun said, looking out over the plain of the Xi Xia. At his back, the mountains loomed, but his gaze lingered over green and gold fields lush with growing crops. The tribes had covered ground at incredible speed over the previous three months, riding hard from village to village with almost no opposition. Three large towns had fallen before the news had gone ahead and the people of the tiny kingdom began to flee the invaders. At first the tribes had taken prisoners, but when they had close to forty thousand, Genghis had grown tired of their wailing voices. His army could not feed so many and he would not leave them behind him, though the miserable farmers did not look like any kind of threat. He had given the order and the slaughter had taken an entire day. The dead had been left to rot in the sun, and Genghis had visited the hills of the dead only once to see that his orders had been carried out. After that he thought no more of them.

Only the women had been left alive to be taken as prizes, and Kachiun had found a couple of rare beauties that very morning. They waited for him in his ger and he found his thoughts straying in that direction instead of to the next move in the assault. He shook his head to clear it.

“The peasants don’t seem warlike at all and these canals are perfect for watering our horses,” he went on, glancing at his older brother.

Genghis sat on a pile of saddles next to his ger, resting his chin on his hands. The mood of the tribes was cheerful around the two men, and he saw a group of boys setting wands of birch into the ground. He raised his head in interest as he saw his two eldest sons were part of the chattering gang, pushing and shoving each other as they argued over how best to set the sticks. Jochi and Chagatai were dangerous company for the boys of the tribes, often leading them into trouble and scuffles that resulted in their being slapped apart by the women of the gers.

Genghis sighed, running his tongue over his lower lip as he thought. “We’re like a bear with his paw in honey, Kachiun, but they will rouse themselves. Barchuk tells me the Xi Xia merchants boasted of a huge standing army. We have not met them yet.”

Kachiun shrugged, unworried at the prospect. “Perhaps. There is still their great city. They may be hiding behind the walls there. We could starve them out, or break the walls down around their ears.”

Genghis frowned at his brother. “It will not be so easy, Kachiun. I expect rashness from Khasar. I keep you close to be the voice of caution and sense when the warriors get too full of themselves. We have not fought a single battle in this realm, and I do not want the men to be fat and slow when it comes. Get them back on the training field and burn the laziness out of them. You too.”

Kachiun flushed at the rebuke. “Your will, my brother,” he said, bowing his head. He saw Genghis was watching his sons as they mounted their shaggy ponies. It was a game of skill learned from the Olkhun’ut, and Genghis was distracted as Jochi and Chagatai readied themselves to gallop past the row of wands in the soil.

Jochi turned his pony faster and raced along the line with his child’s bow fully bent. Genghis and Kachiun watched as he loosed his arrow at full speed, sending the head slicing through the slender stick. It was a good strike, and in the same instant, Jochi reached down with his left hand and snatched the falling piece of wood, raising it triumphantly as he turned back to his companions. They cheered him, though Chagatai merely snorted before beginning his own run.

“Your son will be a fine warrior,” Kachiun murmured. Genghis winced at the words and Kachiun did not look at him, knowing the expression he would see.

“While they can retreat behind walls five times higher than a man,” Genghis said stubbornly, “they can laugh at us riding around on the plains. What does their king care for a few hundred villages? We have barely stung him while this Yinchuan city sits safe and he resides in it.”

Kachiun did not respond as Chagatai rode the line. His arrow cut the wand, but his flailing hand failed to snatch it before it fell. Jochi laughed at his brother and Kachiun saw Chagatai’s face darken in anger. They knew their father was watching, of course.

At his back, Genghis made his decision, rising to his feet.

“Get the men sober and ready to march. I will see this city of stone that so impressed the scouts. Somehow or other there must be a way in.” He did not show his brother the worries that plagued him. He had never seen a city girdled in high walls as his scouts described. He hoped that the sight of it would bring some insight into how he could enter without seeing his army dash itself uselessly against the stone.

As Kachiun left to relay the orders, he saw Chagatai had said something to his older brother. Jochi leaped from his pony as he passed, sending them both thumping into the ground in a flurry of elbows and bare feet. Kachiun grinned as he passed them, remembering his own childhood.

The land they had found beyond the mountains was fertile and rich. Perhaps they would have to fight to keep it, but he could not imagine a force capable of defeating the army they had brought a thousand miles from their home. As a boy, he had once levered a huge rock free on a hillside and seen the way it gathered speed. At first it was slow, but after only a little time, it was unstoppable.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

Scarlet was the Xi Xia color for war. The king’s soldiers wore armor lacquered in vivid red, and the room where Rai Chiang met his general was unadorned except for polished walls of the same shade. Only a single table spoiled the echoing emptiness, and both men stood to gaze down at maps of the region, held with lead weights. The original secession from the Chin had been planned within those red walls; it was a place to save and win a kingdom, rich with its own history. General Giam’s lacquered armor was such a perfect match for the room that he almost vanished against the walls. Rai Chiang himself wore a tunic of gold over black silk trousers.

The general was white-haired, a man of dignity. He could feel the history of the Xi Xia hanging heavy in the air of that ancient room, as heavy as the responsibility he would bear himself.

He placed another marker of ivory on the lines of dark blue ink.

“Their camp is here, Majesty, not far from where they entered the kingdom. They send their warriors out to raid a hundred li in every direction.”

“A man cannot ride further in a day, so they must make other camps for the night,” Rai Chiang murmured. “Perhaps we can attack them there.”

His general shook his head slightly, unwilling to openly contradict his king. “They do not rest, Majesty, or stop for food. We have scouts who say they ride that far and then back from dawn to sunset. When they take prisoners, they are slower, driving them before them. They have no infantry and carry supplies with them from the main camp.”

Rai Chiang frowned delicately, knowing that would be enough criticism to make the general sweat in his presence.

“Their camp is not important, General. The army must engage and break these riders who have caused so much destruction. I have a report of a pile of dead peasants as high as a mountain. Who will gather the crops? The city could starve even if these invaders left us today!”

General Giam made his face a mask rather than risk further anger. “Our army will need time to form and prepare the ground. With the royal guard to lead them, I can have the fields sown with spikes that will destroy any charge. If the discipline is good, we will crush them.”

“I would have preferred to have Chin soldiers with my own militia,” Rai Chiang said as if to himself.

The general cleared his throat, knowing it was a sensitive subject. “All the more need for your own guards, Majesty. The militia are little better than peasants with weapons. They cannot stand on their own.”

Rai Chiang turned his pale eyes on his general. “My father had forty thousand trained soldiers to man the walls of Yinchuan. As a child, I watched the red ranks parade through the city on his birthday and there seemed no end to them.” He grimaced irritably. “I have listened to fools and counted the cost of so many over the dangers we could face. There are barely twenty thousand in my own guard and you would have me send them out? Who then would defend the city? Who would form the teams for the great bows and hold the walls? Do you think the peasants and merchants will be of any use to us once my guard have gone out? There will be food riots and fires. Plan to win without them, General. There is no other way.”

General Giam had been born to one of the king’s uncles, and promotion had come easily. Yet he had courage enough to face Rai Chiang’s disapproval.

“If you give me ten thousand of your guard, they will steady the others. They will be a core the enemy cannot break.”

“Even ten thousand is too many,” Rai Chiang snapped.

General Giam swallowed.

“Without cavalry, I cannot win, my lord. With even five thousand guards and three thousand of those on heavy horse, I would have a chance. If you cannot give me that, you should execute me now.”

Rai Chiang raised his eyes from the map and found General Giam’s gaze steady. He smiled, amused at the bead of sweat that was making its way down the man’s cheek.

“Very well. It is a balance between giving you the best we have and still keeping enough to defend the city. Take a thousand cross-bowmen, two of cavalry, and two more of heavy pikes. They will be the core that leads the others against the enemy.”

General Giam closed his eyes in silent thanks for an instant. Rai Chiang did not notice as he turned back to the map.

“You may empty the stores of armor. The militia may not be my red guards, but perhaps looking like them will give them courage. It will relieve the boredom of hanging profiteers and whitewashing the barracks, I have no doubt. Do not fail me in this, General.”

“I will not, Your Majesty.”

Genghis rode at the head of his army, a vast line of horsemen that stretched across the plain of the Xi Xia. As they came to canals, the line would bulge as men raced each other over the drop, laughing and calling to anyone who fell into the dark water and had to ride hard to catch up.

The city of Yinchuan had been a smear on the horizon for hours before Genghis gave the order to halt. Horns sounded up and down the line and the host came to a stop, with echoing orders passing down to alert men on the wings. This was hostile country and they would not be taken by surprise.

The city loomed in the distance. Even miles away, it seemed a massive construction, intimidating in its sheer size. Genghis squinted into the haze of the afternoon sun. The stone the builders had used was a dark gray, and he could see columns that could have been towers inside the walls. He could not guess their purpose and strove not to show his awe in front of the men.

He looked around him, seeing that his people could not be ambushed on such a flat piece of ground. The crops could have hidden crawling soldiers, but his scouts would sight them long before they were close. It was as safe as anywhere could be to set up camp, and he made the decision, dismounting as he gave his orders.

Behind him the tribes scurried in the routines they knew. Gers were lashed together and raised by individual families long used to the work. A village, a town, a city of their own sprang out of the carts and herds of bleating animals. It was not long before Genghis’s own cart came up and the smell of frying mutton filled the air.

Arslan walked along the line with his son Jelme. Under their eyes, the warriors of all the tribes stood tall and kept their chatter to a minimum. Genghis approved and he was ready with a smile as they reached him.

“I have never seen such a flat land,” Arslan said. “There is nowhere to hold, nowhere to retreat to if we are overwhelmed. We are too exposed here.”

Jelme raised his eyes at the words, but did not speak. Arslan was twice the age of the other generals and he led cautiously and with intelligence. He would never be a firebrand amongst the tribes, though his skill was respected, and his temper feared.

“We will not be turned, Arslan. Not from here,” Genghis replied, clapping him on the shoulder. “We will make them come out from that city, or if they will not, perhaps I will just build a ramp of earth to the top of their walls and ride in. That would be a thing to see, would it not?”

Arslan’s smile was tight. He had been one of those who had ridden closer to Yinchuan, close enough for them to waste arrows on him.

“It is like a mountain, lord. You will see when you ride close to the walls. Each corner has a tower and the walls are set with slits where archers poke their faces through to watch you pass. It would be hard to hit them, while they have an easy shot against us.”

Genghis lost some of his good humor. “I will see it first before I decide. If it will not fall to us, I will starve them out.”

Jelme nodded at the idea. He had ridden with his father close enough to feel the shadow of the city on his back. For a man used to the open steppes, he found himself irritated at the thought of such an ant hill of men. The very idea offended him.

“The canals pass into the city, lord,” Jelme said, “through tunnels barred with iron. I am told they wash away the dung of so many people and animals. There may be a weakness there.”

Genghis brightened. He had ridden all day and he was weary. There would be time to plan the assault tomorrow when he had eaten and rested.

“We will find a way,” he promised.

CHAPTER 7

WITH NO SIGN OF OPPOSITION, the younger warriors under Genghis spent their days riding as close as they dared to the city, testing their courage. The bravest of them galloped under the shadow of the walls as arrows whipped overhead. Their whooping cries echoed over the fields in challenge, yet only one Xi Xia archer managed a clean strike in three days. Even then, the tribesman recovered his seat and rode clear, pulling the arrow out of his armor and throwing it contemptuously to the ground.

Genghis too rode close, with his generals and officers. What he saw brought him no inspiration. Even the canals into the city were protected by iron bars as thick as a man’s forearm, set deep into stone. He thought they might still batter their way in, though the thought of crawling down dank tunnels was unpleasant to a man of the plains.

As night fell, his brothers and generals gathered in the great ger to eat and discuss the problem. Genghis’s mood had grown dark once more, but Arslan had known him from the beginning of his rise and did not fear to speak bluntly.

“With the sort of wooden shield we used against the fort, we could protect men long enough to hammer through the canal openings,” Arslan said, chewing. “Though I do not like the look of those constructions on the walls. I would not have believed a bow could be so large. If they’re real, they must fire arrows as long as a man. Who knows how much damage they can do?”

“We cannot stay out here forever, while they send messages to their allies,” Kachiun murmured, “and we cannot pass by and leave their army free to strike at our back. We must enter the city, or return to the desert and give up everything we have won.”

Genghis glanced at his younger brother, his expression sour. “That will not happen,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “We have their crops. How long can a city last before the people are eating each other? Time is on our side.”

“We are not hurting them yet, I think,” Kachiun replied. “They have the canals to bring water, and for all we know, the city is stuffed with grain and salted meat.” He saw Genghis frown at the image, but continued. “We could be here for years, waiting, and who knows how many armies are marching to support them? By the time they are starving, we could be facing the Chin themselves and be caught between them.”

“Then give me an answer!” Genghis snapped. “The Uighur scholars tell me that every city in Chin lands is like this one, or even larger, if you can imagine it. If they have been built by men, they can be destroyed by men, I am certain of it. Tell me how.”

“We could poison the water in the canals,” Khasar said, reaching for another piece of meat with his knife. He speared it in sudden silence and looked round at the others. “What? This is not our land.”

“That is an evil thing to say,” Kachiun chided his brother, speaking for all of them. “What would we drink ourselves, then?”

Khasar shrugged. “We would drink clean water from further up.”

Genghis listened, considering. “We need to sting them into coming out,” he said. “I will not see clean water poisoned, but we can break the canals and let the city go thirsty. Let them see the work of generations being destroyed and perhaps they will meet us on the plain.”

“I will see it done,” Jelme said.

Genghis nodded to him. “And you, Khasar. You will send a hundred men to break through the bars where the canals enter the city.”

“Protecting them will mean more carts taken apart. The families will not like that at all,” Khasar said.

Genghis snorted. “I will build more when we are in that cursed city. They will thank us then.”

All the men in the ger heard galloping hoofbeats coming closer. Genghis paused with a piece of greasy mutton in his fingers. He looked up as a clatter sounded on the steps outside and the door to the ger opened.

“They are coming out, lord.”

“In the darkness?” Genghis said incredulously.

“There is no moon, but I was close enough to hear them, lord. They chattered like birds and made more noise than children.”

Genghis tossed the meat down into the platter in the center of the ger. “Return to your men, my brothers. Make them ready.” His gaze flickered around the ger to Arslan and Jelme, the father and son sitting together.

“Arslan, you will keep five thousand to protect the families. The rest of us will ride with me.” He grinned at the prospect and they responded.

“Not years, Kachiun. Not one more day. Get the fastest scouts riding. I want to know what they are doing as soon as dawn comes. I will have orders for you then.”

So far south, the autumn was still hot, the uncut crops drooping under their own weight as they began to rot in the fields. The Mongol scouts shouted challenges to the red army that had marched from the safety of Yinchuan, while others rode back to Genghis with details. They entered the great ger in groups of three, passing on what they had learned.

Genghis strode back and forth, listening to each man as he described the scene.

“I do not like this business with the baskets,” he said to Kachiun. “What could they be sowing on this ground?” He had heard of hundreds of men walking together in patterns before the host from Yinchuan. Each had carried a basket on his shoulders while a man behind him reached into it, over and over, casting his arms wide.

The khan of the Uighurs had been summoned to explain the mystery. Barchuk had questioned the scouts closely, demanding every scrap of information they could recall.

“It could be something to slow our horses, lord,” he said at last. “Sharp stones, perhaps, or iron. They have sown a wide band of these seeds outside the army and they show no sign of crossing it. If they are intent on drawing us in, perhaps they expect the charge to founder.”

Genghis clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever it is, I will not let them choose the ground,” he said. “You will have your scrolls yet, Barchuk.” He looked around him at the bright faces of his most trusted men. None of them could truly know the enemy they faced. The slaughter at the fort to enter Xi Xia lands bore little relation to the fighting formations of the king’s own city. He could feel his heart beating quickly at the thought of finally standing against his people’s enemies. Surely they would not fail, after so long in preparation? Kokchu said the stars themselves proclaimed a new destiny for his people. With the shaman attending him, Genghis had sacrificed a white goat to the sky father, using the name in the most ancient shaman’s tongue. Tängri would not refuse them. They had been weak for too long, made so by the Chin in their cities of gold. Now they were strong and he would see the cities fall.

The generals stood perfectly still as Kokchu reached into tiny pots and drew lines on their faces. When they looked at each other, they could not see the men they knew. They saw only the masks of war and eyes that were fierce and terrible.

The shaman left Genghis until last, dragging a red line from high on the khan’s forehead, over the eyes and down on each side of his mouth.

“Iron will not touch you, lord. Stone will not break you. You are the Wolf and the sky father watches.”

Genghis stared without blinking, the blood somehow hot on his skin. At last he nodded and left the ger, mounting his pony with the lines of warriors drawn up on either side. He could see the city in the distance and, before it, a blurry mass of red men waiting to see his ambitions humbled. He looked left and right along the line and raised his arm.

The drums started, carried by a hundred unarmed boys. Each one of them had fought his fellows for the right to ride with the warriors, and many of them bore the marks of their struggle. Genghis felt his strength as he touched the hilt of his father’s sword for luck. He dropped his arm, and as one, they thundered forward over the plain of the Xi Xia toward the city of Yinchuan.

“They are coming, lord,” Rai Chiang’s first minister said excitedly. The vantage point from the king’s tower offered the best view of the plain from anywhere in the city, and Rai Chiang had not objected to the presence of his councillors in his private chambers.

In their lacquered armor, the soldiers resembled a bright splash of blood on the ground before the city. Rai Chiang thought he could see the distant white-bearded figure of General Giam riding up and down the lines. Pikes gleamed in the morning sun as the regiments formed up, and he could see his own Royal Guard held the wings. They were the best horsemen of the Xi Xia, and he did not regret giving them to this task.

It had hurt him deeply to hide in the city while his lands were ravaged. Just the sight of an army facing the invader lifted his spirits. Giam was a solid thinker, a dependable man. It was true that he had not seen battle in his rise to power in the army, but Rai Chiang had reviewed his plans and found no fault with them. The king drank a pale white wine as he waited, relishing the thought of seeing his enemies destroyed before his eyes. News of the victory would reach Emperor Wei, and he would know bitterness. If the Chin had reinforced them, Rai Chiang would have been in his debt forever. Emperor Wei was subtle enough to know when he had given up an advantage in trade and power, and the thought was intoxicating to Rai Chiang. He would see to it that the Chin were informed of every detail of the battle.

General Giam watched the dust cloud as the enemy advanced. The ground was drying out, he realized, with no farmers daring to water their crops. Those who had tried had been cut down by the scouts of the invader, apparently for sport or to blood the younger men. That would stop today, Giam thought.

His orders were relayed to the ranks on high poles, fluttering in the breeze for all to see. As he glanced up and down the lines, black crosses mingled with red pennants, a symbol that meant they would hold the ground. Beyond the army, the fields were sown with a hundred thousand spikes of iron, hidden in the grass. Giam waited impatiently for the tribesmen to hit them. It would be carnage and then he would raise flags to attack in close formation, while the Mongols were still dazed.

The royal cavalry held the wings and he nodded to himself at the sight of their fine horses, snorting and pawing at the ground in excitement. The king’s pike guards stood resolute in the center of his army, splendid in their scarlet, like the scales of exotic fish. Their grim faces helped to steady the others as the dust cloud grew larger and they all felt the earth tremble under their feet. Giam saw one of the flag pikes dip and sent a man over to chastise the bearer. The army of Xi Xia was nervous, he could see it in their faces. When they saw the enemy line crumple, it would encourage them. Giam felt his bladder complain and swore softly under his breath, knowing he could not dismount with the enemy rushing toward them. In the ranks, he saw many of the men urinating onto the dusty ground, readying themselves.

He had to shout his orders over the swelling thunder of galloping horses. The guard officers were spread along the line and they repeated the command to stand and wait.

“Just a little longer,” he murmured. He could see individuals amongst the enemy and his stomach tightened at the sight of so many. He felt the gaze of the citizens on his back, and he knew the king would be watching with every other man and woman who could find a place on the walls. Yinchuan depended on them for survival, but they would not be found lacking.

His second in command stood ready to relay Giam’s orders.

“It will be a great victory, General,” he said.

Giam could hear the strain in the man’s voice and forced himself to turn away from the enemy. “With the king’s eye on us, the men must not lose heart. They know he watches?”

“I have made certain of it, General. They . . .” The man’s eyes widened and Giam snapped his gaze back to the charging line hammering across the plain.

From the center of it, a hundred galloping ponies moved forward, their riders forming a column like an arrow shaft. Giam watched without understanding as they approached the hidden line of spikes in the grass. He hesitated, unsure how the new formation affected his plans. He felt a line of sweat trickle from his hair and drew his sword to steady his hands.

“Nearly there . . .” he whispered. The horsemen were low on the backs of their ponies, their faces straining against the wind. Giam watched as they passed the line he had created and, for a terrifying instant, he thought they would somehow ride straight through the spikes. Then the first horse screamed, tumbling over itself in a great crash. Dozens more went down as the spikes pierced the soft part of their hooves and men were thrown to their death. The thin column faltered and Giam knew a moment of fierce joy. He saw the galloping line waver as the mass of following warriors yanked savagely on their reins. Almost all of those who had run full tilt into the spikes lay crippled or dead on the grass and a great cheer went up from the red ranks.

Giam saw the pike flags were standing proud, and he clenched his left fist in excitement. Let them come on foot and see what he had for them!

Beyond the screaming men and horses, the bulk of the enemy milled without formation, having lost all impetus in the death of their brothers. As Giam watched, the untrained tribesmen panicked. They had no tactics except for the wild charge, and they had lost that. Without warning, hundreds turned away to race back through their own lines. The rout spread with extraordinary speed and Giam saw Mongol officers bawling conflicting orders at their fleeing men, striking at them with the flats of their swords as they passed. Behind him, the people of Yinchuan roared at the sight.

Giam jerked round in the saddle. His entire first rank took a half step forward, straining like dogs on a leash. He could see the bloodlust rising in them and knew it had to be controlled.

“Stand!” he bellowed. “Officers, hold your men. The order is to stand!” They could not be held. Another step broke the last restraint and the yelling red ranks surged forward, their new armor shining. The air filled with dust. Only the king’s guard held their positions, and even then, the cavalry on the wings were forced to come forward with the others or leave them vulnerable. Giam shouted again and again in desperation and his own officers raced up and down the lines, trying to hold the army back. It was impossible. They had seen the enemy riding in the shadow of the city for almost two months. Here at last was a chance to make them bleed. The militia screamed defiance as they reached the barrier of iron spikes. These were no danger to men and they passed through quickly, killing those warriors who still lived and stabbing the dead over and over until they were bloody rags on the grass.

Giam used his horse to block lines of men as best he could. In fury, he had the signal horns blow retreat, but the men were deaf and blind to everything except the enemy and the king who watched them. They could not be called back.

On horseback, Giam saw the sudden change in the tribes before any of his running men. Before his eyes, the wild rout vanished and perfect new Mongol lines formed, the discipline terrifying. The scarlet army of the Xi Xia had come half a mile past the traps and pits they had dug the night before and still raced onwards to bloody their swords and send these enemies away from their city. Without warning, they faced a confident army of horsemen on exposed ground. Genghis gave a single order and the entire force moved into a trot. The Mongol warriors pulled bows from shaped leather holders on the saddles, taking the first long arrows from the quivers on their hips or backs. They guided the ponies with their knees alone, riding with the arrows pointing down. At another barked order from Genghis, they brought their lines to a canter and then instantly to full gallop, the arrows coming up to their faces for the first volley.

Caught out in the open, fear swept through the massed red ranks. The Xi Xia lines compressed and some at the rear were still cheering ignorantly as the Mongol army swept back in. Giam roared desperate orders to increase the space between the ranks, but only the king’s guard responded. As they faced a massed charge for the second time, the militia bunched even tighter, terrified and confused.

Twenty thousand buzzing arrows smashed the red lines to their knees. They could not return the volleys in the face of such destruction. Their own crossbowmen could only shoot blindly toward the enemy, hampered by the scramble of their own companions. The Mongols drew and shot ten times in every sixty heartbeats, and their accuracy was crushing. The red armor saved some, but as they rose screaming, they were hit again and again until they stayed down. As the Mongols darted in for the close killing, Giam dug in his heels and raced across the face of the bloody lines to the king’s pikemen, desperate to have them hold. Somehow he came through unscathed.

The king’s guards looked no different from the militia in their red armor. As Giam took command, he saw some of the militia rushing back through their ranks, chased down by screaming Mongol riders. The guards did not run and Giam gave a sharp order to raise pikes, passed on down the line. The tribesmen saw too late that these were not panicking like the others. Pike blades held up at an angle could cut a man in half as he charged, and dozens of Mongol riders went down as they tried to gallop through. Giam felt hope rise in him that he could yet salvage the day.

The guard cavalry had moved out to defend the wings against the mobile enemy. As the militia was crushed, Giam was left with only the few thousand of the king’s trained men and a few hundred stragglers. The Mongols seemed to delight in hitting the Xi Xia riders. Whenever the guard cavalry tried to charge, the tribesmen would spear in at high speed and pick men off with bows. The wildest of them engaged the guards with swords, looping in and out again like stinging insects. Though the cavalry kept their discipline, they had been trained to ride down infantry on the open field and could not respond to attacks from all directions. Caught away from the city, it was slaughter.

The pikemen survived the first charges against them, gutting the Mongol horses. When the king’s cavalry were crushed and scattered, those who fought on foot were exposed. The pikemen could not turn to face the enemy easily, and every time they tried, they were too slow. Giam bawled orders hopelessly, but the Mongols encircled them and cut them to pieces in a storm of arrows that still failed to claim him with them. Each man who died fell with a dozen shafts in him, or was cut from his saddle by a sword at full gallop. Pikes were broken and trampled in the press. Those who still survived tried to run to the shadow of the walls where archers could protect them. Almost all were ridden down.

The gates were shut. As Giam glanced back at the city, he found himself hot with shame. The king would be watching in horror. The army was shattered, ruined. Only a few battered, weary men had made it to the walls. Somehow Giam had remained in the saddle, more aware than ever of his king’s gaze. In misery, he raised his sword and cantered gently toward the Mongol lines until they spotted him.

Shaft after shaft broke against his red armor as he closed on them. Before he reached the line, a young warrior galloped out to meet him, his sword raised. Giam shouted once, but the warrior ducked under his blow, carving a great gash under the general’s right arm. Giam swayed in the saddle, his horse slowing to a walk. He could hear the warrior circling back, but his arm hung on sinews and he could not raise his sword. Blood rushed across his thighs and he looked up for a moment, never feeling the blow that took his head and ended his shame.

Genghis rode triumphantly through the mounds of scarlet dead, their armor resembling the gleaming carcasses of beetles. In his right hand, he held a long pike with the head of the Xi Xia general on top, the white beard twitching in the breeze. Blood ran down the shaft onto his hand and dried there, gumming his fingers together. Some of the army had escaped by running back through the spikes where his riders could not follow. Even then, he had sent warriors to lead their horses on foot. It had been a slow business and perhaps a thousand of the enemy in all had made it close enough to the city to be covered by archers. Genghis laughed at the sight of the bedraggled men standing in the shadow of Yinchuan. The gates remained closed and they could do nothing but stare in blank despair at his warriors as they rode among the dead, laughing and calling to each other.

Genghis dismounted as he reached the grass and rested the bloody pike against his horse’s heaving flank. He bent down and picked up one of the spikes, examining it with curiosity. It was a simple thing of four nails joined together so one remained upright no matter how it fell. If he had been forced to take the defensive position, he thought he would have laid bands of them in widening circles around the army, but even then, the defenders had not been warriors as he knew them. His own men had better discipline, taught by a harder land than the peaceful valley of the Xi Xia.

As Genghis walked he could see the fragments of torn and broken armor on the ground. He examined a piece of it with interest, seeing how the red lacquer had chipped and flaked away at the edges. Some of the Xi Xia soldiers had fought well, but the Mongol bows took them even so. It was a good omen for the future and the final confirmation that he had brought them to the right place. The men knew it, as they looked on their khan in awe. He had brought them through the desert and given them enemies who fought poorly. It was a good day.

His gaze fell on ten men wearing deels marked in Uighur blue stitching as they walked amongst the dead. One of them carried a sack and he saw the others reach down to bodies and make a quick jerking motion with a knife.

“What are you doing?” he called to them. They stood proudly when they saw who addressed them.

“Barchuk of the Uighurs said you would want to know the numbers of the dead,” one of them replied. “We are cutting ears to be tallied later on.”

Genghis blinked. Looking around, he saw that many of the bodies nearby had a red gash where an ear had been that morning. The sack bulged already.

“You may thank Barchuk on my behalf,” he began, then his voice trailed away. As the men shared nervous glances, Genghis took three strides through the corpses, sending flies buzzing into the air around him.

“There is a man here without any ears at all,” Genghis said. The Uighur warriors hurried over, and as they saw the earless soldier, the man with the sack began to curse his companions.

“You miserable offal! How can we keep a straight count if you cut off both ears?”

Genghis took one look at their faces and burst into laughter as he returned to his pony.

He was still chuckling as he took up the pike and tossed the cluster of black nails into the grass. He strolled toward the walls with his grisly trophy, judging where the archers of the Xi Xia could reach.

In full view of the city walls, he jammed the pike into the ground with all his weight, standing back from it as he stared upwards. As he had expected, thin arrows soared out toward him, but the range was too far and he did not flinch. Instead, he drew his father’s sword and raised it toward them, while his army chanted and roared at his back.

Genghis’s expression became grim once more. He had blooded the new nation. He had shown they could stand even against Chin soldiers. Yet, he still had no way to enter a city that mocked him with its strength. He rode slowly to where his brothers had gathered. Genghis nodded to them.

“Break the canals,” he said.

CHAPTER 8

WITH EVERY ABLE-BODIED MAN working with stones and iron hammers, it still took six days to reduce the canals around Yinchuan to rubble. At first Genghis looked on the destruction with savage pleasure, hoping the mountain rivers might flood the city.

It disturbed him to see how the waters rose so quickly on the plain, until his warriors were ankle deep before they had finished destroying the last of the canals. The sultry days brought huge quantities of snowmelt down from the mountain peaks, and he had not truly considered where all the water might go once it wasn’t channeled down toward the city and the crops.

Even gently sloping ground became sodden mud by noon of the third day, and though the crops were flooded, the waters continued to rise. Genghis could see the amusement on the faces of his generals as they realized the error. At first the hunting was excellent as small animals escaping the flood could be seen splashing from far away. Hundreds of hares were shot and brought back to the camp in slick bundles of wet fur, but by then, the gers were in danger of being ruined. Genghis was forced to move the camp miles to the north before water flooded the entire plain.

By evening they had reached a point above the broken canal system where the ground was still firm. The city of Yinchuan was a dark spot in the distance, and in between, a new lake had sprung from nothing. It was no more than a foot deep, but it caught the setting sun and shone gold for miles.

Genghis was sitting on the steps leading up to his ger when his brother Khasar came by, his face carefully neutral. No one else had dared to say anything to the man who led them, but there were many strained faces in the camp that evening. The tribes loved a joke and flooding themselves off the plain appealed to their humor.

Khasar followed his brother’s irritated gaze out onto the expanse of water.

“Well, that taught us a valuable lesson,” Khasar murmured. “Shall I have the guards watch for enemy swimmers, creeping up on us?”

Genghis looked sourly at his brother. They could both see children of the tribes frolicking at the water’s edge, black with stinking mud as they threw each other in. Jochi and Chagatai were in the center of them as usual, delighted with the new feature of the Xi Xia plain.

“The water will sink into the ground,” Genghis replied, frowning.

Khasar shrugged. “If we divert the waters, yes. I think it will be too soft for riders for some time after that. It occurs to me that breaking the canals may not have been the best plan we have come up with.”

Genghis turned to see his brother watching him with a wry expression and barked a laugh as he rose to his feet. “We learn, brother. So much of this is new to us. Next time, we don’t break the canals. Are you satisfied?”

“I am,” Khasar replied cheerfully. “I was beginning to think my brother could not make an error. It has been an enjoyable day for me.”

“I am pleased for you,” Genghis said. Both of them watched as the boys on the water’s edge began to fight again. Chagatai threw himself at his brother and they thrashed together in the muddy shallows, first one on top, then the other.

“We cannot be attacked from the desert and no army can reach us here with that new lake in the way. Let us feast tonight and celebrate our victory,” Genghis said.

Khasar nodded, grinning. “Now that, my brother, is a fine idea.”

♦                  ♦                  ♦

Rai Chiang gripped the arms of his gilded chair, staring out over the drowned plain. The city had warehouses of salted meat and grain, but with the crops rotting, there would be no more. He turned the problem over and over in his mind, despairingly. Though they did not yet know it, many in the city would starve to death. His remaining guards would be overwhelmed by the hungry mob when winter came, and Yinchuan would be ruined from within.

As far as his eye could see, the waters stretched back to the mountains. Behind the city to the south, there were still fields and towns where neither the invaders nor the flood had yet reached, but they were not enough to feed the people of the Xi Xia. He thought of the militia in those places. If he stripped every last man from those towns, he could assemble another army, but he would lose the provinces to banditry as soon as the famine began to bite. It was infuriating, but he could not see a solution to his troubles.

He sighed to himself, causing his first minister to look up.

“My father told me always to keep the peasants fed,” Rai Chiang said aloud. “I did not understand its importance at the time. What does it matter if a few starve each winter? Does it not show the displeasure of the gods?”

The first minister nodded solemnly. “Without the example of suffering, Majesty, our people will not work. While they can see the results of laziness, they toil in the sun to feed themselves and their families. It is the way the gods have ordered the world and we cannot stand against their will.”

“But now, they will all go hungry,” Rai Chiang snapped, tired of the man’s droning voice. “Instead of a just example, a moral lesson, half our people will be clamoring for food and fighting in the streets.”

“Perhaps, Majesty,” the minister replied, unconcerned. “Many will die, but the kingdom will remain. The crops will grow again, and next year there will be an abundance for the mouths of the peasants. Those who survive the winter will grow fat and bless your name.”

Rai Chiang could not find the words to argue. He stared down from the tower of his palace at the throng in the streets. The lowest beggars had heard the news of the crops being left to spoil in the water from the mountains. They were not hungry yet, but they would be thinking of the cold months and already there were riots. His guard had been ruthless on his order, culling hundreds at the slightest sign of unrest. The people had learned to fear the king, and yet in his private thoughts, he feared them more.

“Can anything be saved?” he asked at last. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could smell the rich odor of dying vegetation on the breeze. The first minister considered, looking through a list of events in the city as if he might find inspiration there.

“If the invaders left today, Majesty, we could no doubt salvage some of the hardier grains. We could sow rice in the waterlogged fields and take one crop. The canals could be rebuilt, or we could direct the course of the water around the plain. Perhaps a tenth of the yield could be saved or replaced.”

“But the invaders will not leave,” Rai Chiang went on. He thumped his fist into the arm of the chair.

“They have beaten us. Lice-ridden, stinking tribesmen have cut right to the heart of the Xi Xia, and I am meant to sit here and preside over the stench of rotting wheat.”

The first minister bowed his head at the tirade, frightened to speak. Two of his colleagues had been executed that very morning as the king’s temper mounted. He did not want to join them.

The king rose and clasped his hands behind his back. “I have no choices left. If I strip the south of the militia in every town, it will not equal the numbers who failed against them before. How long would it be before those towns become strongholds for bandits without the king’s soldiers to keep them quiet? I would lose the south as well as the north and then the city would fall.” He swore under his breath and the minister paled.

“I will not sit and wait for the peasants to riot, or this sickly smell of rot to fill every room in the city. Send out messengers to the leader of these people. Tell him I will grant him an audience that we may discuss his demands on my people.”

“Majesty, they are little better than savage dogs,” the minister spluttered. “There can be no negotiation with them.”

Rai Chiang turned furious eyes on his servant. “Send them out. I have not been able to destroy this army of savage dogs. All I have is the fact that he cannot take my city from me. Perhaps I can bribe him into leaving.”

The minister flushed with the shame of the task, but he bowed to the floor, pressing his head against the cool wood.

As evening came, the tribes were drunk and singing. The storytellers had been busy with tales of the battle and how Genghis had drawn the enemy past their ring of iron. Comic poems had the children in fits of giggles, and before the light faded, there were many contests of wrestling and archery, the champions wearing a grass wreath on their heads until they drank themselves to insensibility.

Genghis and his generals presided over the celebration. Genghis blessed a dozen new marriages, giving weapons and ponies from his own herd to warriors who had distinguished themselves. The gers were packed with women captured from the towns, though not all the wives welcomed the newcomers. More than one fight between women had ended in bloodshed, each time with the sinewy Mongol women victorious over their husbands’ captives. Before nightfall Kachiun had been called to the site of three different killings as anger flared with the airag liquor in their veins. He had ordered two men and a woman to be tied to a post and beaten bloody. He did not care about those who had been killed, but he had no desire to see the tribes descend into an orgy of lust and violence. Perhaps because of his iron hand, the mood of the tribes remained light as the stars came out and though some of them missed the plains of home, they looked upon their leaders with pride.

Beside the ger where Genghis met his generals was his family home, no larger or more ornate than any other raised by the families of the new nation. While he cheered the wrestling bouts and torches were lit around the vast camp, his wife, Borte, sat with her four sons, crooning to them as they ate. With the coming of dusk, Jochi and Chagatai had made themselves difficult to find, preferring the noise and fun of the feast to sleep. Borte had been forced to send out three warriors to scour the gers for them, and they had been brought back still struggling under their arms. Both boys sat glaring at one another in the little ger while Borte sang Ogedai and little Tolui to sleep. The day had been exhausting for them and it did not take long before both younger boys were dreaming in their blankets.

Borte turned to Jochi, frowning at the anger in his face.

“You have not eaten, little man,” she said to him. He sniffed without replying and Borte leaned closer to him.

“That cannot be airag I smell on your breath?” she demanded. Jochi’s manner changed in an instant and he drew up his knees like a barrier.

“It would be,” Chagatai said, delighted at the chance to see his brother squirm. “Some of the men gave him a drink and he was sick on the grass.”

“Keep your mouth still!” Jochi shouted, springing up. Borte grabbed him by the arm, her strength easily a match for the little boy’s. Chagatai grinned, thoroughly satisfied.

“He is bitter because he broke his favorite bow this morning,” Jochi snapped, struggling in his mother’s grasp. “Let me go!”

In response, Borte slapped Jochi across the face and dropped him back onto the blankets. It was not a hard blow, but he raised his hand to his cheek in shock.

“I have heard your squabbling all day,” she said angrily. “When will you realize you cannot fight like puppies with the tribes watching? Not you. Do you think it pleases your father? If I tell him, you will . . .”

“Don’t tell him,” Jochi said quickly, fear showing on his face. Borte relented immediately.

“I will not, if you behave and work. You will inherit nothing from him simply because you are his sons. Is Arslan his blood? Jelme? If you are fit to lead, he will choose you, but do not expect him to favor you over better men.”

Both boys were listening intently and she realized she had not spoken to them in this way before. It surprised her to see how they hung on every word, and she considered what else she might say before they were distracted.

“Eat your food while you listen,” she said. To her pleasure, both boys took the plates of meat and wolfed into them, though they had long gone cold. Their eyes never left hers as they waited for their mother to continue.

“I had thought your father might have explained this to you by now,” she murmured. “If he were khan of a small tribe, perhaps his eldest would expect to inherit his sword, his horse, and his bondsmen. He once expected the same from your grandfather, Yesugei, though his brother Bekter was oldest.”

“What happened to Bekter?” Jochi asked.

“Father and Kachiun killed him,” Chagatai said with relish. Borte winced as Jochi’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Truly?”

His mother sighed. “That is a story for another day. I don’t know where Chagatai heard it, but he should know better than to listen to the gossip of the campfires.”

Chagatai nodded briskly at Jochi behind her back, grinning at his brother’s discomfort. Borte shot him an irritable glance, catching him before he could freeze.

“Your father is not some small khan from the hills,” she said. “He has more tribes than can be counted on the hands. Will you expect him to hand them over to a weakling?” She turned to Chagatai. “Or a fool?” She shook her head. “He will not. He has younger brothers and they will all have sons. The next khan may come from them, if he is dissatisfied with the men you become.”

Jochi lowered his head as he thought this through. “I am better with a bow than anyone else,” he muttered. “And my pony is only slow because he is so small. When I have a man’s mount, I will be faster.”

Chagatai snorted.

“I am not talking about the skills of war,” Borte said, nettled. “You will both be fine warriors, I have seen it in you.” Before they could begin to preen at the rare compliment, she went on. “Your father will look to see if you can lead men and think quickly. Did you see the way he raised Tsubodai to command a hundred? The boy is unknown, of no bloodline that matters, but your father respects his mind and his skill. He will be tested, but he could be a general when he has his full growth. He could command a thousand, even ten thousand warriors in war. Will you do the same?”

“Why not?” Chagatai said instantly.

Borte turned to him. “When you are playing with your friends, are you the one the others look to? Do they follow your ideas or do you follow theirs? Think hard now, for there will be many who flatter you because of your father. Think of those you respect. Do they listen?”

Chagatai bit his lip as he thought. He shrugged. “Some of them. They are children.”

“Why would they follow you when you spend your days fighting with your brother?” she said, pressing him.

The little boy looked resentful as he struggled with ideas too big for him. He raised his chin in defiance. “They won’t follow Jochi. He thinks they should, but they never will.”

Borte felt a coldness touch her chest at the words. “Really, my son?” she said softly. “Why would they not follow your older brother?”

Chagatai turned his head away and Borte reached out and gripped him painfully by his arm. He did not cry out, though tears showed at the corners of his eyes.

“Are there secrets between us, Chagatai?” Borte asked, her voice grating. “Why would they never follow Jochi?”

“Because he is a Tartar bastard!” Chagatai shouted. This time, the slap that Borte landed on her son was not gentle. It knocked his head to one side and he sprawled on the bed, dazed. Blood trickled from his nose and he began to wail in shock.

Jochi spoke quietly behind her. “He tells them that all the time,” he said. His voice was dark with fury and despair and Borte found tears in her own eyes at the pain he was suffering. Chagatai’s crying had wakened her two youngest sons, and they too began to sob, affected by the scene in the ger without understanding it.

Borte reached out to Jochi and enfolded him in her arms. “You cannot wish it back into your brother’s foolish mouth,” she murmured into his hair. She pulled back then to look into Jochi’s eyes, wanting him to understand. “Some words can be a cruel weight on a man, unless he learns to ignore them. You will have to be better than all the others to win your father’s approval. You know it now.”

“Is it true, then?” he whispered, looking away. He felt the stiffness in her back as she considered her answer, and he began to sob gently himself.

“Your father and I began you on a winter plain, hundreds of miles from the Tartars. It is true that I was lost to him for a time and he . . . killed the men who had taken me, but you are his son and mine. His firstborn.”

“My eyes are different, though,” he said.

Borte snorted. “So were Bekter’s when they were young. He was a son of Yesugei, but his eyes were as dark as yours. No one ever dared to question his blood. Do not think of it, Jochi. You are a grandson of Yesugei and a son of Genghis. You will be a khan one day.”

As Chagatai snuffled and wiped blood onto his hand, Jochi grimaced, leaning back to look at his mother. Visibly he summoned his courage, taking a deep breath before speaking. His voice quavered, humiliating him in front of his brothers.

“He killed his brother,” he said, “and I have seen the way he looks at me. Does he love me at all?”

Borte pressed the little boy into her breast, her heart breaking for him.

“Of course he does. You will make him see you as his heir, my son. You will make him proud.”

CHAPTER 9

IT TOOK FIVE THOUSAND WARRIORS even longer to divert the canals with earth and rubble than it had to break them. Genghis had given the order when he saw the flood levels were threatening even the rising ground of the new camp. When the work was done, the water formed new lakes to the east and west, but at last the way to Yinchuan was drying in the sun. The ground was thick with greasy black plants and swarms of biting flies that irritated the tribes. Their ponies sank to the knees in sticky mud, making it hard to scout and adding to a feeling of confinement in the gers. There were many arguments and fights among the tribes each evening, and Kachiun was hard pressed to keep the peace.

The news that eight riders were toiling across the sodden plain was welcomed by all those who had grown tired of their inactivity. They had not come through the desert to remain in one place. Even the children had lost interest in the floodwaters, and many of them had become ill from drinking stagnant water.

Genghis watched the Xi Xia horsemen struggle through the mud. He had assembled five thousand of his warriors to face them on the dry ground, placing them right on the edge of the mud so that his enemy would have no place to rest. The Xi Xia horses were already blowing with the effort of pulling each leg from the clotted soil, and the riders were hard pressed to keep their dignity as they risked a fall.

To Genghis’s enormous pleasure, one of them did slip from the saddle when his mount lurched into a hole. The tribes hooted in derision as the man yanked savagely on his reins and remounted, soaked in filth. Genghis glanced at Barchuk at his side, noting the man’s expression of satisfaction. He was there as an interpreter, but Kokchu and Temuge stood with them as well to hear what the king’s messenger had to say. Both men had taken to their studies of the Chin language with what Genghis considered to be indecent enjoyment. The shaman and Genghis’s younger brother were clearly excited at the chance to test their newfound knowledge.

The riders halted as Genghis raised a flat palm. They had come just close enough for him to hear their words, and though they seemed unarmed, he was not a trusting man. If he were in the position of the Xi Xia king, an attempt at assassination would certainly be something he considered at that time. At his back, the tribes watched in silence, their double-curved bows ready in their hands.

“Are you lost?” Genghis called to them. He watched as they glanced to one of their number, a soldier in fine armor that extended to a headpiece of iron scales. Genghis nodded to himself, knowing the man would speak for them all. He was not disappointed.

“I bear a message from the king of the Xi Xia,” the soldier replied. To the disappointment of Temuge and Kokchu, the words were perfectly clear in the language of the tribes.

Genghis looked questioningly at Barchuk and the Uighur khan spoke in a murmur, barely moving his lips.

“I have seen him before, at the trading days. He is an officer of some middle rank, very proud.”

“He looks it, in that armor,” Genghis replied, before raising his voice to address the soldiers.

“Dismount if you would talk to me,” Genghis called. The riders exchanged resigned glances and Genghis masked his amusement as they stepped down into thick mud. They were held almost immobile by its grip, and their expressions raised his spirits.

“What does your king have to say?” Genghis continued, staring at the officer. The man had flushed in anger as the mud ruined his fine boots and took a moment to master his emotions before replying.

“He bids you meet him in the shadow of the walls of Yinchuan, under truce. His honor will guarantee no attack while you are there.”

“What does he have to say to me?” Genghis said again, as if there had been no reply.

The man’s flush deepened. “If I knew his mind, there would be little point in such a meeting,” he snapped. Those with him glanced nervously at the host of Mongol warriors waiting with bows. They had seen the extraordinary accuracy of those weapons and their eyes pleaded with their spokesman not to give any offense that might lead to an attack.

Genghis smiled. “What is your name, angry man?”

“Ho Sa. I am Hsiao-Wei of Yinchuan. You might call me a khan, perhaps, a senior officer.”

“I would not call you a khan,” Genghis replied. “But you are welcome in my camp, Ho Sa. Send these goats home and I will welcome you in my ger and share tea and salt with you.”

Ho Sa turned to his companions and jerked his head back at the city in the distance. One of them spoke a string of meaningless syllables that made Kokchu and Temuge crane forward to hear. Ho Sa shrugged at his companion and Genghis watched as the other seven mounted and turned back to the city.

“Those are beautiful horses,” Barchuk said at his shoulder.

Genghis looked at the Uighur khan. He nodded, catching the eye of Arslan where he stood along the line of warriors. Genghis jerked two fingers at the retreating group, like a snake striking.

An instant later, a hundred shafts flashed through the air to take the seven riders neatly from their saddles. One of the horses was killed and Genghis heard Arslan barking at an unfortunate warrior for his incompetence. As Genghis watched, Arslan took the man’s bow and cut the string with a jerk of his knife before handing it back to him. The warrior took it with his head bowed in humiliation.

Bodies lay still on the plain, facedown in the mud. On such ground, the horses could not bolt easily. Without their riders to urge them on, they stood listlessly, looking back at the tribes. Two of them nuzzled the bodies of the men they had known, whickering nervously at the smell of blood.

Ho Sa stared in thin-lipped fury as Genghis turned to face him.

“They were good horses,” Genghis said. The soldier’s expression did not change and the khan shrugged. “Words are not heavy. It does not take more than one of you to carry my reply.”

He left Ho Sa to be taken to the great ger and given salt tea. Genghis remained behind to see the horses as they were captured and brought back.

“I will have first choice,” he said to Barchuk.

The Uighur khan nodded, raising his eyes for a moment. First choice would give Genghis the best of them, but they were good mounts and still worth having.

Despite the late season, the sun was hot in the valley of the Xi Xia, and the ground had been baked into a thin crust by the time Genghis rode toward the city. The king had requested he bring only three companions, but another five thousand rode with him for the first few miles. By the time he was close enough to make out details of the pavilion erected in front of the city, Genghis’s curiosity had become overwhelming. What could the king want with him?

He left his escort behind with some reluctance, though he knew Khasar would ride to his aid if he signaled. He had considered the chances of a surprise attack on the king while they talked, but Rai Chiang was not a fool. The peach-colored awning had been erected very close to the walls of the city. Huge bows armed with iron-tipped shafts as long as a man could destroy it in moments and ensure Genghis would not survive. The king was more vulnerable outside the walls, but the balance was delicate.

Genghis sat straight in the saddle as he rode ahead with Arslan, Kachiun, and Barchuk of the Uighurs. They were well armed and carried extra blades hidden in their armor in case the king insisted on removing their swords.

Genghis tried to lighten his grim expression as he took in every detail of the peach awning. He liked the color and wondered where he could find silk of that width and quality. He ground his teeth together at the thought of the untouched city in plain sight. If he had found a way in, he would not have come to meet the king of the Xi Xia. The thought nagged at him that every city in Chin lands was said to be as well protected and he had not yet discovered a way to counter the defense.

The four riders did not speak as they passed into the cool peach shade and dismounted. The awning hid them from view of the archers on the walls, and Genghis found himself relaxing, standing in grim silence before the king’s guards.

No doubt they had been chosen to impress, he thought, staring at them. Someone had given thought to the difficulties of the meeting. The entrance to the pavilion was wide so that he could see no assassins waited to catch him as he entered. The guards were powerfully built and they did not acknowledge the man who stood before them. Instead, they stared back like statues at the line of mounted warriors he had gathered in the far distance.

Though there were chairs within, the pavilion held only one man, and Genghis nodded to him.

“Where is your king, Ho Sa? Is it too early in the morning for him?”

“He comes, my lord khan. A king does not arrive first.”

Genghis raised an eyebrow as he considered taking offense. “Perhaps I should leave. I did not ask him to come to me, after all.”

Ho Sa flushed and Genghis smiled. The man was easy to irritate, but he had found he liked him, for all his prickly honor. Before he could respond, horns sounded on the walls of the city and the four Mongols reached for their swords. Ho Sa held up a hand.

“The king guarantees the peace, my lord khan. The horns are to let me know he is leaving the city.”

“Go out and watch him come,” Genghis said to Arslan. “Tell me how many men ride with him.” He made an effort to relax his muscles where they had tightened. He had met khans before and he had killed them in their own gers. There was nothing new in this, he told himself, but still there was a touch of awe in him, an echo of Ho Sa’s manner. Genghis smiled at his own foolishness, realizing it was a part of being so far from home. Everything was new and different from the plains he remembered, but he would have chosen no other place to stand on that morning.

Arslan returned quickly.

“He comes in a litter carried by slaves. It looks much like the one Wen Chao used.”

“How many slaves?” Genghis replied, frowning. He would be outnumbered and his irritation showed on his face.

Ho Sa replied before Arslan. “They are eunuchs, my lord. Eight men of strength, but not warriors. They are no more than beasts of burden and forbidden to carry weapons.”

Genghis considered. If he left before the king arrived, those in the city would believe his nerve had failed. Perhaps his own warriors would think the same. He held himself still. Ho Sa wore a long blade at his belt and the two guards were well armored. He weighed the risks and then dismissed them. Sometimes, a man could worry too much about what might happen. He chuckled, making Ho Sa blink in surprise, then seated himself to wait for the king.

The bearer slaves held their precious burden at waist level as they approached the pavilion of silk. From inside, Genghis and his three companions watched with interest as they lowered the palanquin to the ground. Six of them stood in silence, while two unrolled a length of black silk across the mud. To Genghis’s surprise, they drew wooden pipes from the sashes at their waist and began to play a subtle melody as the curtains were pulled open. It was strangely peaceful to hear the music over the breeze, and Genghis found himself fascinated as Rai Chiang stepped out.

The king was a slightly built man, though he wore a set of armor perfectly fitted to his frame. The scales had been polished to a high sheen so that he gleamed in the sun. At his hip, he wore a sword with a jeweled hilt, and Genghis wondered if he had ever drawn it in anger. The music swelled at his appearance and Genghis found he was enjoying the performance.

The king of the Xi Xia nodded to the two guards and they stepped away from the pavilion to take positions at his side. Only then did he walk the few steps into the pavilion. Genghis and his companions rose to greet him.

“Lord khan,” Rai Chiang said, inclining his head. His accent was strange and he said the words as if he had memorized them without understanding.

“Majesty,” Genghis replied. He used the Xi Xia word that Barchuk had taught him. To his pleasure, he saw a glint of interest come into the king’s eyes. For a fleeting moment, Genghis wished his father could have lived to see him meet kings in a foreign land.

The two guards took positions opposite Kachiun and Arslan, clearly marking their men in the event of trouble. For their part, the two generals stared back impassively. They were mere spectators at the meeting, but neither man would be taken by surprise. If the king planned their deaths, he would not survive the attempt.

Arslan frowned at a sudden thought. None of them had seen the king before. If this was an impostor, the army of Yinchuan could smash the pavilion flat from the walls and lose only a few loyal men. He stared at Ho Sa to see if he was unusually tense, but the man showed no sign of expecting imminent destruction.

Rai Chiang began to speak in the language of his people. His voice was firm, as might be expected of one so used to authority. He held Genghis’s stare with his own and neither man seemed to blink. When the king had finished speaking, Ho Sa cleared his throat, his face carefully blank as he translated the king’s words.

“Why do the Uighurs ravage the land of the Xi Xia? Have we not dealt fairly with you?”

Barchuk made a sound in his throat, but the king’s gaze never left Genghis.

“I am khan of all the tribes, Majesty,” Genghis replied, “the Uighurs among them. We ride because we have the strength to rule. Why else?”

The king’s brow furrowed as he listened to Ho Sa’s translation. His reply was measured and betrayed no hint of his anger.

“Will you sit outside my city until the end of the world? It is not acceptable, lord khan. Do your people not bargain in war?”

Genghis leaned forward, his interest roused. “I will not bargain with the Chin, majesty. Your people are enemies as old as the land, and I will see your cities broken into dust. Your lands are mine and I will ride the length and breadth of them as I please.”

Genghis waited patiently as Ho Sa rendered the words for his king. All the men in the tent could see the sudden animation that sparked into Rai Chiang as he heard them. He sat up straight and his voice became clipped. Genghis tensed warily, waiting for Ho Sa to speak. Instead, it was Barchuk who took up the translation.

“He says that his people are not of the Chin race,” Barchuk said. “If they are your enemy, why do you delay here in the Xi Xia valley? Great Chin cities lie to the north and east.” Barchuk nodded to himself as the king spoke again.

“I think they are not the friends they once were, my lord khan. This king would not be displeased if you make war on the Chin cities.”

Genghis pursed his lips in thought. “Why would I leave an enemy at my back?” he said.

Rai Chiang spoke again once he understood. Ho Sa had paled as he listened, but spoke before Barchuk could.

“Leave an ally, lord khan. If your true enemy is the Chin, we will send tribute to your tribes for as long as we are bound together as friends.” Ho Sa swallowed nervously. “My king offers silk, falcons, and precious stones, supplies and armor.” He took a deep breath. “Camels, horses, cloth, tea, and a thousand coins of bronze and silver to be paid each year. He makes the offer to an ally, where he could not consider it to an enemy.”

Rai Chiang spoke again, impatiently, and Ho Sa listened. He grew very still as his king spoke, and dared to ask a question. Rai Chiang made a sharp gesture with his hand and Ho Sa bowed his head, clearly disturbed.

“In addition, my king offers you his daughter, Chakahai, to be your wife.”

Genghis blinked, considering. He wondered if the girl was too ugly to marry off amongst the Xi Xia people. The bounty would please the tribes and keep the small khans from their plotting. The idea of tribute was not a new one for the tribes, though they had never been in a position to demand it from a truly wealthy enemy. He would have preferred to see the stone city smashed, but not one of his men could suggest a plan that might work. Genghis shrugged to himself. If he ever found out how, he could come back. Until then, let them believe they had bought peace. Goats could be milked many times but killed only once. All that remained was to get the best bargain he could.

“Tell your master his generosity is well received,” he said wryly. “If he can add two thousand of his best soldiers, well armed and mounted, I will leave this valley before the moon turns. My men will dismantle the fort across the desert pass. Allies need no walls between them.”

As Ho Sa began to translate, Genghis remembered Barchuk’s interest in the libraries of the Xi Xia. Ho Sa paused to hear as Genghis spoke again, interrupting the flow of his words.

“Some of my men are scholars,” Genghis said. “They would enjoy the chance to read scrolls of the Xi Xia writing.” As Ho Sa opened his mouth, he went on. “But not philosophy. Practical matters, subjects that would interest a warrior, if you have them.”

Rai Chiang’s expression was unreadable as Ho Sa struggled to repeat everything he had heard. The meeting seemed to be at an end and Rai Chiang made no counteroffer. In that, Genghis saw his desperation. He was about to rise when he decided to push his luck.

“If I am to enter the cities of the Chin, I will need weapons that will break walls. Ask your king if he can supply those with all the rest.”

Ho Sa spoke nervously, sensing Rai Chiang’s anger as he understood. Reluctantly, he shook his head.

“My king says he would have to be a fool,” Ho Sa said, unable to look Genghis in the eye.

“Yes, he would have been,” Genghis replied with a smile. “The ground has dried and you can load up the gifts on new carts, with axles well greased for a long trip. You may tell your king that I am pleased by his offer. I will show that pleasure to the Chin.”

Ho Sa translated and Rai Chiang’s face showed no sign of his satisfaction. All the men rose together and Genghis and his companions departed first, leaving Rai Chiang and Ho Sa alone with the guards. They watched the Mongol generals mount and ride away.

Ho Sa considered keeping silent, but he had one more question he had to ask.

“Majesty, have we not brought war to the Chin?”

Rai Chiang turned a cold gaze on his officer. “Yenking is a thousand miles away and guarded by mountains and fortresses that make Yinchuan look like a provincial town. He will not take their cities.” The king’s mouth quirked slightly, though his expression was stony. “Besides, it is to our advantage when our enemies attack one another. Wherein lies the danger to us?” Ho Sa had not been present for the meeting of ministers and did not recognize the words.

The mood among the tribes was almost that of a festival. It was true they had not taken the stone city that sat in the distance, but if the warriors grumbled at that, their families were thrilled with the silk and spoils that Genghis had won for them. A month had passed since the meeting with the king and the carts had come from the city. Young camels snorted and spat among the herds of sheep and goats. Barchuk had disappeared into his ger with Kokchu and Temuge to decipher the strange writing of the Xi Xia people. Rai Chiang had provided scrolls with the Chin script under their own, but it was a laborious business.

Winter had come at last, though it was mild in that valley. Khasar and Kachiun had begun to drill the warriors Rai Chiang had given to them. The Xi Xia soldiers had protested the loss of their fine mounts, but those animals were far too good to waste on men who could not ride as well as Mongol children. Instead, they were given spare ponies from the herds. As the weeks fled and the air turned colder, they learned how to handle the bad-tempered, hardy beasts in a line of war. The army readied itself to move, but Genghis fretted in his ger as he waited for Rai Chiang to send out the last of the tribute and his daughter. He was not able to predict how Borte would receive the news. He hoped this Xi Xia princess would be attractive, at least.

She came on the first day of a new moon, borne in a litter very similar to the one her father had used for the meeting. Genghis watched as the honor guard of a hundred men kept close formation around her. He was amused to see that the mounts were not of the high quality he had come to expect. Rai Chiang did not intend to lose these ones as well, even to escort a daughter.

The litter was placed on the ground just a few paces from Genghis as he waited in full armor. His father’s sword was on his hip and he touched it for luck, mastering his impatience. He could see the soldiers of the city were angry at having to give her up, and he smiled with genuine pleasure at them, drinking in their frustration. As he had requested, Ho Sa had come out of the city with them. He, at least, wore a cold expression of which Genghis could approve, showing nothing of his inner feelings.

When the daughter of the king stepped out onto the ground, there was a murmur of appreciation from the warriors who had gathered to witness this last sign of their triumph. She was dressed in white silk embroidered with gold, so that she shone in the sun. Her hair was bound high on her head with pins of silver, and Genghis took in a breath at the flawless beauty of her white skin. In comparison to the women of his people, she was a dove amongst crows, though he did not say it aloud. Her eyes were dark pools of despair as she walked to him. She did not look at him, but instead lowered herself elegantly to the ground with her wrists crossed in front of her.

Genghis felt the anger in her father’s soldiers swell, but he ignored them. If they moved, his archers would kill them before they could draw a blade.

“You are welcome in my ger, Chakahai,” he said softly. Ho Sa murmured a translation, his voice almost a whisper. Genghis reached down to touch her shoulder and she rose, her face carefully blank. She had none of the wiry strength he had come to expect from his women, and he felt himself becoming aroused as a faint trace of her perfume reached his nostrils.

“I think you are worth more than all the rest of your father’s gifts,” he said, giving her honor in front of his warriors, though she could not understand the words. Ho Sa began to speak, but Genghis silenced him with a sharp gesture.

He reached out with a sun-darkened hand, marveling at the contrast as he raised her chin so that she had to look at him. He could see her fear and also a flash of disgust as she felt his rough skin touch hers.

“I have made a good bargain, girl. You will bear fine children for me,” he said. It was true that they could not be his heirs, but he found himself intoxicated with her. He could hardly keep her in the same ger as Borte and his sons. So fragile a girl would not survive. He would have another ger built for her alone and the children she would have.

He became aware he had been standing in silence for a long time and the tribes were watching his reaction with growing interest. More than a few grinning warriors nudged each other and whispered to their friends. Genghis raised his gaze to the officer standing with Ho Sa. Both men were pale with anger, but when Genghis gestured back to the city, Ho Sa turned as sharply as the others. The officer snapped an order at him and Ho Sa’s mouth fell open in surprise.

“You I need, Ho Sa,” Genghis told him, delighted with his astonishment. “Your king has given you to me for a year.”

Ho Sa drew his mouth into a thin line as he understood. With bitter eyes, he watched the rest of the escort riding back to the city, leaving him there with the shivering girl he had come to give away to wolves.

Genghis turned to face the wind from the east, breathing in the scent of it and imagining the cities of the Chin over the horizon. They had walls he could not break and he would not risk his people again in ignorance.

“Why did you ask for me?” Ho Sa said suddenly, the words wrenched out of him in the silence that Genghis seemed not to feel.

“Perhaps we will make a warrior of you.” Genghis seemed to find the idea amusing and slapped his leg.

Ho Sa looked stonily at him until Genghis shrugged.

“You will see.”

The camp was noisy with the sound of the gers being dismantled as the tribes made ready to move. As midnight came, only the khan’s ger stood untouched on its great cart, lit from within by oil lamps so that it glowed in the darkness and could be seen by all those who settled down in their rugs and furs to sleep under the stars.

Genghis stood over a low table, squinting down at a map. It had been drawn on thick paper and Ho Sa at least could see that it had been copied in haste from Rai Chiang’s collection. The king of the Xi Xia was too canny a man to let a map marked with his seal fall into the hands of Emperor Wei of the Chin. Even the lettering was in the Chin language, carefully redone.

Genghis tilted his head one way and then the other as he tried to imagine the lines and drawings of cities as actual places. It was the first real map he had ever seen, though with Ho Sa present, he would not reveal his inexperience.

With a dark finger, Genghis traced along a blue line toward the north.

“This is the great river the scouts reported,” he said. He raised his pale eyes to Ho Sa questioningly.

“Huang He,” Ho Sa replied. “The Yellow River.” He stopped himself then, unwilling to become garrulous in the company of the Mongol generals. They filled the ger: Arslan, Khasar, Kachiun, others he did not know. Ho Sa had recoiled from Kokchu when Genghis had introduced him. The skinny shaman reminded him of the insane beggars of Yinchuan, and he carried a smell with him that seeped into the air until Ho Sa was forced to breathe shallowly.

All those present watched as Genghis drew his finger further north and east along the river until it rested on a tiny symbol and tapped.

“This city here is on the edge of Chin lands,” Genghis murmured. Once more he looked to Ho Sa for confirmation and he nodded reluctantly.

“Baotou,” Kokchu said, reading the script under the tiny drawing. Ho Sa did not look at the shaman, his gaze held by Genghis as the khan smiled.

“These marks to the north, what are they?” Genghis asked.

“It is a section of the outer wall,” Ho Sa replied.

Genghis frowned, puzzled. “I have heard of this thing. The Chin hide from us behind it, do they not?”

Ho Sa repressed his irritation. “They do not. Neither wall was built for you, but to keep separate the kingdoms of the Chin. You have passed through the weaker of the two. You will not pass the inner wall around Yenking. No one ever has.”

Genghis grinned at that, before turning back to study the map. Ho Sa stared at him, irritated by the khan’s easy confidence.

When he was a boy, Ho Sa had traveled with his father to the Yellow River. The old man had shown him the Chin wall to the north, and even back then, there had been holes in it and sections reduced to rubble. There had been no work done in the decades since. As Genghis traced a line with his finger on the parchment, Ho Sa wondered how the Chin had ever become so careless with their peace. Their outer wall was worthless. He swallowed nervously. Especially as the tribes were already behind it. Xi Xia had been the weak point and the tribes had poured south. Shame burned in him as he studied Genghis, wondering what he was planning.

“Will you attack Baotou?” Ho Sa blurted out without warning.

Genghis shook his head. “And howl outside the gates as I did here? No. I am going home to the Khenti mountains. I will ride the hills of my childhood, fly my eagle, and marry your king’s daughter.” His fierce expression eased at the thought. “My sons should know the land that birthed me, and they will grow strong there.”

Ho Sa looked up from the map in confusion. “Then what is this talk of Baotou? Why am I here?”

“I said I was going home, Ho Sa. You are not. This city is too far from here to fear my army. They will have their gates open and merchants will come and go as they please.”

Ho Sa saw Arslan and Khasar were grinning at him and he forced himself to concentrate. Genghis clapped him on the shoulder.

“A walled city like Baotou will have builders, masters of their trade, will it not? Men who understand every aspect of the defenses.”

Ho Sa did not reply and Genghis chuckled.

“Your king would not give them to me, but you will find them there, Ho Sa. You will travel to this Baotou with Khasar and my brother Temuge. Three men can enter where an army cannot. You will ask questions until you find these men who build walls and know so many clever things. And you will bring them to me.”

Ho Sa saw they were all smiling then, amused at his appalled expression.

“Or I will kill you now and ask for another from your king,” Genghis said softly. “A man must always have the final choice in life and in death. Anything else can be taken from him, but never that.”

Ho Sa remembered how his companions had been killed for the horses they rode, and he did not doubt his life hung on a single word.

“I am bound to you by my king’s order,” he said at last.

Genghis grunted, turning back to the map. “Then tell me of Baotou and its walls. Tell me everything you have heard or seen.”

The camp was quiet at dawn, but the light still flickered gold in the ger of the khan, and those who lay close on the cold grass could hear the murmur of voices like the distant drums of war.

CHAPTER 10

THE THREE RIDERS APPROACHED THE EDGE of the dark river, dismounting as their ponies began to drink. A heavy moon hung low above the hills, casting a gray light that illuminated the expanse of water. It was bright enough to create black shadows behind the men as they gazed out at the shapes of small boats at anchor, rocking and creaking in the night.

Khasar pulled a linen bag from where it sat under his saddle. The day’s ride had softened the meat inside, and he dipped his hand into the fibrous mush, pulling a piece of it out and putting it in his mouth. It smelled rancid, but he was hungry and chewed idly as he watched his companions. Temuge was weary enough to sway slightly as he stood by his brother, his eyes hooded as he longed for sleep.

“The boatmen stay well away from the shore at night,” Ho Sa murmured. “They are wary of bandits in the dark and they will have heard of your army to the west. We should find a place to sleep and go on in the morning.”

“I still don’t understand why you want to use the river to reach Baotou,” Khasar said. Ho Sa swallowed his anger. He had explained half a dozen times since leaving the tribes, but the Mongol warrior’s attachment to his pony was proving difficult to overcome.

“We were told not to call attention to ourselves, to enter Baotou like merchants or pilgrims,” he replied, keeping his voice calm. “Merchants do not ride in like Chin nobility and pilgrims would not have a horse between them.”

“It would be faster, though,” Khasar said stubbornly. “If the map I saw was accurate, we could cut across the bow of the river and be there in just a few days.”

“And have our passing noted by every peasant in the fields and every traveler on the roads,” Ho Sa snapped. He sensed Khasar stiffen angrily at his tone, but he had endured his complaining long enough. “I do not think your brother welcomes the thought of riding a thousand li across open land.”

Khasar snorted, but it was Temuge who replied.

“He has the right of it, brother. This great river will take us north to Baotou and we will be lost in the mass of travelers. I do not want us to fight our way through suspicious Chin soldiers.”

Khasar did not trust himself to reply. At first he had been excited at the thought of stealing among the Chin peoples, but Temuge rode like an old woman with stiff joints and was no fit companion for a warrior. Ho Sa was a little better, but away from Genghis, his fury at the task he had been given made him a surly companion. It was worse when Temuge had Ho Sa chattering in the language of bird clucking and Khasar could not join in. He had asked Ho Sa to teach him curses and insults, but the man had only glared at him. Far from being an adventure, the journey was turning into a bickering contest, and he wanted it over as soon as possible. The thought of drifting slowly up on one of the shadowy boats made his mood sink even further.

“We could swim the horses across the river tonight, then . . .” he began.

Ho Sa hissed out a sharp breath. “You would be swept away!” he snapped. “This is the Yellow River, a full li from one bank to the next, and this a narrow point. It is not one of your Mongol streams. There are no ferries here and by the time we reached Shizuishan to buy a place on one, our progress would have been reported. The Chin are not fools, Khasar. They will have spies watching the borders. Three men on horses will be too interesting for them to ignore.”

Khasar sniffed as he worked another piece of old mutton into his cheek and sucked on it.

“The river is not so wide,” he said with a sniff. “I could send an arrow over it.”

“You could not,” Ho Sa replied immediately. He clenched his fists as Khasar reached for his bow. “And we would not see it land in the dark.”

“Then I will show you in the morning,” Khasar retorted.

“And how will that help us?” Ho Sa demanded. “Do you think the boatmen will ignore a Mongol archer firing arrows over their river? Why did your brother send you for this work?”

Khasar let his hand fall from where he had grasped his bow. He turned to Ho Sa in the moonlight. In truth, he had wondered the same thing, but he would never admit it to Ho Sa or his studious brother.

“To protect Temuge, I imagine,” he said. “He is here to learn the Chin language and check you are not betraying us when we reach the city. You are only here to talk and you have proved that enough times today already. If we are attacked by Chin soldiers, my bow will be more valuable than your mouth.”

Ho Sa sighed. He had not wanted to broach the subject, but his own temper was barely in check and he too was weary.

“You will have to leave your bow here. You can bury it in the river mud before dawn.”

Khasar was rendered speechless at that. Before he could express his indignation, Temuge laid a calming hand on his shoulder, feeling him jerk.

“He knows these people, brother, and he has kept faith with us so far. We must take the river and your bow would raise suspicions from the start. We have bronze and silver to buy goods along the way so that we have something to trade in Baotou. Merchants would not carry a Mongol bow.”

“We could pretend to be selling it,” Khasar replied. In the gloom, he rested his hand on the weapon where it was tied to his saddle as if that touch brought him comfort. “I will turn my pony loose, yes, but I will not give up my bow, not for a dozen secret river trips. Do not test me on this, my answer will be the same no matter what you say.”

Ho Sa began to argue again, but Temuge shook his head, tired of them both.

“Let it rest, Ho Sa,” he said. “We will wrap the bow in cloth and perhaps it will not be noticed.” He dropped his hand from Khasar’s shoulder and moved away to free his pony from the burdens of saddle and reins. It would take time to bury those and he could not risk falling asleep until the work had been done. He wondered again why Genghis had chosen him for the task of accompanying the two warriors. There were others in the camp who knew the Chin tongue, Barchuk of the Uighurs among them. Perhaps that one was too old, Temuge thought. He sighed as he undid the ropes on his mount. Knowing his brother as he did, Temuge suspected Genghis still hoped to make a warrior of him. Kokchu had shown him a different path and he wished his master were there to help him meditate before sleep.

As he led the pony away into the darkness of the river trees, Temuge could hear his companions resume their argument in fierce whispers. He wondered if they had a chance of surviving the trip to the city of Baotou. When he had made a mat of rushes and lain down, he tried hard to shut out the strained voices, repeating the phrases Kokchu had told him would bring calm. They did not, but sleep came while he was still waiting.

In the morning, Ho Sa raised his arm to another boat as it tacked against the wind to come upriver. Nine times the gesture had been ignored, though he held a leather purse of coins and jingled the contents. All three breathed in relief as the latest boat swung across the water toward them. On board, six sun-darkened faces stared suspiciously in their direction.

“Say nothing to them,” Ho Sa murmured to Temuge as they stood in the mud and waited for the boat to come closer. He and the two brothers wore simple robes tied at the waist that would not look too strange to the river crews. Khasar bore a roll of saddlecloth over one shoulder that contained his bow in its leather half-case and a full quiver. He stared at the boat in some interest, never having seen such a thing in daylight. The sail was almost as high as the boat was long, perhaps forty feet from end to end. He could not see how it could come close enough for them to step onto its small deck.

“The sail looks like a bird wing. I can see the bones of it,” he said.

Ho Sa turned sharply toward him. “If they ask, I will say you are a mute, Khasar. You must not speak to any one of them. Do you understand?”

Khasar scowled at the Xi Xia soldier. “I understand that you want me to spend days without opening my mouth. I tell you, when this is over, you and I are going to go somewhere quiet—”

“Hush!” Temuge said. “They are close enough to hear.”

Khasar subsided, though he held Ho Sa’s gaze long enough to nod ominously at him.

The boat maneuvered close to the bank and Ho Sa did not wait for his companions, stepping into the shallow water and wading out to it. He ignored Khasar’s muttered curse behind him as strong hands drew him over the side.

The master of the boat was a short, wiry man with a red cloth tied around his head to keep the sweat from his eyes. Apart from that, he was naked except for a brown loincloth with two knives slapping against his bare thigh. Ho Sa wondered for an instant if they had been taken in by one of the pirate crews said to raid villages along the river, but it was too late for misgivings.

“Can you pay?” the master demanded, reaching out to slap Ho Sa on the chest with the back of his hand. As Khasar and Temuge were dragged on board, Ho Sa pressed three warm bronze coins into the outstretched palm. The little man peered through the hole in the center of each one, before stringing them on a cord under his belt.

“I am Chen Yi,” he said, staring as Khasar straightened. The Mongol was a head taller than the largest crewman and frowned around him as if affronted. Ho Sa cleared his throat and Chen Yi glanced at him, cocking his head to one side.

“We are going as far as Shizuishan,” Chen Yi said. Ho Sa shook his head and reached for more coins. Chen Yi watched closely as he heard the sound of metal.

“Three more to take us to Baotou,” Ho Sa said, holding them out.

The captain took the coins quickly, adding them to the line at his waist with practiced skill.

“Three more to go so far upriver,” he said. Ho Sa struggled to master his temper. He had already paid more than enough for a passage to the city. He doubted the man would return the money if he decided to wait for another boat.

“You have had enough,” he said firmly. Chen Yi’s eyes dropped to where Ho Sa kept his money under his belt and he shrugged.

“Three more or I have you thrown back,” he said.

Ho Sa stood very still and sensed Khasar’s irritable confusion as the conversation went on. At any moment, he would blurt out some question, Ho Sa was certain.

“Where will you find yourself next on the wheel of life, I wonder?” Ho Sa murmured. To his surprise, Chen Yi seemed unconcerned and only shrugged. Ho Sa shook his head in bewilderment. Perhaps he was too used to the army, where his authority was never challenged. There was an air of confidence about Chen Yi that sat oddly with his rags and the grubby little boat. Ho Sa glared as he handed over more coins.

“Beggars do not go to Baotou,” Chen Yi said cheerfully. “Now stay out of the way of my men while we work the river.” He indicated a pile of grain sacks in the stern of the little boat by the rudder, and Ho Sa saw Khasar settling himself on them before he could nod.

Chen Yi cast a suspicious glance at Temuge and Khasar, but he had new coins on his cord, which jingled as he moved. He gave orders to turn the sail across the wind, making the first cut across the river that would take them north to their destination. The boat was cramped with so many and there were no cabins. Ho Sa guessed the crew lay down on the deck at night. He began to relax just as Khasar stepped up to the rail and urinated into the river with a great sigh of relief. Ho Sa raised his eyes to heaven as the sound of spattering water went on and on.

Two of the crew pointed at Khasar and made an obscene joke, slapping each other on the back with hoots of laughter. Khasar flushed and Ho Sa moved swiftly to stand between the warrior and the crew, warning him with a glare. The sailors watched the exchange with wide grins before Chen Yi barked an order and they scurried to the prow to heave the sail over.

“Yellow dogs,” Khasar said after them. Chen Yi had been in the middle of guiding the sail over his head when he heard the words. Ho Sa’s heart sank as the master of the boat came strolling back to them.

“What was that he said?” Chen Yi asked.

Ho Sa spoke quickly. “He is a Moslem. He does not speak a civilized tongue. Who can understand the ways of such a people?”

“He does not look like a Moslem,” Chen Yi replied. “Where is his beard?”

Ho Sa sensed the eyes of the crew on them and this time each man rested a hand near his knife. “All merchants have secrets,” Ho Sa said, holding Chen Yi’s stare. “Do I care for a man’s beard when I have his wealth to trade? Silver speaks its own language, does it not?”

Chen Yi grinned. He held out a hand and Ho Sa pressed a silver coin into it, his face showing nothing.

“It does,” Chen Yi said, wondering how many more coins the warrior carried in his pouches. Whatever the three men claimed to be, they were not merchants. Chen Yi indicated Khasar with a jerk of a grimy thumb.

“Is he a fool, then, to trust you? Will you be throwing him over the side one night with a dagger across his throat?” To Ho Sa’s discomfort, the little man drew his finger over his own throat, a gesture that Khasar watched with growing interest. Temuge, too, was frowning and Ho Sa wondered how much he had understood of the fast exchange.

“I betray no man, once I have given my word,” Ho Sa told the master quickly, as much for Temuge as anyone else. “And though he is certainly a fool, he is a fighter of great skill. Be careful not to insult him, or I will not be able to hold him back.”

Chen Yi cocked his head again, a habitual gesture. He did not trust the men he had taken on board, and the tall, stupid one seemed to burn with anger. He shrugged at last. All men slept, and if they caused him trouble, they would not be the first passengers he had slipped into the wake of his little boat. He turned his back on them after pointing to the pile of sacks. Relieved beyond words, Ho Sa joined the other two in the stern. He tried hard to look as if the incident had not been a strain.

Khasar did not look at all apologetic.

“What did you tell him?” he asked.

Ho Sa took a deep breath. “I told him you are a traveler from thousands of miles away. I thought perhaps he would never have heard of the followers of Islam, but he has met at least one in the past. He thinks I am lying, but he will not ask too any questions. Still, it explains why you cannot speak the Chin language.”

Khasar let out a breath, satisfied. “So I am not a mute, then,” he said, pleased. “I did not think I could keep that up.” He settled himself back on the sacks, nudging Temuge out of the way to find a comfortable position. As the boat drifted upriver, Khasar closed his eyes and Ho Sa thought he had gone to sleep.

“Why did he draw his finger across his throat?” Khasar said without opening his eyes.

“He wanted to know if I intended to kill you and throw you over-board,” Ho Sa snapped. “The idea had occurred to me.”

Khasar chuckled. “I am beginning to like that little man,” he said drowsily. “I am glad we took a boat.”

Genghis walked through the vast camp in the shadow of mountains he had known as a boy. Snow had fallen in the night and he took a deep breath of the chilled air, enjoying the way it filled his lungs. He could hear the whinnying of mares calling to their mates, and in the distance, someone was singing a child to sleep. With the families around him, he was at peace and his mood was light. It was easy to remember the days when his father still lived and he and his brothers knew nothing of the world around them. He shook his head in the gloom as he considered the lands that had been shown to him. The sea of grass was larger than he had ever realized, and part of him hungered to see new things, even the cities of the Chin. He was young and strong and ruled a vast army of men with the skills to take what they wanted. He smiled to himself as he reached the ger he had built for his second wife, Chakahai. His father had been content with his mother, it was true, but Yesugei had been khan of a small tribe and not had beautiful women offered to him in tribute.

Genghis ducked his head as he entered. Chakahai was waiting for him and her eyes were wide and dark in the glow from a single lamp. Genghis said nothing as she rose to greet him. He did not know how she had procured two young girls from her own people to serve her. Presumably they had been captured by his warriors and she had bought or bargained for them. As they slipped out of the ger, Genghis could smell the perfume they wore and he shuddered slightly as one of them brushed silk past his bare arms. He heard their whispering voices dwindle into the distance, and he was alone.

Chakahai stood proudly before him, her head raised. The first weeks with the tribes had been hard for her, but he had sensed a fine spirit in her flashing eyes long before she had learned the first words of his people. She walked as he would have expected a king’s daughter to walk, and the sight of her always aroused him. It was a strange thing, but her perfect posture was the greatest part of her beauty.

She smiled as his gaze traveled over her, knowing she had his full attention. Choosing her moment, she knelt before him, bowing her head and then glancing up to see if he still watched the display of humility. He laughed at that and took a wrist to raise her up once more, lifting her into the air to lay her down on the bed.

He held her head in both hands as he kissed her then, his fingers lost in her black hair. She moaned into his mouth and he felt her hands lightly touching his thighs and waist, exciting him. The night was warm and he did not mind waiting while she opened up her silk tunic and revealed whiteness down to a flat belly and the silk belt and trousers she wore like a man. She gasped as he kissed her breasts and bit softly. The rest of the clothes followed swiftly after that and the camp drowsed around them as he took a princess of the Xi Xia, her cries echoing far in the gloom.

CHAPTER 11

IT TOOK A WEEK for Chen Yi’s boat to reach Shizuishan on the western bank of the river. The days were gray and cold and the siltladen water darkened until it deserved its name, curling creamily under the prow. For a time, a family of dolphins had stayed with them, before Khasar struck one with an oar in his excitement and they vanished as quickly as they had come. Ho Sa had formed his own opinions of the little boat master, and he suspected the hold was stuffed with untaxed goods, perhaps even luxuries that would fetch high prices for the owner. He had no opportunity to test his suspicions, as the crew never seemed to tire of watching the passengers. It was likely that they were in the employ of a wealthy merchant and should not have risked the cargo by taking passengers. Ho Sa judged Chen Yi was an experienced man who seemed to know the river far better than the emperor’s tax collectors. More than once they had taken a tributary off the main route, looping far around before returning to it. On the last of these occasions, Ho Sa had seen the dim shadow of an official barge in midstream behind them. The tactic suited his needs and he did not comment on the loss of time, though he slept with his knife in his sleeve and then only lightly, waking at the slightest sound.

Khasar snored at astonishing volume. To Ho Sa’s irritation, the crew seemed to like him and had already taught him phrases that would have little use outside a dockyard whorehouse. He swallowed his anger as Khasar arm-wrestled three of the burlier sailors, winning a skin of fiery rice wine which he then refused to share.

Of the three of them, it was Temuge who seemed to take no pleasure at all from the peaceful journey. Though the river was rarely choppy, he had vomited over the side on the second morning, earning hoots of derision from the crew. Mosquitoes found him at night so that he had a new crop of red bites on his ankles each morning. He watched Khasar’s cheerful camaraderie with a tight expression of disapproval, but made no attempt to join in, despite his greater command of the language. Ho Sa could only wish the journey was at an end, but Shizuishan was merely a stopping point to replenish their supplies.

Long before the city came into view, the river grew crowded with small boats crossing from bank to bank and carrying with them the gossip and news of a thousand miles. Chen Yi did not seek anyone out, but as he tied up at a wooden post near the docks, boat after boat came close to exchange words with him. Ho Sa realized the little man was well known on the river. More than a few questions were called about the passengers, and Ho Sa endured their stares. No doubt their descriptions would race the length of the river before they even saw Baotou. He began to consider the entire enterprise doomed, and it did not help to see Khasar standing on the prow and shouting foul insults at other captains. In different circumstances, it might have earned him a beating or even a knife in his throat, but Chen Yi roared with laughter and something about Khasar’s expression seemed not to give offense. Instead they replied with worse and Khasar traded a couple of coins for fresh fruit and fish before the sun set. Ho Sa watched in glowering silence, punching a grain bag to make a depression for his head as he tried to find sleep.

Temuge awoke as something bumped against the side of the boat. The night air was thick with insects and he was heavy with sleep. He stirred drowsily, calling out a question to Ho Sa. There was no reply and when Temuge raised his head, he saw Ho Sa and his brother were awake and staring into the blackness.

“What is happening?” Temuge whispered. He could hear creaking, and muffled sounds of movement, but the moon had yet to rise and he realized he could only have been asleep for a short time.

Light shone out without warning as one of the crew removed the shutters from a tiny oil lamp on the prow. Temuge saw the man’s arm lit in gold, then the night erupted in shouts and confusion. Khasar and Ho Sa vanished into the gloom and Temuge rose to his feet, rooted in fear. Dark bodies crashed into the boat, coming over the sides. He scrabbled for his knife, hunching down behind the sacks so they could not see him.

A cry of pain sounded somewhere near and Temuge cursed aloud, convinced they had been discovered by Imperial soldiers. He heard Chen Yi shouting orders and all around were the grunts and gasps of men struggling with each other in near-total darkness. Temuge crouched lower, waiting to be attacked. As he strained his eyes he saw the tiny golden lamp swing up into the air, leaving a trail that remained in his vision. Instead of hissing into the river, he heard it thump onto wood. The oil spilled in a bloom of light and Temuge gasped in fear.

The thrown lamp had landed on the deck of a second boat, rocking wildly as men leaped from it. Like Chen Yi and his crew, the attackers wore little more than a strip of cloth at their waists. They carried knives as long as their forearms and fought with vicious grunts and curses. Behind them, flames grew on the dry wood and Temuge could see the sweating bodies locked together, some of them showing dark gashes and pouring with blood.

As he watched in horror Temuge heard a sound he knew above all others, the slap of a double-curved bow. He jerked round to see Khasar standing steady on the prow, shooting arrow after arrow. Every shaft found its mark, bar one that went into the water when Khasar was forced to duck a thrown knife. Temuge shuddered as a dead man fell facedown near him, the impact shoving arrow feathers further into his chest so that the point stuck out of his back.

Even then, they might have been overwhelmed if the flames had not begun to spread on the attackers’ boat. Temuge saw some of them jump the gap to their craft, grabbing at leather buckets. They too fell with Khasar’s arrows in them before they could drench the fire.

Chen Yi sawed through two thick ropes that bound the craft together and braced himself on a wooden rail to shove the other boat away. It drifted without control onto the dark river and Temuge could see struggling shadows of men fighting flames. It was too late for the boat and in the distance he heard splashes as they sought safety in the water.

The fire made its own sound, a coughing, spitting roar that dwindled as the current carried the burning boat downriver. A finger of bright sparks reached up into the darkness, taller than a sail. Temuge stood at last, his chest heaving. He jumped as someone came close, but it was Ho Sa, stinking of smoke and blood.

“Are you hurt?” Ho Sa said.

Temuge shook his head, then realized his companion was blind in the dark after staring at the flames. “I am fine,” Temuge murmured. “Who were those people?”

“River rats, perhaps, after whatever Chen Yi has in the hold. Criminals.” He fell silent as Chen Yi’s voice barked in the night and the sail turned across the wind once more. Temuge heard the hiss of water as they began to move away from Shizuishan docks into the deepest part of the channel. At another order from Chen Yi, the crew fell silent and they moved unseen across the water.

The moon seemed to take an age to rise, but it was still half full and lit the river silver, casting shadows from the surviving crew. Two of Chen Yi’s men had been killed in the fight, and Temuge watched as they were dropped over the stern without ceremony.

Chen Yi had come back with Khasar to oversee the work, and he nodded to Temuge, his expression unreadable in the half-light. Temuge watched him turn to go back to his place by the sail, but the man paused, clearly making a decision. He stood before the looming figure of Khasar, staring up at him.

“This merchant of yours is not a follower of Islam,” Chen Yi said to Ho Sa. “Moslems pray endlessly and I have never yet seen him drop to his knees.”

Ho Sa tensed as he waited for the little master to continue. Chen Yi shrugged visibly.

“But he fights well, as you said. I can be blind in the dark or the day, do you understand?”

“I do,” Ho Sa replied.

Chen Yi reached out and clapped Khasar on the shoulder. He mimicked the sound of the bow with his throat, making a hissing sound with obvious satisfaction.

“Who were they?” Ho Sa asked softly.

Chen Yi fell silent for a moment, considering his answer. “Fools, and now dead fools. It is not your concern.”

“That depends on whether we will be attacked again, before Baotou,” Ho Sa replied.

“No man may know his fate, soldier-merchant, but I do not think so. They had a chance to steal from us and they wasted it. They will not catch us twice.” Once more he copied the sound of Khasar’s bow and grinned.

“What is it in the hold that they wanted?” Temuge said suddenly. He had prepared the words carefully, but Chen Yi still looked surprised at the strange sounds. Temuge was about to try again when the little master replied.

“They were curious and now they are dead. Are you curious?”

Temuge understood and flushed unseen in the darkness. He shook his head. “No, I am not,” he replied, looking away.

“You are lucky to have friends who can fight for you,” Chen Yi said. “I did not see you move when we were attacked.” He chuckled as Temuge frowned. He could comprehend the scornful tone if not all the words, but Chen Yi turned to Khasar before he could formulate an answer, grasping his brother by the arm.

“You. Whore’s blanket,” he said. “You want a drink?” Temuge could see the whiteness of his brother’s teeth as he recognized the word for the fiery spirit. Chen Yi led him away to the prow to toast the victory. The tension remained as Ho Sa and Temuge stood together.

“We are not here to fight river thieves,” Temuge said at last. “With just a knife, what could I have done?”

“Get some sleep, if you can,” Ho Sa replied gruffly. “I do not think we will be stopping again for a few days.”

♦                  ♦                  ♦

It was a beautiful winter’s day in the mountains. Genghis had ridden with his wife and sons to a river he had known as a boy, far from the vast camp of the tribes. Jochi and Chagatai had their own ponies, while Borte walked her mount behind them with Ogedai and Tolui perched high on the saddle.

As they had left the tribes, Genghis felt his mood lighten. He knew the land under his mare’s hooves, and he had been surprised at the wave of emotion that had struck him on first returning from the desert. He had known the mountains had a hold on him, but to his astonishment, feeling the turf of his childhood under his feet had brought tears to his eyes, quickly blinked away.

When he had been young, such a trip would always have had an element of danger. Wanderers or thieves could have roamed the hills around the stream. Perhaps there were still a few who had not joined him in his journey south, but he had a nation at his heels in the encampment and the hills were empty of flocks and herdsmen.

He smiled as he dismounted, watching with approval as Jochi and Chagatai pulled bushes together and tied the reins of their mounts. The river ran fast and shallow at the foot of a steep hill nearby. Jagged shards of ice tumbled past from where they had broken free in the peaks. Genghis looked up the slopes, remembering his father and how he had once climbed for eagles on the red hill. Yesugei had brought him to the same place and Genghis had seen no joy in the man, though perhaps it had been hidden. He resolved not to let his sons see his own pleasure in being back amongst the trees and valleys he knew so well.

Borte did not smile as she lowered her two youngest sons to the ground before slipping down herself. There had been few easy words between them since he had married the daughter of the Xi Xia king, and he knew she would have heard of his nocturnal visits to the girl’s ger. She had not mentioned it, but there was a tightness around her mouth that seemed to grow deeper every day. He could not help but compare her to Chakahai as she stood and stretched in the shade of the trees that leaned over the river, casting the water into shade. Borte was tall; wiry and strong where the Xi Xia girl was soft and pliable. He sighed to himself. Either one could stir him to lust with the right touch, but only one seemed to want to. He had spent many nights with his new wife while Borte remained alone. Perhaps because of that, he had arranged this trip away from the warriors and the families, where eyes always watched and gossip flowed like spring rain.

His gaze fell on Jochi and Chagatai as they approached the stream’s edge and stared into the flowing water. No matter how things stood with their mother, he could not leave the boys to bring themselves to manhood, or allow their mother to do so. It was too easy to remember Hoelun’s influence on his brother Temuge and how it had made him weak.

He strode up behind his two eldest sons and repressed a shudder at the thought of entering the freezing water. He recalled the time he had hidden from enemies in such a place, his body growing numb and useless while the life leached out of it. Yet he had survived and grown stronger as a result.

“Bring the other two close,” he called to Borte. “I would have them listen even if they are too young to go in.” He saw Jochi and Chagatai exchange a worried glance at this confirmation of their purpose. Neither relished the idea of stepping into the icy river. Jochi stared up at Genghis with the same flat, questioning gaze he always used. Somehow it made his father’s temper prickle and he looked away as Borte brought Tolui and Ogedai to stand at the bank.

Genghis felt Borte’s eyes on him and waited until she had moved off and seated herself by the ponies. She still watched, but he did not want the boys turning to her for support. They had to feel alone to test themselves and for him to see their strength and their weaknesses. They were nervous around him, he saw, blaming himself for the time he had spent apart from them. How long had it been since he braved the disapproving glares of their mother to play with one of them? He remembered his own father with love, but how would they remember him? He pressed such thoughts from his mind, recalling Yesugei’s words in the same place, a lifetime ago.

“You will have heard of the cold face,” he said to the boys. “The warrior’s face that gives nothing away to your enemies. It comes from a strength that has nothing to do with muscles, or how well you bend a bow. It is the heart of dignity that means you will face death with nothing but contempt. Its secret is that it is more than a simple mask. Learning it brings its own calm, so that you have conquered fear and your flesh.”

With a few quick jerks, he freed his sash from his deel and removed his leggings and boots, standing naked on the edge of the river. His body was marked with old scars and his chest was whiter than the dark brown of his arms and legs. He stood without embarrassment before them, then walked into the freezing torrent, feeling his scrotum tighten as the water touched it.

As he lowered himself into the water, his lungs stiffened so that each breath became a struggle. Nothing showed on his face and he watched his sons without expression as he dipped his head under the water, then lay back, half floating with his hands touching the stones of the riverbed.

The four boys watched in fascination. Their father seemed completely at ease in the icy water, his face as calm as it had been before. Only his eyes were fierce and they could not hold his gaze for long.

Jochi and Chagatai exchanged a look, daring each other. Jochi shrugged and stripped without self-consciousness, striding into the water and plunging himself under the surface. Genghis saw him shiver at the cold, but the muscular boy glared back at Chagatai as if in challenge, waiting. He hardly seemed aware of his father, or the lesson he intended to teach.

Chagatai snorted in disdain, untying his own clothes. At six, Ogedai was still much smaller than the others. He too began to strip and Genghis saw their mother rise to her feet to call him away.

“Let him come in, Borte,” he said. He would watch to see his third son did not drown, though he would not give him comfort by saying it aloud. Borte winced fearfully as Ogedai stepped into the water just a pace behind Chagatai. It left just Tolui standing miserably on the bank. With great reluctance, he too began to remove his deel. Genghis chuckled, pleased with his spirit. He spoke before Borte could interfere.

“Not you, Tolui. Perhaps next year, but not this time. Stay there and listen.”

The relief was obvious on the little boy’s face as he retied the cloth around his waist in a neat knot. He answered his father’s smile with one of his own, and Genghis winked at him, causing Tolui to grin.

Jochi had chosen a pool at the edge of the river, where the water was still. He watched his father with all but his head submerged, and in the brief exchange, he had found control of his breath. His jaw was clamped against chattering teeth and his eyes were wide and dark. As he had a thousand times before, Genghis wondered if he was the boy’s father. Without that certainty, a barrier remained in his affection. At times, the barrier was strained, for Jochi was growing tall and strong, but still Genghis wondered if he saw the features of a Tartar rapist, one whose heart he had eaten in revenge. It was difficult to love such a face with those dark eyes, where his own were wolf-yellow.

Chagatai was so clearly his son, it was painful. His eyes were pale with the cold as he settled himself in the water, and Genghis had to take a grip on his affection before he spoiled the moment. He forced himself to take a deep, slow breath.

“In water this cold, a child can slip into sleep in six or seven hundred heartbeats. Even a grown man can become unconscious in a little longer. Your body begins to die at the hands and feet first. You will feel them grow numb and useless. Your thoughts become slow and, if you stay too long, you will not have the strength or the will to climb out.” He paused for a moment, watching them. Jochi’s lips had turned blue and still he had not made a sound. Chagatai seemed to be struggling against the cold, his limbs twisting in the water. Genghis watched Ogedai closest of all as he tried to copy his older brothers. The effort was too much for him and Genghis heard his teeth clatter together. He could not keep them there much longer and he considered sending Ogedai back to the bank. No, his father had not, though little Temuge had fainted toward the end and almost drowned.

“Show me nothing of what you feel,” he said to them. “Show me the cold face that you will show to enemies who taunt you. Remember that they too are afraid. If you have ever wondered if you were the only coward in a world of warriors, know that they feel the same, to the last man. In knowing that, you can hide your own fear and stare them down.” All three boys struggled to empty their faces of fear and pain, and on the bank, little Tolui mimicked them in earnest concentration.

“Breathe gently through the nose to slow your heart. Your flesh is a weak thing, but you do not have to listen to its cries for help. I have seen a man push a knife through his own flesh without blood falling. Let that strength come to you and breathe. Show me nothing and be empty.”

Jochi understood at once and his sipping breath became slow and long in perfect imitation of his father’s. Genghis ignored him, watching Chagatai as he struggled to bring himself under control. It came at last, close to the time that Genghis knew he had to end it before they passed out in the water.

“Your body is like any other animal in your care,” he told them. “It will clamor for food and water, warmth and relief from pain. Find the cold face and you will be able to shut out its clamoring voice.”

The three boys had grown numb and Genghis judged it was time to take them out. He expected to have to lift the limp boys to the bank and he rose to take hold of the first. Instead, Jochi stood with him, his body blooming pink with blood under the skin. The little boy’s eyes never left his father as Genghis touched a hand to Chagatai’s arm, not wanting to lift him after Jochi had risen on his own.

Chagatai stirred drowsily, his eyes glassy. He focused on Jochi and when he saw him standing, he clamped his mouth shut and struggled up, slipping on the soft mud below the surface. Genghis could feel the enmity between the two boys, and he could not help but remember Bekter, the brother he had killed so many years ago.

Ogedai could not stand on his own and his father’s strong arms placed him back on the bank to dry in the sun. Genghis strode out with water streaming from his flesh, feeling life return to his limbs with a rush of energy. Jochi and Chagatai came to stand with him, gasping as their hands and feet came back to life. They sensed their father was still watching them and each boy understood and tried to control his body once again. Their hands shook beyond any control, but they stood straight in the sunlight and watched him, not trusting their shuddering jaws for speech.

“Did it kill you?” Genghis asked them. Yesugei had asked the same thing and Khasar had said, “Almost,” making the big man laugh. His own sons said nothing and he saw that he did not have the friendship with them that he had enjoyed with Yesugei. He would spend more time with them, he vowed. The Xi Xia princess was like a fire in his blood, but he would try to ignore the call more often while the boys grew.

“Your body does not rule you,” he said, as much for himself as for them. “It is a stupid beast that knows nothing of the works of men. It is merely the cart that carries you. You control it with will and with breath through your nose, when it calls for you to pant like a dog. When you take an arrow in battle and the pain is overwhelming, you will press it away and, before you fall, you will return death to your enemies.” He glanced up the hillside, at memories of days so innocent and far away that he could hardly bear to recall them.

“Now fill your mouths with water and run to the top of this hill and back. When you return, you will spit the water to show you breathed properly. Whoever is first will eat. The others will go hungry.”

It was not a fair test. Jochi was older, and at such an age, even a year made a difference. Genghis showed no sign of his awareness as he saw the boys exchange glances, weighing the odds. Bekter too had been older, but Genghis had left his brother gasping on the hill. He hoped Chagatai would do the same.

Chagatai broke for the water without warning, charging in with a great spray and dipping his face to the surface to suck up a mouthful. Ogedai was only a little behind. Genghis remembered how the water had become warm and thick in his mouth. He could taste it with the memories.

Jochi had not moved and Genghis turned to the boy questioningly.

“Why are you not following?” he asked.

Jochi shrugged. “I can beat them,” he said. “I know it already.”

Genghis stared at him, seeing defiance he could not understand. None of Yesugei’s sons had refused the task. The boy Genghis had been had relished the chance to humiliate Bekter. He could not understand Jochi and he felt his temper flare. His other sons were already struggling up the hill, growing smaller in the distance.

“You are afraid,” Genghis murmured, though he was guessing.

“I am not,” Jochi replied without heat, reaching for his clothes. “Will you love me more if I beat them?” For the first time, his voice shuddered with strong emotion. “I do not think you will.”

Genghis looked at the little boy in astonishment. Not one of Yesugei’s sons would have dared to speak to him in such a way. How would his father have responded? He winced at the memories of Yesugei’s hands clipping him. His father would not have allowed it. For an instant, he considered knocking sense into the boy, but then he saw that Jochi expected it and had tensed himself for the blow. The impulse died before it was born.

“You would make me proud,” Genghis said to him.

Jochi shook, but it was not from the cold. “Then today, I will run,” he said. His father watched without understanding as Jochi took a mouthful of the river and set off, running fast and sure over the broken ground after his brothers.

When it was quiet again, Genghis walked little Tolui back to where Borte sat by the ponies. She was stony-faced and did not meet his eyes.

“I will spend more time with them,” he told her, still trying to comprehend what had happened with Jochi. She looked up at him and for an instant her face softened as she saw his confusion.

“He wants nothing more in the world than to be accepted by you as your own,” she said.

Genghis snorted. “I do accept him. When have I not?”

Borte rose to her feet to face him. “When have you taken him in your arms? When have you told him how proud you are of him? Do you think he has not heard the whispers of the other boys? When have you silenced the foolish ones with some display of affection?”

“I did not want to make him soft,” he said, troubled. He had not known it had been so obvious, and for a moment, he saw how hard a life he had forced on Jochi. He shook his head to clear it. His own life had been harder and he could not force himself to love the boy. As every year passed, he saw less and less of himself in those dark eyes.

His thoughts were interrupted by Borte’s laugh. It was not a pleasant sound.

“The bitterest thing of all is that he is so obviously your son, more than any of the others. Yet you cannot see it. He has the will to stand up to his own father and you are blind.” She spat into the grass. “If Chagatai had done the same, you would be grinning and telling me the boy had his grandfather’s courage.”

“Enough,” he said quietly, sick of her voice and her criticism. The day had been spoiled for him, a mockery of the joy and triumph he remembered when he had come to that place with his own father and brothers.

Borte glared at his angry expression. “If he beats Chagatai down the hill, how will you react?” she said.

He cursed, his mood as sour as old milk. He had not considered that Jochi might still win, and he knew that if he did, he would not embrace the boy with Borte watching. His thoughts swirled without release and he did not know how he would react at all.

Temuge listened to Khasar’s grunting with a furious expression. His brother had earned a great deal of goodwill among the crew with his response to the attack. In the days after those terrifying moments in the dark, Chen Yi regularly included the Mongol warrior in the camaraderie of the boat. Khasar had learned many phrases in their language and shared their rations of hard spirit and balls of rice and shrimp in the evening. Ho Sa too seemed to have warmed to the boat master, but Temuge remained resolutely apart. It did not surprise him to see Khasar acting like an animal with the others, hanging his backside over the side and defecating into the river in broad daylight. He had no understanding and Temuge wished Khasar would realize that he was nothing more than a bowman sent to protect his younger brother. Genghis, at least, knew how valuable Temuge could be to him.

On the night before they left for the river, Genghis had summoned Temuge and asked him to remember every detail of the walls of Baotou, every part of the defenses. If they failed to return with the masons who had constructed the city, that knowledge might be all they had to begin a summer campaign. Genghis trusted Temuge’s memory and the keen intelligence that Khasar evidently lacked. Temuge had recalled the urgency in frustration when they passed a boat with two female crew and Khasar waved silver coins at them, inviting them over.

There was no privacy in the boat and Temuge could only stare at the water rather than watch as two young women stripped off and swam across like otters, gleaming and shivering as they came on board. Chen Yi had thrown out an anchor in the deep water so the women could swim back when the crew were finished with them.

Temuge closed his eyes at the squealing sounds that came from the second of the two women. She was small breasted and lithe, attractive in her youth, though she had not looked in his direction as she accepted Khasar’s coin. The sounds she made were only interrupted when Khasar’s plunging efforts knocked her hand open and the coin rolled away, causing laughter from the watching crew as she pushed him off and scrambled for it on her hands and knees. Temuge observed from the corner of his eye as Khasar took advantage of the opportunity, and the girl’s giggling made him swear under his breath. What would Genghis think of this delay to their planning? They had been given a task without equal in importance for the tribes. Genghis had made that clear. Without knowing how to enter the walled cities of the Chin, the Imperial soldiers would never be broken. It made Temuge furious while he waited for Khasar to finish for a second time. The day was being wasted and he knew that if he said anything, his brother would scorn him in front of the crew. Temuge burned with silent humiliation. He had not forgotten why they were there, even if Khasar had.

It was growing dark when Borte saw Jochi leading his exhausted brothers back across the river. His bare feet still bled from the run as he stood before her, his chest heaving. Borte’s heart broke for the little boy as he looked in vain for his father. Something went out of him when he saw Genghis was not there. He spat out the mouthful of water and gasped loudly into the evening silence.

“Your father was called back to the camp,” Borte lied. Jochi did not believe her. She could see the pain in his face and she hid her frustration with her husband and herself for arguing with him.

“He will have gone to his new wife, the foreigner,” Jochi said suddenly. Borte bit her lip rather than reply. In that too, she had lost the man she had married. With her oldest son standing bewildered and hurt before her, it was easy to hate Genghis for his selfish blindness. She resolved to enter the ger of the Xia Xia woman if she could not find him. Perhaps he did not care for his wife any longer, but he did care for his sons and she would use that to bring him back.

Chagatai and Ogedai came stumbling along in the darkness, each boy spitting water as he had been told. Without their father to see, the victory was hollow and they seemed at a loss.

“I will tell him how you ran,” Borte said, her eyes shining with tears. It was not enough for them and they were silent and wounded as they mounted for the ride home.

CHAPTER 12

HO SA TOLD THE BROTHERS that Baotou was a trek of some miles from the busy river port that kept it supplied. The city was the last trading post between the northern Chin and the Xi Xia kingdom, and the river teemed with boats by the time they wound their way into the area. The journey had taken three weeks since abandoning their ponies, and Temuge at least was sick of the slow hours, the damp river mists, and the diet of rice and fish. Chen Yi and his crew drank from the river without ill effects and Khasar seemed to have a stomach of iron, but Temuge’s bowels had grown weak for three days, leaving him in misery and his clothes foul. He had never eaten or even seen fish before, and he did not trust the silver-scaled things from the river. The boat crew seemed to delight in them as they yanked them onboard on thin lines, jerking and flopping madly while the men stove in their heads. Temuge had washed his garments as they moored, but his stomach continued to rumble and bring bad air from both ends.

As the Yellow River snaked between hills, more and more birds could be seen, living on scraps from the boats and traders. Temuge and Khasar were fascinated by the sheer number of men and craft bringing cargoes up and down the river, denser in this place than any other they had seen. Though Chen Yi seemed able to find a path through the press with just the sail, many of the boatmen carried long poles to fend off other boats. It was noisy and chaotic, with hundreds of shouting traders competing to sell anything from fresh fish to water-spoiled cloth that could still be used for rough clothing. The smell of strange spices hung in the air as Chen Yi maneuvered between his competitors, looking for a space to moor for the evening.

Chen Yi was even better known in these waters, and Temuge watched with narrow eyes as he was hailed by friends again and again. Despite the fact that the crew seemed to have accepted Khasar as one of their own, Temuge did not trust the little boat master. He agreed with Ho Sa that the hold was probably full of some contraband substance, but perhaps the man could earn another few coins by reporting their presence to Imperial soldiers. Remaining onboard without knowing they were safe was a gnawing tension on all three men.

It was clearly no accident that they arrived at the river port as evening was coming. Chen Yi had delayed their passage around a bend in the river, not deigning to reply when Temuge pressed him to make better time. Whatever was in his hold would be unloaded in the darkness, when the tax gatherers and their soldiers would be less alert.

Temuge muttered angrily under his breath. He cared nothing for Chen Yi’s problems. His task was to get to the docks as quickly as possible before making his way to the city. Ho Sa had said it was only a few hours’ walk on a good road, but the alien sights and sounds all around him were making Temuge nervous and he wanted to be moving. The crew too had grown tense as they found a place where they could moor and wait their turn on the rickety dock.

The river port was not impressive to look upon, no more than a few dozen wooden buildings seeming to lean upon each other for support. It was a squalid little place, built for trade rather than comfort. Temuge did not mind that, but he could see a pair of well-armed soldiers keeping an eye on everything that was unloaded and he did not want to come to their attention.

He heard Chen Yi speak in low tones to his crew, clearly giving orders as they ducked their heads with sharp gestures. He struggled to hide his irritation at another delay. He and his companions would soon be off the river and away from this peculiar little world he did not understand. For a short time, he had wondered if he could buy illustrated manuscripts in the boat market, but there was no sign of such a trade and he had no taste for ingots of silver or carved figurines. Those items were held out in the dirty fists of boys, paddling out in reed coracles to the side of any new vessel. Temuge looked stonily past the urchins until they passed on. His mood was black by the time Chen Yi came to the stern to speak with his passengers.

“We must wait until there is a space on the docks,” he said. “You will be on your way before midnight, or a few hours later.” To Temuge’s annoyance, the little man nodded to Khasar.

“If you did not eat so much, I would take you on as crew,” he said. Khasar did not understand him, but he clapped Chen Yi on the shoulder in reply. He too was impatient to be going on, and the little master sensed the mood of his passengers.

“If you wish, I can find a place on the carts to take you to the city. It will be a fair price,” he said.

Temuge saw the man was watching them closely. He had no idea whether the journey to Baotou was an easy one or not, but he suspected a merchant as he claimed to be would not turn down the offer of a ride. The idea of traveling further with Chen Yi’s suspicious gaze on him made him uncomfortable, but he forced a smile and replied in the Chin tongue.

“We will say yes to you,” he said. “Unless your unloading is long.”

Chen Yi shrugged. “I have friends here to help. It will not take long. You are impatient for merchants, I think.” He smiled as he spoke, but his eyes remained fixed on them, taking in every detail. Temuge was thankful that Khasar could not understand. His brother was easier to read than a map.

“We will decide later,” Temuge said, turning away to make sure Chen Yi knew he was dismissed. The man might have left them alone, but Khasar pointed to the soldiers on the dock.

“Ask him about those men,” he said to Ho Sa. “We want to get past them and I think he does as well. Ask him how he is going to unload without them noticing.”

Ho Sa hesitated, unwilling to let Chen Yi know they had guessed his cargo was illegal or untaxed. He did not know how the man would react. Before he could speak, Khasar snorted.

“Chen Yi,” he said, pointing at the soldiers again. The master of the boat reached up and pressed Khasar’s arm down before the gesture could be seen.

“I have friends on the docks,” he said. “There will be no trouble here. Baotou is my city, where I was born, do you understand?”

Ho Sa translated and Khasar nodded.

“We should keep this one in view, brother,” he said to Temuge. “He can’t betray us while he unloads, or he would draw too much attention to whatever we’ve been sitting on for the last few weeks.”

“Thank you for your interest, Khasar,” Temuge replied, his voice acid. “I have considered what to do. We will take his offer of a trip to the city and get in the walls with him. After that, we will find our men and head back.”

He spoke knowing Chen Yi could not understand, but it was still with a sense of foreboding. Finding the masons of Baotou was one part of the plan they could not predict back in the Xi Xia kingdom. No one knew how easy they would be to locate, or what dangers the city would present. Even if they were successful, Temuge was still not sure how they would bring unwilling prisoners out when a cry for help might bring soldiers running. He considered the wealth of silver Genghis had given him to ease their passage.

“Will you be returning to the river, Chen Yi?” he said. “We may not stay long in the city.”

To his disappointment, the man shook his head.

“I am home now and there are many things I must do. I will not leave again for many months.”

Temuge remembered how much they had been charged for the passage, as if Chen Yi had been reluctant to go so far.

“So you were always coming here?” he asked, outraged.

Chen Yi grinned at him. “Poor men do not go to Baotou,” he replied, chuckling. Temuge glared at him until he strolled back to his crew.

“I do not trust him,” Ho Sa murmured. “He does not worry about soldiers on the docks. He is carrying something valuable enough to risk an armed attack, and he is well known to every other boatman in Baotou. I do not like this at all.”

“We will be ready,” Temuge said, though the words had thrown him into a panic. The men on the docks and the river were all enemies and he hoped to pass unseen amongst them. Genghis had pinned his hopes on them, but at times it seemed he had set an impossible task.

The moon rose as a frozen sliver of white, casting only a faint sheen on the water. Temuge wondered if Chen Yi had planned their arrival with even more care than he had realized. The dark night was a hindrance at first as Chen Yi untied the ropes that held them to a river post and sent two of the crew to work a steering oar off the stern. As it swished back and forth, Chen Yi himself used a long pole to create a path through to the docks. Sleepy men swore at him as the pole thumped into wood, the noise muffled in the dark. Temuge thought the moon had moved by the time they were in reach of the dock itself, though Chen Yi had barely broken sweat from his labors.

The docks were dark, though some of the wooden buildings still showed light in their windows and they could hear laughter somewhere within. The yellow glow from those places was all Chen Yi seemed to need to find his place on the dock, and he was the first to leap out on the wooden pilings, a rope in his hand to tie up the boat. He had not ordered silence, but none of the crew talked as they dismantled the sail. Even the noise of them throwing open the hatches down to the hold was muffled.

Temuge let out a long, relieved breath to have reached land, but at the same time, he felt his pulse increase. A few shadowy figures could be seen, lounging or sleeping. Temuge squinted at them, wondering if they were beggars, whores, or even informers. The soldiers he had seen would surely be ready for night landings. Temuge feared a sudden shout or a rush of armed men that would be the end of everything they had accomplished so far. They had reached the city Genghis had wanted, or at least the closest point on the river to it. Perhaps because they were so near to their goal, he became convinced it would all come to nothing, and he scrambled past the others to step over the side onto the wooden planking, stumbling as he did so. It was Ho Sa who took his arm to steady him, while Khasar vanished in the dark.

Temuge wanted nothing more than to leave the boat and its crew behind, but he still worried that Chen Yi might betray them. If the master of the boat had understood the significance of Khasar carrying a Mongol bow, the information might buy him out of trouble. In a strange land, even with Ho Sa’s help, they would be hard pressed to avoid a hunt, especially one that knew they were heading for Baotou.

A creaking sound came out of the darkness, making Temuge reach for his knife. He forced himself to relax as he saw two carts approaching, drawn by mules whose breath fogged the cold air. The drivers stepped down and spoke in low voices to Chen Yi, one of them chuckling as they began to unload the little boat. Temuge could not help but strain his eyes to see what was coming from it, but he could not make out details. Whatever the men carried was heavy, judging by the sounds they made as they lifted it. Temuge and Ho Sa found themselves drifting closer, drawn by curiosity. It was Khasar who spoke out of the dark, passing by with a dark mass on his shoulder.

“Silk,” he hissed at Temuge. “I felt the end of a roll.” They heard him grunt as he heaved the weight onto the closest cart before returning to them.

“If it’s all like this, we’ve been smuggling silk into the city,” he whispered.

Ho Sa bit his lip unseen. “In such quantity? It must have come from Kaifeng or even Yenking itself. Such a cargo is worth more than a few sailors to defend it.”

“How much more?” Khasar asked, his voice loud enough to make Temuge wince.

“Thousands in gold,” Ho Sa replied. “Enough to buy a hundred boats like this one and a lord’s house to put it in. This Chen Yi is no small trader or thief. If he has arranged to take this by river, it can only be to divert the gaze of those who might steal it. Even then he might have lost it all if we had not been onboard.” He thought for a moment before going on.

“If the hold is full, it can only be from the Imperial stock. It is not a matter of paying taxes for it. It is fiercely protected before sale. Perhaps this is just the first stage on a route to take it thousands of miles to its eventual destination.”

“What does that matter?” Khasar asked him. “We still need to get into the city and he’s the only one offering us a ride.”

Ho Sa took a deep breath to hide a spike of anger. “If anyone is looking for the silk, we are more of a target than we would be on our own. You understand? It could be the worst thing we could do to travel into Baotou with this. If the city guards search the carts, we will be taken and tortured for everything we know.”

Temuge felt his stomach twist at the thought. He was on the point of ordering the others to walk away from the docks when Chen Yi appeared at his shoulder. He carried a shuttered lamp, but his face could be seen in the slight glow. His expression was as tense as they had ever seen him, and he shone with sweat.

“Climb on, all of you,” he said. Temuge opened his mouth to make up some excuse, but the crew had abandoned their vessel. They held knives and stood ready and Temuge could find no words to offset his growing fear. It was clear enough that the passengers would not be allowed to simply walk away into the night, not after what they had seen. He cursed Khasar for helping them with the rolls of cloth. Perhaps that had raised their suspicions even further.

Chen Yi seemed to sense his discomfort and nodded to him.

“You would not wish to make your own way to the city in the dark,” he said. “I will not allow it.”

Temuge winced, reaching up to heave himself onto one of the carts. He noticed how the crew waved Ho Sa to the second one while allowing Khasar to clamber on beside his brother. With a sinking feeling, he realized Chen Yi had split them deliberately. He wondered if he would ever see Baotou or be dumped by the road with his throat slit. At least they still had their weapons. Khasar carried his bow rewrapped in cloth and Temuge had his little knife, though he knew he could never fight his way out.

The carts remained still when a low whistle came from the shadows of the dock buildings. Chen Yi jumped lightly down and whistled back. Temuge watched in nervous fascination as a dark form detached itself and walked toward their little group. It was one of the soldiers, or another very like him. The man spoke in low tones and Temuge strained to hear the words. He saw Chen Yi hand over a heavy leather bag and heard the soldier’s grunt of pleasure at the weight.

“I know your family, Yan. I know your village, do you understand?” Chen Yi said.

The man stiffened, understanding the threat. He did not respond.

“You are too old to be a dock guard,” Chen Yi told him. “In your hands you have enough to buy retirement, a smallholding perhaps, with a wife and chickens. Perhaps it is time for you to leave the docks behind.”

The man nodded in the gloom, clutching the bag to his chest.

“If I am taken, Yan, I have friends who will find you no matter where you run.”

The man nodded again, jerkily. His fear was obvious and Temuge wondered yet again who Chen Yi was, if that was even his real name. Surely no cargo of stolen Imperial silk would be trusted to a simple boat master.

The soldier vanished back among the buildings, moving quickly with so much wealth on his person. Chen Yi climbed back on the cart and the drivers clicked in their throats to the mules, starting them off. Temuge let his fingers quest under him for the oily feel of silk, but instead met rough cloth with a heavy stitched line. The silk had been covered, but he could only hope Chen Yi had more of his bribed men waiting at Baotou. He was out of his depth, caught up in events he could not control. One good search at the city walls and he would never see the Khenti mountains again. As Kokchu had taught him, he prayed to the spirits to guide him safely through the dark waters of the days to come.

One of the crew stayed behind to take the boat back onto the river. Alone, he could hardly control it, and Temuge guessed it would be sunk somewhere out of sight of questioning officials. Chen Yi was not the sort of man to make mistakes, and Temuge wished he knew whether the man was an enemy or a friend.

Ho Sa’s estimate of the distance to Baotou had been correct, Temuge judged. The city had been built around eight miles from the river— some twenty-five li, as the Chin judged distance. The road was a good one, paved with unbroken flat stones so merchants could make good time from the river. Dawn was barely visible to the east as Temuge craned into the gloom and saw the dark shadow of the city wall coming closer. Whatever was going to happen, whether it was a search of the carts that would end in his death or a quiet entry into Baotou, it would happen soon. He felt a nervous sweat prickle on his skin and scratched at his armpits. Apart from the current danger, he had never yet entered a city of stone. He could not shake the image of an ant hill somehow swallowing him up into a heaving mass of strangers. The thought of them pressing close made him breathe shallowly, already afraid. The families of his own people felt very far away. Temuge leaned close to the dark shadow that was his brother, almost touching his ear with his lips so that they would not be overheard.

“If we are discovered at the gate, or the silk is found, we must run and find a place to hide in the city.”

Khasar glanced to where Chen Yi sat on the front of the cart. “Let us hope it does not come to that. We’d never find each other again and I think there is more to our friend than a simple smuggler.”

Temuge sat back on the rough sacking as Chen Yi looked around at them. In the growing light, the intelligence in the little man’s gaze was disconcerting, and Temuge looked past him to the city wall, feeling his nervousness increase.

They were not alone on the road any longer. The dawn light showed a line of carts assembling in front of the gates. Many more had clearly spent the night off the road, waiting to be allowed in. Chen Yi went past these as they stirred, ignoring the yawning men who had missed their place in the line. Mud-brown fields stretched into the distance, the harvest of rice plants all gone to feed the city. Baotou loomed above them all and Temuge swallowed as he looked up and up again at the gray stones.

The city gate was a massive construction of wood and iron, perhaps intended to impress travelers. At each side, towers half as high again as the gate could be seen, with a platform between them. Soldiers were visible there and Temuge knew they would have a clear view of everything that passed below. He saw they carried crossbows and felt his stomach tighten.

The gate opened and Temuge stared as more soldiers heaved it back, blocking entry with a counterweighted wooden spar. The closest carts did not move as the soldiers took their positions, ready for the day. Chen Yi’s drivers pulled gently on the reins, halting their mules. They showed none of the trepidation Temuge felt, and he struggled to remember the cold face he had known as a boy. It would not do for the soldiers to see him sweat on a cold morning, and he rubbed his sleeves over his forehead.

Behind them another merchant pulled up and halted, calling out a cheerful greeting to someone at the side of the road. The line of carts moved slowly into the city, and Temuge could see the soldiers were stopping one in three, exchanging curt conversation with the drivers. The wooden spar had been lifted for the first and was not brought down again. Temuge began to repeat the relaxing phrases Kokchu had taught him, taking comfort from their familiarity. The song of the wind. The land underfoot. The souls of the hills. The breaking of chains.

The sun had risen clear of the horizon by the time Chen Yi’s first cart reached the gate. Temuge had been counting the pattern of searches, and he thought they might pass without interruption when the merchant in front was checked and passed on. With a growing sense of terror, he saw the soldiers look up at Chen Yi’s impassive driver. One of them seemed more alert than his sleepy companions and it was that one who stepped close.

“What is your business in Baotou?” the soldier asked. He addressed the driver, who began a rambling answer. Temuge felt his heart throbbing as Chen Yi looked over the guard’s head into the city. Beyond the gate was an open square and a market already bustling at the first light of dawn. Temuge saw Chen Yi nod sharply and suddenly there was a crash among the stalls that made the soldier half turn.

Running children seemed to erupt from all over the square, yelling and swerving to avoid the stallholders. To Temuge’s astonishment, he saw plumes of smoke rise from more than one location, and he heard the soldier swear and bark orders to his companions. Stalls went over and many more collapsed as the poles holding their awnings were kicked over. Cries of “Thief!” went up and the chaos grew with every moment.

The guard at the gate slapped Chen Yi’s cart, though whether it was an order to stay or go was not clear. With five others, he ran to control what was quickly becoming a riot. Temuge risked a glance upwards, but the crossbowmen on the bridge were hidden from his view. He hoped they too were distracted and forced himself to stare forward as Chen Yi’s driver clicked in his throat and entered the city.

Fire raged in the little square as stall after stall caught and crackled over the cries of the sellers. Temuge saw glimpses of running soldiers, but the children were fast and already they were vanishing into bolt-holes and alleys, some carrying stolen goods.

Chen Yi did not look at the chaotic scene as his two carts turned away from the square into a quieter road. The sounds dwindled behind them and Temuge slumped on the sacking, wiping more sweat from his brow.

It could not have been coincidence, he knew. Chen Yi had given a signal. Once again Temuge wondered about the man they had met on the river. With such a valuable cargo in his hold, perhaps he had not cared about a few extra coins at all. Perhaps he had merely wanted a few more men to defend it.

They trundled through a maze of roads, turning again and again onto smaller tracks between houses. Temuge and Khasar felt hemmed in by the press of buildings, built so close together that the rising sun could not touch the shadows between. Three times, other carts had been forced to back up into side alleys to let them pass, and as the sun rose, the streets filled with more people than Temuge or Khasar could believe. Temuge saw dozens of shops serving hot food from clay bowls. He could hardly imagine finding food whenever you were hungry, without having to slaughter or hunt for the meat. Morning workers clustered around the traders, eating with their fingers and wiping their mouths on cloths before moving back into the throng. Many of them carried holed bronze coins strung onto a cord or a wire. Although Temuge had some idea of the value of silver, he had never seen the exchange of coins for goods, and he gaped at every new wonder. He saw elderly scribes writing messages for payment, squawking chickens held for sale, racks of knives and men to sharpen them on spinning stones held between their legs. He saw cloth dyers with hands stained blue or green, beggars and sellers of amulets against disease. Every street was crowded, loud, and vibrant, and to his surprise, Temuge loved it.

“This is wonderful,” he said under his breath. Khasar glanced at him.

“There are too many people and the city stinks,” he replied. Temuge looked away, irritated with his foolish brother who could not see the excitement of such a place. For a time, he almost forgot the fear that trailed him. He still half expected a shout to go up somehow, as if the gate guards would have followed them so far into the labyrinth of Baotou. It did not come and he saw Chen Yi relax as they wound their way further and further from the walls, disappearing into the teeming heart of the city.

CHAPTER 13

THE TWO CARTS RUMBLED ON over the stone streets until they reached a pair of solid iron gates that opened as soon as they drew up. It took a matter of moments for the carts to enter and the gates to close behind them. Temuge looked back and bit his lip as he saw wooden shutters being unfolded over the bars, blocking the view of passersby.

After the noise and press of humanity, it would have been a relief if not for the sense of being confined. The city had left him dazed and overwhelmed in its complexity. Yet even as it excited him, it pressed too close on his senses and made him long for the empty plains, just to take a breath before plunging back in once more. He shook his head to clear it, knowing he needed a sharp mind for whatever would come.

The carts creaked and jerked as the men jumped off, Chen Yi calling orders to those around him. Temuge climbed down to join Khasar, his earlier nervousness returning in full force. Chen Yi hardly seemed to notice his passengers as a crowd of men came trotting out from the buildings, each pair carrying a roll of silk on their shoulders. It did not take long for the precious cargo to vanish into the house, and Temuge wondered again at the spiderweb of contacts Chen Yi seemed to have in the city.

The home that enclosed the paved courtyard was surely the property of a wealthy man, Temuge thought. It was out of keeping with the shamble of housing they had passed through, though perhaps there were others as well hidden. A single story with a red-tiled roof extended on all sides around him, though the section facing the gate rose in pointed apexes to a second level. Temuge could only blink at the labor that must have gone into so many hundreds or even thousands of tiles. He could not help but compare the building to the felt and wicker gers he had known all his life and felt a touch of envy. What luxury had his people ever known on the plains?

On all sides, the roof extended past the walls, held up with columns of red-painted wood to form a long cloister. Armed men stood at the corners and Temuge began to realize they were prisoners to Chen Yi’s will. There was no easy escape from that place.

When the carts had been emptied, the drivers moved them away and Temuge was left standing with Ho Sa and Khasar, feeling vulnerable under the gaze of strangers. He noticed Khasar had his hand inside the roll of cloth that wrapped his bow.

“We cannot fight our way out,” he hissed at Khasar, who jumped as his thoughts were echoed.

“I don’t see anyone opening the gates to let us go,” Khasar whispered back.

Chen Yi had vanished inside the house and all three men were relieved to see him return. He had put on a long-sleeved black robe as well as donning leather sandals. Temuge saw the little man wore a curved sword on his hip and seemed comfortable with the weight of it.

“This is my jia: my home,” Chen Yi said, to Temuge’s private astonishment. “You are welcome here. Will you eat with me?”

“We have business in the city,” Ho Sa said, gesturing toward the gate. Chen Yi frowned. There was no trace of the affable riverboat master in his manner. He seemed to have shed the role completely and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his face stern.

“I must insist. We have many things to discuss.” Without waiting for them to reply, he strode back into the house and they followed him. Temuge cast a lingering look over his shoulder at the gate as he walked into the shadow of the cloister. He repressed a shudder at the thought of the sheer weight of the tiles above his head. Ho Sa did not seem troubled in the least, but Temuge could imagine the massive beams crashing down, crushing them all. He repeated one of Kokchu’s chants under his breath, seeking calm that would not come.

The entrance to the main house was through a wooden door layered in polished bronze, punctured many times in decorative patterns. Temuge saw the shapes of bats etched into the metal and wondered at their significance. Before he could comment, he entered a room as ornate as anything he had ever seen. Khasar dropped the cold face over his features rather than look surprised, but Temuge opened his mouth at the opulence of Chen Yi’s home. For men born in gers, it was astonishing. The air smelled of some strange incense and yet was subtly stale for men who had grown in wind and mountains. Temuge could not help but glance upwards at intervals, constantly aware of the massive weight above his head. Khasar too seemed uncomfortable and cracked his knuckles in the silence.

Couches and chairs stood against screens of ebony and painted silk that allowed light in from other rooms beyond. At first glance, everything seemed made of rich wood in matching colors, pleasing to the eye. Columns of highly polished timber ran the length of the room, reaching up to crossbeams. The floor too was made of thousands of segments, polished so that it almost glowed. After the filth of the city streets, the room was clean and welcoming, the golden wood making it seem warm. Temuge saw that Chen Yi had exchanged his sandals for a pair of clean ones at the door. Flushing, Temuge returned to do the same. As he stepped out of his boots, a servant approached, kneeling before him to help him don a clean set in white felt.

Temuge saw lines of unbroken white smoke rising from brass dishes at a carved table on the far wall. He did not understand what could merit such a symbol of devotion, but Chen Yi bowed his head to the little altar and murmured a prayer of thanks for his safe return.

“You live with great beauty,” Temuge said carefully, striving for the right sounds. Chen Yi inclined his head in the gesture they knew, one habit that had survived the transformation.

“You are generous,” he said. “I think sometimes that I was happier as a young man, running goods on the Yellow River. I had nothing then, but life was simpler.”

“What are you now, to have such wealth?” Ho Sa asked.

Chen Yi nodded to him rather than reply. “You will wish to bathe before you eat,” he said. “The smell of the river is on us all.” He gestured for them to follow and they exchanged glances as he led them through into another courtyard beyond the first. Both Temuge and Khasar straightened a fraction as they passed out into the sunshine and left the heavy beams behind. Water could be heard there and Khasar walked up to a pool where sluggish fish stirred at his shadow. Chen Yi had not noticed him stop, but when he looked back and saw Khasar begin to strip, he laughed delightedly.

“You will kill my fish!” he said. “Come further, where I have baths for you.”

Khasar shrugged irritably, yanking his robe back over his shoulders. He trailed after Temuge and Ho Sa, ignoring the amusement of the Xi Xia soldier.

At the far end of the second courtyard, they saw open doors with wisps of steam spilling out into the warm air. Chen Yi gestured for them to enter.

“Do as I do,” he said. “You will enjoy yourselves.”

He stripped quickly, revealing the scarred and wiry little frame they knew so well from the boat. Temuge saw two pools of water sunk into the floor, with steam rising lazily from one. He would have made for it, but Chen Yi shook his head and instead Temuge watched as two male slaves approached and Chen Yi raised his arms. To Temuge’s astonishment, the men upended buckets of water over their master, then used cloths wrapped around their hands to rub him with some lathering substance until he was slick and white with it. More buckets followed and only then did he step into the pool with a grunt of pleasure.

Temuge swallowed nervously as he dropped his robe to the floor. It was as filthy as he was and he did not relish the idea of being scrubbed by strangers. He closed his eyes as the buckets were poured over his head, then kept them firmly closed as rough hands seemed to pummel his body, swaying him from side to side. The last buckets were freezing and he gasped.

Temuge stepped gingerly into the hot water. He felt the muscles in his back and thighs relax as he found a stone seat beneath the surface, and he grunted in appreciation. The feeling was exquisite. This was how a man should live! Behind him, Khasar slapped away the hands of the attendants as they reached out with their cloths. They stood frozen at his action, before one of them tried again. Without warning, Khasar snapped a fist into the side of the man’s head, knocking him reeling onto the hard tiles.

Chen Yi roared with laughter. He called out an order and the slaves stood back. The one who had been felled rose warily, with his head bowed, as Khasar took up a cloth and wiped at his body until the rag was black. Temuge did not look as Khasar raised a leg onto a stone ledge along the wall to rub his genitals clean. He finished the process by upending a bucket over his own head, all the time glaring at the man he had struck.

Khasar handed the bucket back and murmured something that made the slave tense and set his jaw. Ho Sa endured the process with less fuss and they entered the water together, Khasar swearing in two languages as he lowered himself in.

The four men sat in silence for a time, before Chen Yi rose and plunged into the other pool. They copied him in silent frustration, tired of the routines and delays. In the second pool, Khasar hissed out a breath at the cold, plunging his head under the water and coming up roaring as new energy filled him. Neither of the Mongols had ever known hot water, but a cold dip was no worse than the rivers at home. Temuge looked longingly back at the steaming bath he had left, but did not return to it.

By the time they had settled themselves, Chen Yi was out and being dried by the towel slaves. Khasar and Temuge did not linger and climbed out after him, Khasar blowing like a beached fish. The two slaves did not approach Khasar a second time, instead handing him a large, rough piece of cloth to dry himself. He did so vigorously, his skin showing a fresh bloom. He had removed the string that held his hair, and it whipped around in long black strands.

Temuge looked at the sorry pile of soiled cloth that was his robe and was reaching for it when Chen Yi clapped his hands and the attendants brought in fresh ones. There was pleasure in losing the stink of the boats, Temuge thought, running his hands over the soft material. He could only guess what Chen Yi had in mind for them as they walked back to eat.

The food was plentiful, though Khasar and Temuge looked in vain for mutton among the dishes.

“What is this?” Khasar asked, picking up a piece of white flesh in his fingers.

“Snake in ginger,” Chen Yi replied. He pointed to another bowl. “You will know dog, I am sure.”

Khasar nodded. “When times are hard,” he replied, dipping his fingers into a soup to search for another morsel. Showing no sign of distaste, Chen Yi took up a pair of wooden sticks and showed the Mongols how to grasp a piece of food between them. Only Ho Sa was comfortable and Chen Yi grew slightly flushed as both Khasar and Temuge dropped pieces of meat and rice on the cloth. Once more he showed them, this time putting the pieces onto the plates in front of the Mongols so that they could pick them up with their fingers.

Khasar held his temper. He had been scrubbed, dipped, and given clothes that itched. He was surrounded by strange things he did not understand, and anger simmered underneath the surface. When he gave up on the strange sticks and shoved them upright into a bowl of rice, Chen Yi actually clucked under his breath, removing them with a sharp gesture.

“To leave them so is an insult,” Chen Yi said, “though you could not have known.”

Khasar found a plate of skewered crickets easier to handle, biting into the line of fried insects with evident pleasure.

“This is better,” he said, his mouth working busily. Temuge was prepared to copy whatever Chen Yi did and dipped balls of fried dough into salt water before chewing them. When the crickets were all gone, Khasar reached for a pile of oranges, taking two. After spitting out a piece of skin, he peeled the first with his thumbs and relaxed visibly as he pulled the flesh apart and ate it. He and his brother waited for Chen Yi to speak, their impatience obvious and growing.

When they had all finished, Chen Yi eyed Khasar’s efforts with the orange, then placed his chopsticks on the table and said nothing as his slaves removed all evidence of the meal. When they were alone again, he sat back on his couch. His eyes lost their hooded look and gained once more the sharpness of the river master they knew.

“Why have you come to Baotou?” he said to Temuge.

“Trade,” Temuge replied immediately. “We are merchants.”

Chen Yi shook his head. “Merchants do not carry a Mongol bow, nor shoot one as your brother does. You are of that people. Why would you be here in the lands of the emperor?”

Temuge swallowed painfully as he tried to think. Chen Yi had known for a long time and not given them away, but he could not bring himself to trust the man, especially after so much strangeness and confusion.

“We are of the tribes of the great khan, yes,” he said. “But we have come to open trade between our people.”

“I am a trader. Make your offers to me,” Chen Yi replied. His face gave nothing away, but Temuge could sense the little man’s fierce curiosity.

“Ho Sa asked who you were to have so much wealth,” Temuge said slowly, choosing the words. “You have this house and slaves, but you took the role of a smuggler on the river, bribing guards and staging a diversion at the city gate. Who are you that we should trust you?”

Chen Yi’s gaze was cold as he studied them. “I am a man who is uncomfortable at the thought of you blundering around his city. How long would it take for you to be captured by Imperial soldiers? How long after that before you told them everything you have seen?”

He waited while Temuge translated for his brother.

“Tell him if we are killed or kept as prisoners, Baotou will be burned to the ground,” Khasar said, tearing the second orange in two and sucking out a ragged half. “Genghis will come for us next year. He knows where we are and this little man will see his precious house in flames. Tell him that.”

“You would do well to be quiet, brother, if we are to get out of here with our lives.”

“Let him speak,” Chen Yi said. “How would my city be burned if you are killed?”

To Temuge’s horror, Chen Yi spoke in the language of the tribes. His accent was rough, but clear enough. He froze as he considered all the conversations Chen Yi had overheard in the weeks it had taken to reach Baotou.

“How do you know our tongue?” he demanded, forgetting his fear for a moment.

Chen Yi laughed, a high-pitched sound that did nothing to settle the men at the table.

“Did you think you were the first to travel to Chin lands? The Uighurs have ridden the silk road. Some have stayed.” He clapped his hands and another man came into the room. He was as clean as they were and dressed in a simple Chin robe, but his face was Mongol and the breadth of his shoulders showed one who had been raised with the bow. Ho Sa and Temuge remained seated, but Khasar rose to greet him, clasping his hand and beating him on the back with his fist. The stranger beamed at the welcome.

“It is good to see a real face in this city,” Khasar said.

The man seemed almost overcome to hear the words. “And for me,” he said, glancing at Chen Yi. “How are the plains? I have not been home for many years.”

“They are the same,” Khasar replied. A thought struck him and his hand dropped to where his sword would usually lie on his hip. “Is this man a slave?”

Chen Yi looked up without embarrassment. “Of course. Quishan was once a merchant, but he chose to gamble with me.”

The man shrugged. “It is true. I will not be a slave forever. A few more years and my debt will be paid. Then I think I will return to the plains and find a wife.”

“Find me first when you do. I will give you a new start,” Khasar promised him.

Chen Yi watched as Quishan bowed his head. Khasar accepted the gesture as if it was nothing new to him, and Chen Yi’s gaze became hard.

“Tell me again how my city will burn,” he said.

Temuge opened his mouth, but Chen Yi held up a hand.

“No, I do not trust you. Your brother spoke the truth when he thought I could not understand. Let him tell it all.”

Khasar shot a glance at Temuge, thoroughly enjoying his brother’s frustration. He took a moment to choose his words. Perhaps Chen Yi would have them killed when he heard. He moved his hand to where he had hidden a small knife in the folds of his robe.

“We were once of the Wolves,” Khasar said, at last, “but my brother has united the tribes. The kingdom of Xi Xia is our first vassal, though there will be more.” Ho Sa shifted uncomfortably at the words, but neither man looked at him. Khasar sat like stone as he stared into Chen Yi’s eyes. “Perhaps I will die here, tonight, but if I do, my people will come amongst the Chin and tear down your precious cities, one by one, stone from stone.”

Chen Yi’s face had grown tight as he listened. His command of the language was only what he had needed for trade, and he would have suggested a switch back to his own if it would not have looked like weakness.

“News travels fast on the river,” he said, refusing to respond to Khasar’s deadly intensity. “I had heard of the war in Xi Xia, though not that your people were triumphant. Is the king dead, then?”

“Not when I left,” Khasar replied. “He paid tribute and a daughter. A beautiful girl, I thought.”

“You have not answered my question, except with threats,” Chen Yi reminded him. “Why would you come here, to my city?”

Khasar noticed the slight stress Chen Yi had put on “my.” He did not have the subtlety to play with words, or spin a thread of lies Chen Yi would believe.

“We need masons,” Khasar said. He heard Temuge let out a sharp breath at his shoulder and ignored him. “We need to know the secrets of your cities. The great khan himself has sent us. Baotou is just a place on a map with no great significance.”

“It is my home,” Chen Yi murmured, thinking.

“You can keep it,” Khasar said, sensing the moment was right. “Baotou will not be touched if we bring back word of your help.”

He waited for Chen Yi to finish his thoughts, sweat dripping down his face. One shout and the room would fill with armed men, he was certain. It was true Genghis would destroy the city in revenge, but Chen Yi could not be certain of that. For all he knew, they were boasting or lying.

It was Quishan who broke the silence. He had paled at what he heard and his voice was low with awe.

“The tribes are united?” he said. “The Uighurs among them?”

Khasar nodded, his gaze never leaving Chen Yi. “The blue tail is part of the great khan’s standard. The Chin have held us down for a long time, but that is over. We ride to war, brother.”

Chen Yi watched Quishan’s face carefully, seeing how the news brought an expression of astonished hope.

“I will make a bargain with you,” he said suddenly. “Whatever you need you will have, from my hand. You will bring the word back to your khan and tell him that there is a man here he can trust.”

“What use is a smuggler to us?” Khasar responded. Temuge almost groaned as Khasar went on, “How can you bargain for the fate of a city?”

“If you fail, or if you lie, I have lost nothing. If you are telling the truth, you will need allies, will you not?” Chen Yi said. “I have power here.”

“You would betray the Imperial court? Your own emperor?” Khasar said. He asked the question to test Chen Yi, and to his astonishment, the little man spat on the polished floor.

“This is my city. Everything that goes on here comes to my ears. I have no love for nobles who think all men can be run under their carts like animals. I have lost family and friends to their soldiers, seen loved ones hanged when they refused to give up my name. What do I care for them?”

He had risen as he spoke and Khasar stood to face him.

“My word is iron,” Khasar said. “If I say you will have this city, it will be yours to rule when we come.”

“You can speak for the khan?” Chen Yi said.

“He is my brother. I can speak for him,” Khasar replied. Temuge and Ho Sa could only look on as the two men stared each other down.

“I knew you were a warrior on the boat,” Chen Yi said. “You were a poor spy.”

“I knew you were a thief, but a good one,” Khasar replied. Chen Yi chuckled and they took each other’s hands in a firm grip.

“I have many men who answer to me. I will give you what you need and I will see you safe back to your people,” Chen Yi said. He sat, calling for wine as Temuge began to talk. He could not understand how the little man had come to trust Khasar, but it did not matter. They had their ally in Baotou.

As evening came, Khasar, Ho Sa, and Temuge accepted the offer of a few hours’ sleep before a long night, retiring to rooms off the second courtyard. Chen Yi had never needed more than a few hours’ rest since his days running from the soldiers in the alleyways of Baotou—lifetimes ago. He sat up with Quishan and two of his guards, and they talked in low voices as they moved counters of ivory on a mah-jongg board. Quishan was silent for a long time as he clicked the counters together in his hand. He had known Chen Yi for almost ten years and seen a ruthless desire for power come to bloom in that time. The little man had crushed three other leaders of Baotou’s criminal gangs, and he had not exaggerated when he had told Khasar that little went on in the city without it reaching his ears.

Quishan discarded a tile and watched as Chen Yi’s hand hovered over it. The man he had come to call a friend was clearly distracted from the game, his thoughts elsewhere. Quishan wondered if he should raise the stakes and clear a little more of his debt. He decided not to, remembering other games where Chen Yi had lulled him with exactly the same approach, then won consistently.

He watched as Chen Yi took a different tile and the game went round the table, with one of the guards calling “Pung” and making Quishan swear under his breath.

As the guard showed three matching tiles, Chen Yi put his hand down.

“No more tonight. You are getting better, Han, but your gate duty is upon us.”

Both guards rose and bowed. They had been rescued from the worst street slums, and they were strong and loyal to the man who ruled the tong. Quishan stayed, sensing Chen Yi wanted to talk.

“You are thinking of the strangers,” Quishan said as he gathered up the tiles on the table.

Chen Yi nodded, staring into the darkness through the screen doors. The evening was already cold and he wondered what the hours ahead would bring.

“They are strange people, Quishan. I have said that to you before. I took them on to guard my silk, when three of my men fell ill. Perhaps my ancestors were guiding me in that.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Did you see the way Khasar took note of the positions of the guards? His eyes were always moving. I thought on the boat that I had never seen him relax, but you are the same. Perhaps all your people are.”

Quishan shrugged. “Life is struggle, master. Is that not also what the Buddhists believe? On the plains of my home, the weak die early. It has always been that way.”

“I have never seen anyone shoot a bow as well as that one. In near darkness, on a rocking boat, he killed six men without hesitation. Are all your people so skilled?”

Quishan busied his hands with the mah-jongg tiles, placing them back in their leather carrying case.

“I am not, but the Uighurs value learning and trade more than any other tribe. The Wolves are known for their ferocity.” He paused, his hands growing still. “It is almost too much to believe that the tribes have united under one man, one khan. He must be extraordinary.”

Quishan snapped the clasp closed on the leather box, leaning back. He wanted a drink to settle his stomach, but Chen Yi never allowed alcohol when the night needed clear heads.

“Will you welcome my people when they ride to the walls?” Quishan asked softly. He felt Chen Yi’s gaze on him, but he did not look up from his folded hands.

“You think I betrayed my city?” Chen Yi asked him.

Quishan raised his gaze, seeing a dark anger in the man he had grown to trust over the years. “All this is new. Perhaps this new khan will be destroyed by the emperor’s armies and those who called themselves allies will suffer the same fate. Have you considered that?”

Chen Yi snorted. “Of course, but I have lived too long with a foot on my neck, Quishan. This house, my slaves, all those who follow me are just what the emperor’s ministers have missed through sloth and corruption. We are beneath their notice, like rats in their warehouses. At times, they send a man to make an example and he hangs a few hundred. Sometimes they even catch people who are valuable to me. Or loved by me.” Chen Yi’s face was like stone as he spoke and Quishan knew he was thinking of his son, no more than a boy when he had been caught in a trawl of the docks two years before. Chen Yi himself had taken the body down from where it swung in the river breeze.

“But a fire does not know who it burns,” Quishan said. “You are inviting the flames into your home, your city. Who knows how it will end?”

Chen Yi was silent. He knew as well as Quishan that the three strangers could be made to vanish. There were always bodies in the Yellow River, naked and bloated as they floated by. The deaths would never come back to him. Yet something he had seen in Khasar had stirred a thirst for revenge Chen Yi had buried since the morning he had carried his son’s limp weight.

“Let them come, these people of yours who use bows and horses. I judge them more by you than the promises of men I do not know. How long have you worked for me?”

“Nine years, master,” Quishan said.

“And you have kept honor with me to pay your debt. How many times could you have escaped and gone back to your people?”

“Three times,” Quishan admitted. “Three when I thought I would be able to run clear before you heard.”

“I knew about them,” Chen Yi replied. “I knew of the boat master who made the first offer. He was one of mine. You would not have gone far before he cut your throat.”

Quishan frowned at this information. “You tested me, then.”

“Of course. I am not a fool, Quishan. I never was. Let the flames come to Baotou. I will stand alive on the ashes when they are done. Let the Imperial officers burn their plumes in them and I will know contentment. I will know joy at last.”

Chen Yi rose and stretched, his back clicking audibly in the silent rooms.

“You are a gambler, Quishan, it is why you have worked for me for so long. I have never been one. I have made this city my own, but still I must bow my head whenever I see one of the emperor’s prancing favorites ride down the streets. My streets, Quishan, yet I bow and step into the filth of the gutters rather than stand in their path.”

Chen Yi looked out into the darkness, his eyes dead in his face.

“I will stand now, Quishan, and the tiles will fall as they please.”

CHAPTER 14

AS MIDNIGHT CAME, a heavy rain began to fall on the city of Baotou. The downpour hissed on the streets and rattled on the tiles so that it sounded like distant thunder. Chen Yi seemed pleased at the turn in the weather as he handed swords to his men. Even the beggars would shrink back in their doorways while the rain came down. It was a good omen.

As they stepped out onto the dark street, Khasar and Ho Sa stared up and down its length to see if they were observed. The moon was hidden and there was only dim light when the rushing clouds drifted open in patches. Temuge had assumed the water would wash away some of the stench of the city. Instead, it seemed to bloom in the air, the taint of human filth carried on the damp so that it seeped into his lungs and made him nauseous. The gutters were already full and Temuge saw dark, wet things he could not name tumbling along, borne by the current. He shuddered, suddenly aware of the writhing press of humanity all around him. Without Chen Yi, he would not have known where to begin his search in the maze of houses and shops, piled on top of one another in all directions.

Two more of Chen Yi’s men had joined them at the gate. Although there was no official curfew, ten men would be challenged by any soldiers still on the streets. Chen Yi gave one the task of scouting each crossroads, and instructed two more to hang back and see if they were followed. Temuge could not escape the feeling he was heading into a battle. As the rain poured down he handled the wet hilt of the sword Chen Yi had pressed on him, hoping he would not have to draw it. He was shivering as they set off, moving at a light trot. The gates closed behind them with an audible clang, but no one looked back.

On some of the streets, the overhanging eaves of houses formed a strip of dry road. Chen Yi slowed to a walk as he led the group past those, unwilling to have the sound of running feet draw residents out to watch. The city was not fully dark, nor sleeping. Temuge saw occasional lights from forges and warehouses, still working into the night. Despite Chen Yi’s precautions, Temuge was certain he could feel eyes on them as they passed.

In the gloom, Temuge lost track of time until it seemed he had been running for half the night. There was no pattern to the streets as they wound over and around each other, sometimes little more than dirt tracks with clotted mud that spattered them up to their knees. Temuge was winded after only a short time, and more than once, someone took his arm in the darkness and yanked him onwards, forcing him to keep up. He swore under his breath as one such jerk on his sleeve made him step into a gutter and something soft and cold became trapped between his toes. He hoped it was rotten fruit and nothing worse, but he did not stop.

Only once did the front runner return to guide Chen Yi down a different path. Temuge hoped the soldiers were spending the night in a warm barracks rather than being frozen and drenched as he was.

Chen Yi stopped his panting men at last in the shadow of the city wall itself. Temuge could see it as a bank of deeper darkness. On the other side lay the world he knew and he had a sense of the protection it brought to the city. Such a wall had served the Xi Xia king in Yinchuan. All the warriors Genghis had summoned could not make a breach in such a thing. It ran into the distance, looming over a wide street of houses that looked much as Chen Yi’s own home. These, though, were not hidden in the slums, but rose well spaced and carried the scent of flowering gardens on the breeze. Even the pattern of streets had changed in this part of Baotou. They jogged through a grid of islands, each one separate from the city behind its gates and walls. Temuge struggled to catch his breath. He almost choked as Khasar slapped him on the shoulders, his brother standing comfortably as if he had been out for an evening stroll.

The two runners behind came up quickly, shaking their heads. They had not been followed. Chen Yi did not pause to rest, whispering orders to them to stay out of sight as he approached the closest gate. The man’s gaze fell on Temuge as he stood there with his hands resting on his knees, and he came close to speak into his ear.

“There will be guards. They will wake their master and I will speak to him. Make no threats in my city, Mongol. The owner will be nervous to have strangers so late in his house and I do not want weapons to be drawn.”

Chen Yi turned away, smoothing down his black robe with his hands as he neared the gate. Two of his men accompanied him and the rest of the group faded to one side where they could not be seen. Khasar took Temuge by the sleeve and dragged him with them before he could protest.

Chen Yi himself thumped on the gate and Temuge saw yellow light fall on his face as a hinged square opened in the wood.

“Tell your master he has a visitor on Imperial business,” Chen Yi said, his voice firm. “Rouse him, if he sleeps.”

Temuge could not hear the reply, but after an age, the square opened again and Chen Yi looked into another face.

“I do not know you,” the man said clearly.

Chen Yi stood very still. “The Blue Tong knows you, Lian. Tonight, your debts will be paid.”

The gate opened quickly, but Chen Yi did not step across the threshold.

“If you have crossbows waiting, Lian, it will be your last night. I have men with me, but the streets are dangerous. Do not be alarmed and all will be well.”

The unseen man murmured a reply, his voice shaking. Only then did Chen Yi turn his gaze on the others and gesture them to follow him in.

Temuge saw fear in the man who had been summoned from his bed. Lian was almost as wide across the shoulders as Khasar, but he trembled visibly, keeping his eyes downcast as Chen Yi strode into his home.

There was only one guard at the gate and he too kept his eyes averted from those who entered. Temuge felt his confidence grow and he looked around him with interest as soon as the gate was shut on the street. The run through the rain and darkness was behind and he enjoyed the subservient way the master mason of Baotou reacted.

Lian stood as if stunned before Chen Yi, his hair wild from sleep.

“I will have food and drink prepared,” he murmured, but Chen Yi shook his head.

“It will not be necessary. Show me to where we can talk in private.” Chen Yi looked around at the courtyard of the home. The mason had prospered under Imperial rule. As well as repairing the wall, he was responsible for the creation of three barracks and the race course in the heart of the Imperial district. Yet his home was simple and elegant. Chen Yi’s gaze fastened on the single guard and he saw that he stood very close to a bell hanging from a beam.

“You would not want your man to summon soldiers here, Lian. Tell him to stand away from that bell, or I will believe you doubt my word.”

The mason nodded to the soldier, who winced visibly and took up a new position near the main house. The rain grew heavier, pounding into the small courtyard. Chilled by it, the mason seemed to come to himself. He led them into the house and hid his fear in the lighting of lamps. Temuge saw his hand shake as he held the taper to wick after wick, more than they needed, as if the light could banish his fear.

Chen Yi settled himself on a hard couch as he waited for the mason to finish fussing round the room. Khasar, Ho Sa, and Temuge stood together, watching the scene in silent fascination. Chen Yi’s guards took positions behind their master and Temuge saw the mason’s eyes flicker over them, registering the threat.

At last he could not delay any longer. He seated himself across from Chen Yi, pressing his hands together to hide the way they shook.

“I have paid my tithe to the tong,” Lian said. “Was it short?”

“It was not,” Chen Yi replied. He took a moment to smooth the rainwater off his face, running his hand over his hair and flicking the drops onto the wooden floor. Lian’s gaze followed them. “It is not that which brings me to you.” Before Chen Yi could continue, Lian spoke again, unable to stop himself.

“The workers, then? I used all the men I could, but two of those you sent would not work. The others complained that they did not carry their share. I was going to dismiss them this morning, but if it is your will that they remain . . .”

Chen Yi could have been carved out of marble as he studied the master mason.

“They are the sons of friends. They will remain, but that is not why I am here.”

The mason slumped slightly in his seat. “Then I do not understand,” he said.

“Do you have one who can take over the work of maintaining the wall?”

“My own son, lord.”

Chen Yi sat very still until the mason looked up at him.

“I am not a lord, Lian. I am a friend who must ask a favor.”

“Anything,” Lian replied, tensing for the worst.

Chen Yi nodded, pleased. “You will summon your son and tell him he must take over the work for a year, perhaps two. I have heard good reports of him.”

“He is a fine son,” Lian agreed immediately. “He will listen to his father.”

“That is wise, Lian. Tell him you will be gone for that time, perhaps to find a new source of marble in a quarry somewhere. Make up whatever lie you wish, but do not leave him suspicious. Remind him the debts of the father are his while you are gone and explain the tithe he must pay to the tong if he wishes to work. I do not want to have to remind him myself.”

“It is done,” Lian said. He was sweating, Temuge saw, a bright line of droplets appearing on his hairline. He saw the burly mason gather his courage to ask a question.

“I will tell my wife and children the same, but may I know the truth?”

Chen Yi shrugged, cocking his head to one side. “Will it change anything, Lian?”

“No, lord. I am sorry . . .”

“It does not matter. You will accompany these friends of mine out of the city. They need your expertise, Lian. Bring your tools and, when your work is done, I will see to it that you are rewarded.”

The mason nodded miserably and Chen Yi stood abruptly.

“Speak to those you love, Lian, then come with me.”

The mason left the group alone and disappeared into the darkness of the house. Those who remained relaxed a little and Khasar wandered over to a silk hanging, using the material to dry the rain from his face and hair. Temuge heard the distant wail of a child as the man passed on what he had been told.

“I do not know what we would have done if you had not been here to help us,” Ho Sa said to Chen Yi.

The master of the tong smiled slightly. “You would have blundered around my city until the soldiers caught you. Perhaps I would have come to watch the foreign spies impaled or hanged. The gods are fickle, but this time, they were with you.”

“Have you given thought to getting us out of the city?” Temuge asked. Before Chen Yi could respond, Lian returned. His eyes were red, but he stood tall and had lost some portion of his fear. He wore a coat of heavy waxed cloth against the rain, and over one shoulder was a rolled leather pack that he clutched as if it gave him comfort.

“I have my tools,” he said to Chen Yi. “I am ready.”

They left the house behind and once again Chen Yi sent a man ahead to watch for soldiers walking their patrols. The rain had lessened and Temuge saw the north star briefly through the clouds. Chen Yi had explained nothing, but they headed west along a road parallel to the wall and Temuge could only trot with them.

In the darkness ahead, they heard a voice cry out and the group halted as one.

“Keep your blades out of sight,” Chen Yi hissed. Temuge swallowed nervously, hearing footsteps on the paved road. They waited for the man ahead to come back, but instead, they heard the tramp of iron-shod sandals and Chen Yi darted his gaze around, taking in possible routes of escape.

“Stand still,” a voice snapped out of the darkness. Temuge was close enough to see Chen Yi grimace.

There were six soldiers in scaled armor, led by a man wearing a plumed helmet of hard bristles. Temuge groaned to himself at the sight of the crossbows they held. Chen Yi’s men stood little chance of fighting their way through. He felt panic rise like acid in his throat and he started to back away without thinking. It was Khasar’s iron grip that held him in place.

“Where is your captain?” Chen Yi demanded. “Lujan can vouch for me.” He saw that they held his man by the scruff of his neck. The man struggled in the grip, but Chen Yi did not look at him.

The plumed officer frowned at the tone, stepping forward from his men.

“Lujan is off-duty tonight. What business do you have to be running the streets in the dark?”

“Lujan will explain,” Chen Yi said. He licked his lips nervously. “He told me his name would let us pass.”

The officer glanced back at the hapless man being held by his neck.

“I have not been told. You come back to the barracks and we will ask him.”

Chen Yi sighed. “No. No, we will not do that,” he said. Chen Yi darted forward with a knife in his fist, punching it into the throat of the officer so that he fell back with a choking cry. The soldiers behind loosed their crossbows instantly, firing into the group. Someone cried out and then Chen Yi’s men were among them, hacking their blades into the soldiers.

Khasar drew the sword he had been given and roared at the top of his lungs. The bark of sound made the closest soldier take a step back, and Khasar knocked him down, stepping in close to hammer his forearm across the man’s face. The impact took the soldier’s feet out from under him, and Khasar lunged past, lost in a vicious whirl where he used elbows, feet, head: anything to bring his enemies to the ground. Those who had shot their bolts could only raise the bows to defend themselves. Khasar’s blade smashed one of the weapons to pieces before he hacked the edge into a soldier’s neck. In the darkness, he moved through them like a breeze, kicking at an exposed knee and feeling it break. The soldiers were clumsy in their armor and Khasar was faster, whipping round as he sensed every threat before it could come close. He felt someone grasp him from behind, trapping his sword arm. He smashed his head backwards, striking with his elbows, and was rewarded with a grunt of pain as his attackers fell away.

Temuge shouted as one of the soldiers collided with him. He flailed wildly with his own sword, terror stealing his strength. Somewhere a bell began to ring. As he registered the sound, he felt himself being lifted and he screamed, falling silent when Ho Sa slapped his face.

“Get up. It is over,” Ho Sa snapped, embarrassed for him. Temuge gripped his arm as he rose, staring at the sight of Khasar surrounded by broken bodies.

“You call these soldiers, Chen Yi?” Khasar said. “They move like sick sheep.”

Chen Yi stood stunned as Khasar casually shoved his sword into the chest of one who still moved, finding a place under the scales of armor before leaning his full weight on it. He could hardly believe how quickly the Mongol warrior had moved. His own guards were men picked for their skill, but Khasar had made them look like farmers. He found himself wanting to defend the soldiers of his city, much as he hated them.

“There are six city barracks, each with five hundred or more of these sick sheep,” he replied. “It has been enough.”

Khasar prodded one of the bodies with his foot. “My people will eat them alive,” he said. He winced then and touched his hand to his collarbone. It came away stained with blood, quickly diluted in the rain so that it ran between his fingers.

“You are cut,” Temuge said.

“I am too used to fighting in armor, brother. I let the blow through.” In irritation, Khasar kicked the officer’s helmet where it lay near his feet, sending it skittering over the paving.

Two of Chen Yi’s men hung limp between their fellows, blood pooling into the puddles of rainwater. Chen Yi examined them, his fingers touching the bolts that stood out in their chests. He thought quickly, his plans in disarray.

“No man can avoid the wheel,” he said. “Let them lie here to be found. The Imperial officers will want bodies to show to the crowds tomorrow.”

The two dead men were released, sprawling on the stones. Temuge saw that others among them bore wounds and they panted like dogs in the sun. Chen Yi turned to him then, his anger becoming scorn.

“You are safe for the moment, frightened one, but they will rip the city apart looking for us. If I do not get you out tonight, you will be here until spring.”

Temuge’s cheeks burned in humiliation. All the group was staring at him and Khasar looked away. Chen Yi sheathed his blade and resumed the trot that would carry them to the walls. The runner had survived the bloody fight and he went ahead once more.

The west gate was smaller than the one they had passed through on their journey from the river. Temuge despaired when he saw light growing ahead and heard shouting. Whichever citizen had rung a warning bell, the soldiers had roused themselves from their barracks and Chen Yi was hard pressed to avoid being seen. He headed for a dark building near the gate, hammering on the door to be let in. Temuge could hear the clatter of armored men coming closer as the door opened and they piled inside, slamming it quickly shut behind them.

“Get men to the highest windows,” Chen Yi told the one who had answered his knock. “Have them call down what they see.” He swore under his breath then and Temuge did not dare speak to him. The sight of the ugly gash running the length of Khasar’s collarbone stirred Temuge from his panic, and he asked one of Chen Yi’s men for a needle and catgut thread. His brother watched with just the occasional grunt as Temuge stitched the skin in a ragged line. The blood and rain had cleaned it and he thought it would not fester. The action helped to still his thumping heart and prevented him from dwelling on the fact that they were being hunted at that very moment.

One of the men above called down, his voice a harsh whisper as he leaned over a banister: “The gate is shut and barricaded. I can see perhaps a hundred soldiers, though most are on the move. Thirty hold the gate.”

“Crossbows?” Chen Yi asked, looking up at the man.

“Twenty, maybe more.”

“Then we are trapped. They will search the city for us.” He turned to Temuge. “I can no longer help you. If I am found, they will kill me and the Blue Tong will have a new leader. I must leave you here.”

The mason Lian had not fought with the others. Unarmed, he had stepped into the gutter as soon as the fight had started. It was he who answered Chen Yi, his voice rumbling in the shocked silence.

“I know a way out,” he said. “If you don’t mind a little dirt on your hands.”

“Soldiers in the street!” the man above hissed down at them. “They are knocking on doors, searching the houses.”

“Tell us quickly, Lian,” Chen Yi said. “If we are caught, you will not be spared.”

The mason nodded, his face grim. “We must go now. It is not far from here.”

Mutton-fat lamps burned and spat, casting a dim yellow light as Genghis faced a line of six kneeling men. Each of them had his hands bound behind his back. To a man, they showed the cold face, as if terror of the khan did not gnaw at them. Genghis strode up and down the line. He had been summoned from the bed of Chakahai and had risen with fury, even when he saw it was Kachiun who called his name in the darkness.

The six men were brothers, ranging from the youngest who was barely more than a boy to mature warriors with wives and children of their own.

“Each of you spoke an oath to me,” Genghis snapped. His temper flared as he spoke and for an instant he was tempted to take the heads of all six.

“One of you killed a boy of the Uriankhai. Let him speak and only one will die. If he does not, your lives are mine to take.” He drew his father’s sword slowly, letting them hear the sound. Outside the ring of lamps, he sensed the presence of a growing crowd, called from sleep by the prospect of seeing justice. He would not disappoint them. Genghis stood over the youngest of the brothers and raised the sword as if it weighed nothing.

“I can find him, my lord,” Kokchu said softly from the edge of the darkness. The brothers looked up to see the shaman enter the dim light, his eyes terrible. “I have only to lay my hand on each head to know the one you seek.”

The brothers were visibly trembling as Genghis nodded, sheathing his sword.

“Work your spells, shaman. The boy was torn apart. Find me who did it.”

Kokchu bowed low and stood before the brothers. They did not dare look at him, though their frozen expressions were strained and quivering.

Genghis watched in fascination as Kokchu pressed his hand lightly to the first man’s head and closed his eyes. The words of the shaman’s tongue erupted forth from him in a liquid roll of sound. One of the brothers jerked away and almost fell before struggling upright.

As Kokchu lifted his hand, the first brother swayed, dazed and pale. The crowd outside the light had grown and hundreds murmured in the dark. Kokchu moved to the second man and took an indrawn breath, closing his eyes.

“The boy . . .” he said. “The boy saw. . .” He stood very still and the camp held their breath to watch him. At last Kokchu shook himself, as if shrugging off a heavy weight. “One of these men is a traitor, lord. I have seen it. I have seen his face. He killed the boy to stop him telling what he saw.”

With one sharp step, Kokchu stepped to the fourth man in the line, the oldest of the brothers. His hand snapped out and his fingers writhed like bones in the man’s black hair.

“I did not kill the boy!” the brother shouted, struggling.

“If you lie, the spirits will steal your soul,” Kokchu hissed into the shocked silence. “Now lie again and show the lord khan the fate of traitors and murderers.”

The warrior was slack-faced with terror as he cried out, “I did not kill the boy. I swear it!” Under Kokchu’s heavy hand, he convulsed suddenly and the crowd shouted in fear. They watched in horror as the man’s eyes rolled up in his head and his jaw flopped open brokenly. He fell to one side, breaking the awful grip as he jerked and spasmed, his bladder releasing a great rush of steaming urine onto the frozen grass.

Kokchu stood watching until the man was still, his eyes still showing white in the gleam from the lamps. The silence was immense, filling the camp. Only Genghis could break it and even he had to struggle to overcome the sense of awe and dread that gripped him.

“Cut the bonds of the other men,” he said. “The boy’s death has been answered.” Kokchu bowed to him then and Genghis dismissed the crowd to their homes to wait fearfully for the sun to return.

CHAPTER 15

ALARM BELLS RANG ACROSS BAOTOU as they hurried through the night, following Lian. Even the dark was lifting in places, as householders woke and lit lamps from every gate. They ran through pools of light where the rain showed as gold flecks, then on into blackness.

The soldiers had not seen them leave, though it had been close. Lian clearly knew the area well and darted through tiny alleys behind the houses of the rich without hesitation. Most of the Imperial guards had turned out in the area of the gates, but they were working their way inwards to the center of the city, tightening their grip as they searched for the criminals who had killed their men.

Temuge panted weakly as he struggled on. They were heading along the wall, though at times, Lian turned away from it to avoid open courtyards and street crossings. Khasar loped at his side, watching for soldiers. After the fight, he was smiling whenever Temuge looked at him, though Temuge suspected it was the smile of an idiot who could not imagine the consequences of being caught. His own imagination was brutal enough for both of them, and he cringed as he ran, imagining hot irons on his flesh.

Lian halted near a quiet section of the wall. The antlike scurrying of soldiers had been left behind, but the warning bells had brought the people out to their doorways, peering fearfully at the running men.

Lian turned to them, breathing heavily.

“The wall is being repaired here. We can climb the ropes for the rubble baskets. You won’t find another way out of Baotou tonight.”

“Show me,” Chen Yi said.

Lian glanced around him at the pale faces watching from every window in sight. He swallowed nervously and nodded, leading them to where they could lay their hands on the ancient stones of the city wall.

Ropes lay coiled in the darkness and they could see the bulbous shapes of the soft baskets used to carry rubble up to the crest, where it was dumped into the core of the wall. Three of the ropes were taut and Chen Yi gripped one of them with a pleased exclamation.

“You have done well, Lian. Are there no ladders?”

“They are locked away at night,” Lian replied. “I could break the locks easily enough, but it would delay us.”

“Then this will do. Take this one and show how it is done.”

The mason dropped his roll of tools to the ground and began climbing, grunting with the effort. It was difficult to judge the height of the wall in the dark, but it seemed huge to Temuge as he stared upwards. He clenched his fists in the darkness, desperate not to be humiliated again in front of Khasar. He would climb it. The thought of being lifted like a sack of hammers was too awful to contemplate.

Ho Sa and Khasar went up together, though Khasar looked back at Temuge before starting to climb. No doubt he thought his weak brother would slip and fall on Chen Yi like divine retribution. Temuge stared furiously at him until Khasar grinned and climbed like a rat, making it look easy despite his wound.

“The rest of you will wait here,” Chen Yi murmured to his men. “I will go up with these, then return to you once they are safely down. Someone will have to pull the lines back from the other side.”

He handed a thick rope to Temuge and watched as the younger man began to ascend, pulling himself up the wall with shaking arms. Chen Yi shook his head in exasperation.

“Do not fall, fearful one,” he said. A small man, Chen Yi ascended quickly, leaving Temuge climbing alone in the dark. His arms were burning and sweat poured into his eyes, but he forced himself to walk up the rough stone, hanging out over the men below. There was no light near the top and he almost let go in shock when strong hands grabbed him and dragged him onto the crest.

Temuge lay panting, ignored by the others and desperately relieved. His heart pounded wildly as they stood and looked back into the city. Below, the baskets of rubble had been cut free and they pulled the ropes up quickly, dropping them over the other side.

The wall was ten feet wide at the crest and the rope stretched over it. Lian swore under his breath as he saw the ropes would not reach right to the ground outside the city.

“We will have to jump the last part and hope no one breaks a leg,” he said.

The last rope had to be pulled up. It bumped its way to the top with the bundle of Lian’s tools, Khasar’s bow, and three plain swords all wrapped together. Lian lowered it down the outside of the wall and paused, waiting for Chen Yi to give the order.

“Go now,” Chen Yi said. “You will have to walk unless you can find a place to buy mules.”

“I am not riding a mule,” Khasar said immediately. “Are there no ponies worth stealing in this land?”

“It is too much risk. Your people lie to the north, unless you intend to return by way of the Xi Xia. It is not more than a few hundred li from here, but there will be garrisons of Imperial soldiers on every road and pass. You would do better to head west past the mountains, traveling only by night.”

“We’ll see,” Khasar said. “Goodbye, little thief. I will not forget how you have helped us.” He crouched on the far edge, then slid over to hang on his elbows before reaching for the dangling rope. Ho Sa followed with merely a nod to Chen Yi, and Temuge too would have gone without a word if the little man hadn’t laid a palm on his shoulder.

“Your khan has what he wanted. I will hold him to promises made in his name.”

Temuge nodded briskly. He did not care whether Genghis torched Baotou to the ground. “Of course,” he said. “We are an honorable people.”

Chen Yi watched as he climbed down, as ungainly and feeble as before. When the leader of the Blue Tong was alone on the wall, he sighed. He did not trust Temuge, with his shifting eyes and visible cowardice. In Khasar he had sensed a fellow spirit; a ruthless man, but one he hoped would share his sense of honor and debt. He shrugged as he turned back to the city. He could not be certain. He did not enjoy the thrill of gambling and had never understood it in those who did. “The tiles are flying,” he murmured. “Who knows where they will fall?”

The four men were dusty and footsore by the tenth day. Unused to walking, Khasar had developed a limp and his mood was surly as they trudged on. Once out of reach of Chen Yi, Lian too had asked only a few questions before settling into a grim silence. He walked with his tools over his shoulder, and though he shared the hares Khasar killed with his bow, he made no attempt to join in the conversations as the others planned their route. A biting wind made them walk with one hand on their robes, bunching the cloth tight.

Khasar had wanted to take the shortest trails north. Temuge had argued and been ignored, but Ho Sa had swayed him with descriptions of the Chin forts and the wall that guarded the empire from invaders. Though it was broken, there were still guards enough to pose a danger to four men alone. The only safe path was to head west along the banks of the Yellow River until they reached the mountains that straddled the Xi Xia kingdom and the Gobi desert.

At the end of the tenth day, Khasar had insisted on entering a Chin village to look for ponies. He and his brother still carried a small fortune in silver and gold—enough to terrify peasants who would not have seen anything like that level of wealth. Even finding a merchant willing to change a few silvers into bronze was difficult. They left empty-handed and set off again as night fell, unwilling to remain in one place for long.

As the moon rose, the four weary men were deep in pine woods, making slow time on animal paths and trying to keep sight of the stars to guide them. For the first time in his life, Temuge had become aware of his own smell of sweat and dirt and wished for another opportunity to bathe in the Chin style. He looked back on his first experience of a city with nostalgia, remembering the cleanliness of Chen Yi’s house. He cared nothing for the beggars, or the mass of people like maggots in flyblown meat. He was the son and brother of a khan and would never fall to such a low estate. To find that wealthy men could live as he had seen was a revelation, and he asked questions of Lian as they walked in the darkness. The mason seemed surprised that Temuge should know so little of city life, hardly understanding how each new fact was like water to a dry soul. He told Temuge of apprenticeship and universities, where great thinkers came to exchange ideas and argue without bloodshed. As a mason, he spoke of sewers being laid even in the poorest sections of the city, though corruption had stalled the works for more than a dozen years. Temuge drank it all in, and as he walked he dreamed of strolling with learned men in sunlit courtyards, discussing great issues with his hands clasped behind his back. Then he would stumble on a hidden root and Khasar would laugh at him, shattering the images.

It was Khasar who stopped on the trail without warning, letting Ho Sa thump into his back. The Xi Xia soldier was too much of an old hand to break the silence. Lian stopped in confusion and Temuge raised his head from private thoughts, his breath catching in his throat. Surely they had not been tracked? They had seen a guard post on a road two days behind, giving it a wide berth. Could the word have gone out to find the fugitives? Temuge felt a stab of despair, suddenly certain that Chen Yi had given them up in exchange for his life. It was what Temuge would have done and as panic overwhelmed him in the darkness, he saw enemies in every shadow.

“What is it?” Temuge hissed to his brother’s back.

Khasar turned his head this way and that, searching for sound. “I heard voices. The wind has changed now, but they were there.”

“We should head south for a few miles to lose them,” Ho Sa whispered. “If they are looking for us, we can use the woods to lay up for a day.”

“Soldiers don’t camp in woods,” Khasar said. “It’s too easy to creep up on a man. We’ll go ahead, but slowly. Have your weapons ready.”

Lian removed a long-handled hammer from his roll of tools, swinging the head onto his other shoulder.

Temuge stared at Khasar in growing anger. “What do we care who else is in these woods?” he demanded. “Ho Sa is right, we should go around them.”

“If they have horses, it’s worth the risk. I think it’s going to snow and I’m tired of walking,” Khasar replied. Without another word, he padded stealthily on, forcing them to follow. Temuge cursed him in silence. Men like Khasar would not walk the avenues in the city of his imagination. They would guard the walls perhaps, while better men were given the honor and dignity they deserved.

As they walked along the narrow track, the glow of a fire could be seen through the trees and they all heard the noises Khasar’s sharp ears had picked out. Laughter came clearly on the night air and Khasar beamed when he heard the whinny of a mare.

The four men crept slowly toward the light, the noise of their own movement hidden by shouts and cheering. When they were close enough, Khasar lay down on his stomach and peered into a tiny clearing where ancient roots overlaid each other in twisted patterns.

A mule was there, yanking at the leather strap that bound it to a branch. To Khasar’s pleasure, three shaggy ponies were tethered on the edge of the clearing. They were small and thin, standing with their heads drooping. Khasar’s gaze hardened at seeing the white lines of scars on their haunches, and he unstrapped his bow, laying arrows on the briars.

There were four men around the fire, three of them taunting the fourth. He was a small figure in a robe of dark red. His shaven head shone with sweat in the firelight. The others wore no armor, but they carried knives in their belts and one had a short bow leaning against a tree. Their faces were cruel as they continued their sport, darting in and out again to strike the small man. His features were bruised and swollen, but one of the men bled freely from his nose and did not join in the laughter with the others.

As Khasar watched, the one with the bloody nose hit out with a stick, making the small man stagger. The thump of the blow could be heard across the clearing, and Khasar grinned wolfishly as he strung his bow by feel. He wormed his way back to Ho Sa away from the light, his voice the barest whisper.

“We need their horses. They don’t look like soldiers and I can take two with the bow if you rush the last. There is another young one with a head like an egg. He’s still fighting, but he hasn’t a chance against all three.”

“He may be a monk,” Ho Sa said. “They are hard men, for all they spend their time begging and in prayer. Do not underestimate him.”

Khasar raised his eyes, amused. “I spent my childhood learning weapons from dawn till dusk. I’ve yet to see one of your people who could stand against me.”

Ho Sa frowned, shaking his head. “If he is a monk, he will be trying not to kill his attackers. I have seen them show their skills to my king.”

Khasar snorted softly. “You are a strange people. Soldiers who cannot fight and holy men who can. Tell Lian to get his hammer ready to crack a head when I shoot.”

Khasar inched forward once more, coming slowly up to a kneeling position. To his surprise, he saw the man with the bloody nose was lying on the ground, writhing in agony. The other two had fallen into grim silence. The young monk stood straight despite the bruises he had taken, and Khasar heard him speak calmly to his tormentors. One of them sneered, tossing aside his stick and pulling a wicked-looking dagger from his belt.

Khasar bent his bow, and as it creaked, the monk looked through the fire at him, suddenly light on his feet as if ready to leap away. The others hadn’t noticed and one of them rushed the monk, the dagger held to punch into his chest.

Khasar let out a breath and loosed an arrow that took the bandit in the armpit, hammering him off his feet. The other swung round as Lian and Ho Sa shouted, leaping up. As they moved, the monk stepped very close to the remaining man and landed a blow to his head that knocked him into the fire. Ho Sa and Lian came roaring in then, but the monk ignored them, dragging his attacker out of the flames and patting him down where his hair had begun to smoke. The man was limp, but the weight did not seem to trouble the monk at all.

When that was done, he stood to face the newcomers, nodding to them. The one with the bloody nose now moaned in fear as well as pain. Khasar nocked another arrow as he walked, Temuge following at his heels.

The monk saw what Khasar intended and darted forward, so that Khasar’s view of the writhing figure was blocked. The bald skull made him look little older than a boy.

“Step aside,” Khasar told him.

The words were received blankly, but the monk did not move and only folded his arms to stare down the arrow.

“Tell him to step away, Ho Sa,” Khasar said, gritting his teeth against the strain of holding the drawn bow. “Tell him we need his mule, but otherwise he can go on his way once I’ve killed this one.”

Ho Sa spoke and Khasar saw the monk’s face light up as he heard words he recognized. A blistering exchange followed, and when it showed no sign of ceasing, Khasar swore in the Chin language and eased off the strain.

“He says he did not need us and the man’s life is not ours to take,” Ho Sa said at last. “He also said he will not give up the mule, as it is not his, but only loaned to him.”

“Does he not see the bow I am holding?” Khasar demanded, jerking it in the monk’s direction.

“He would not care if you had a dozen pointed at him. He is a holy man and without fear.”

“A holy boy, with a mule for Temuge,” Khasar replied. “Unless you want to ride double with my brother?”

“I do not mind,” Ho Sa said immediately. He spoke to the monk, bowing three times in the course of the conversation. The boy nodded sharply at the end, glancing at Khasar.

“He says you may take the ponies,” Ho Sa said. “He will remain here to tend the wounded men.”

Khasar shook his head, unable to understand. “Did he thank me for rescuing him?”

Ho Sa looked blank. “He did not need rescuing.”

Khasar frowned at the monk, who stared calmly back.

“Genghis would love this one,” Khasar said suddenly. “Ask him if he wants to come with us.”

Ho Sa spoke again and the boy shook his head, his eyes never leaving Khasar.

“He says the work of the Buddha may take him onto strange roads, but his place is amongst the poor.”

Khasar snorted. “The poor are everywhere. Ask him how he knows this Buddha didn’t want us to find him here.”

Ho Sa nodded, and as he talked, the monk looked increasingly interested.

“He asks if the Buddha is known among your people,” Ho Sa said.

Khasar grinned. “Tell him we believe in a sky father above and an earth mother below. The rest is struggle and pain before death.” He chuckled as Ho Sa blinked at hearing the philosophy.

“Is that all you believe?” Ho Sa asked.

Khasar glanced at his brother. “Some of the foolish ones believe in spirits as well, but most of us believe in a good horse and a strong right arm. We do not know this Buddha.”

When Ho Sa relayed the speech, the young monk bowed and strode to where his mule was tethered. Khasar and Temuge watched as he leaped into the saddle, causing the animal to snort and kick.

“That is an ugly beast,” Khasar said. “Is the boy coming with us?”

Ho Sa still looked surprised as he nodded. “He is. He says that no man can guess his path, but perhaps you are right that you were guided to him.”

“All right,” Khasar said. “But tell him that I will not let my enemies live, that he must not interfere with me again. Tell him if he does, I will cut his little bald head right off.”

When the monk heard the words, he laughed aloud, slapping his thigh as he sat astride the mule.

Khasar frowned at him. “I am Khasar of the Wolves, monk,” he said, pointing to himself. “What is your name?”

“Yao Shu!” he replied, thumping a fist twice into his own chest like a salute. The action seemed to amuse the monk and he chuckled until he had to wipe his eyes. Khasar stared at him. “Mount up, Ho Sa,” he said at last. “The brown mare is mine. At least the walking is over.”

It did not take long for them to mount. Ho Sa and Temuge rode together once the saddle had been unstrapped and thrown down. The surviving bandits had grown quiet amidst the talk, aware that their lives hung in the balance. They watched the strangers go, only sitting up to curse when they were sure they were alone.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

The pass that separated the Xi Xia kingdom from the southern edge of the desert was empty as the party of five men reached it. In the Khenti mountains a thousand miles north, the winter would be deepening, gripping the land for many months to come. Even at the pass, a freezing gale roared through as if in pleasure at its release. There was no fort to make the pass a place of stillness any longer. Instead, the wind always blew and the air was full of sand and grit.

Khasar and Temuge dismounted as they reached the pass, remembering the first bloody efforts to take the fort that had stood there. Genghis had been efficient in having it dismantled. A few large blocks lay where they had fallen in the sand, but every other stone had been dragged away. Only a few square holes in the cliffs showed where timbers and braces had been anchored, but otherwise it was as if the fort had never existed. There was no barrier to the tribes coming south any longer, and that fact alone gave Khasar a feeling of pride.

He strolled with Temuge along the pass, looking up at the high cliffs on either side. The monk and the mason watched them without understanding, neither having known the place when it boasted a fort of black stone and the Xi Xia kingdom ruled in splendid isolation.

Ho Sa looked south, turning his pony to gaze over the bare fields of his home. Dark spots in the distance showed where the rotten crops had been burned and the ashes returned to the land. There would be starvation in the villages, he was certain, perhaps even in Yinchuan. He shook his head at the thought.

He had been away for almost four months and it would be good to see his sons and his wife once again. He wondered how the army had fared after the crushing defeats at the hands of the great khan. The tribes had shattered an ancient peace and he winced as he recalled the destruction. He had lost friends and colleagues in those months, and the bitterness was never far from the surface. The final humiliation had been to see a royal daughter handed over to the barbarians. Ho Sa shuddered at the thought of such a woman being forced to live in their stinking tents among sheep and goats.

As Ho Sa stared into the valley, he realized with some surprise that he would miss Khasar’s company. For all the man’s crudity and easy violence, Ho Sa could look back on the journey with some pride. No one else from the Xi Xia could have stolen into a Chin city and returned alive with a master mason. It was true that Khasar had almost got him killed in one village where he had drunk too much rice wine. Ho Sa rubbed a scab on his side where a soldier had scraped a knife along his ribs. The man had not even been posted there and was visiting his family. Khasar could not recall the fight when he sobered up and seemed to think nothing of it. He was in some ways the most irritating man Ho Sa had ever known, but his reckless optimism had affected the Xi Xia soldier and he wondered uneasily if he would be able to return to the rigid discipline of the king’s army. The annual tribute would have to be carried across the desert and Ho Sa decided then that he would volunteer to lead the guards on that trip, just to see the land that could give birth to the tribes.

Khasar walked back to his companions. He felt elation at the thought of seeing home again and bringing their quarry back to Genghis. He grinned at the others in turn, showing his pleasure. To a man, they were dust covered and filthy, with dirt lining every crease of their faces. Yao Shu had begun to learn the speech of the tribes from Ho Sa. Lian had no ear for language, but he too had picked up a few useful words. They nodded back to Khasar uncertainly, unsure of the reason for his good mood.

Ho Sa held his gaze as Khasar approached him. He was surprised at the tightness in his chest at the thought of leaving that strange company and struggled to find words to express it. Khasar spoke before he could think of anything.

“Take a good look, Ho Sa. You won’t be seeing home again for a long time.”

“What?” Ho Sa demanded, his peaceful mood vanishing.

Khasar shrugged. “Your king gave you to us for a year. It’s been less than four months, with perhaps two more before we are in the mountains. We’ll need you to interpret for the mason and to teach proper speech to the monk. Did you think I would leave you here? You did!” Khasar seemed delighted at the bitter expression that flitted across Ho Sa’s face.

“We’re going back to the plains, Ho Sa. We’ll attack a few hills with whatever the mason can teach us, and when we’re ready, we’ll go to war. Perhaps by then, you’ll be so useful to us that I’ll ask your king to lend you for another year or two. I should think he’d be willing to take your price out of the tribute if we asked for you.”

“You are doing this to torture me,” Ho Sa snapped.

Khasar chuckled. “Perhaps a little, but you are a fighting man who knows the Chin. We will need you close when we ride to them.”

Ho Sa stared furiously at Khasar. The Mongol warrior slapped him cheerfully on the leg as he turned away, calling over his shoulder.

“We’ll need to collect water from the canals. After that, it’s the desert and home to women and spoils. Can a man ask for more? I’ll even find you a widow to keep you warm, Ho Sa. I’m doing you a favor, if only you had the eyes to see it.”

Khasar mounted once more, bringing his pony up to where Temuge was being pulled into the saddle by Lian. He leaned close to his brother.

“The plains are calling us, brother. Can you feel it?”

“I can,” Temuge replied. In fact, he wanted to return to the tribes as much as Khasar, though only because he now had a greater understanding of what they could win for themselves. While his brother dreamed of war and plunder, Temuge saw cities in his imagination and all the beauty and the power that came with them.

CHAPTER 16

GENGHIS STOOD IN FULL ARMOR watching the destruction of the city of Linhe. The rice fields had been churned into wet, brown muck for a dozen miles in any direction as his army encircled the walls. His standard of nine horse tails hung limply without a breeze as the setting sun beat down on the army he had brought to that place.

On either side of him, bondsmen waited for orders, their horses pawing at the ground. A servant stood at his shoulder with a chestnut mare, but the khan was not yet ready to mount.

Close by the waiting column, a tent of blood-red cloth fluttered in the wind. For fifty miles around, his army had crushed resistance until only the city stood untouched, even as Yinchuan had once sheltered the Xi Xia king. Garrisons and road forts were found empty as Chin soldiers retreated before a host they could not hope to match. They carried the fear of the invasion before them and rolled back the edges of Chin control, leaving the cities naked. Even the great wall had proved no obstacle to the catapults and ladders of his people. Genghis had taken pleasure in seeing vast sections of it broken into rubble as practice for his new machines of war. His men had swept away the defenders for as far as they could reach, burning the wooden post houses with something resembling spite. The Chin could not keep them out. All they could do was run or be destroyed.

There would be a reckoning, Genghis was certain: when a general rose who could command the Chin, or when the tribes reached Yenking itself. It would not be today.

Xamba had fallen in seven days and Wuyuan had burned in only three. Genghis watched the stones from his catapults knock chips from the walls of Linhe and smiled to himself, satisfied. The mason his brothers had brought back had shown him a new way of warfare, and he would never again be stopped by high walls. Over two years, his people had built catapults and learned the secrets and weaknesses of the Chin high walls. His sons had grown tall and strong and he had been there to see the eldest reach the edge of manhood. It was enough. He had returned to the enemies of his people and he had learned well.

Though he stood back from the catapult lines, he could hear the thumping strikes clearly on the still air. The Chin soldiers within would not dare march out to meet his host, and if they did, he would welcome the quick end. It would not help them now the red tent had been set. Piece by piece, the walls were hammered down, the catapult stones lofted into the air by sweating teams of his men. Lian had shown him designs for an even more fearsome weapon. Genghis pictured it in his mind, seeing again the huge counterweight Lian said would send boulders hundreds of feet with crushing force. The Chin mason had found his calling in designing the weapons, for a ruler who appreciated his skill. Genghis had discovered he could grasp Lian’s diagrams as if the knowledge had always been there. The written word was still a mystery to him, but force and friction, levers, blocks, and ropes were all instantly clear in his mind. He would let Lian build his great machine to attack Yenking.

Yet the Chin emperor’s city was no Linhe to be pounded into submission. Genghis grunted at the thought, imagining the moats and immense walls Lian had described, as thick at the base as seven men lying head to foot. Xamba’s walls had collapsed into tunnels dug beneath them, but the fortress towers of Yenking were built on stone and could not be undermined. He would need more than catapults to break the emperor’s own city, but there were other weapons at his disposal and with every victory his warriors grew more skilled.

Genghis had thought at first that they would resist their new role as workers of machines. His people had never made good infantry before, but Lian had introduced the idea of engineers to them and Genghis had found many who could understand the discipline of forces and weights. He had shown his pleasure in having men to break cities, and they stood proud under his gaze.

Genghis bared his teeth as a section of wall fell outwards. Tsubodai had a thousand of them working before the walls of Linhe. The main host had formed columns outside the four gates of the city, waiting to spear into it at the first sign of an opening. Genghis saw Tsubodai striding among the catapult teams, directing the blows. It was all so new and Genghis felt pride at how well his people had adapted themselves. If only his father could have lived to see it.

In the distance, Tsubodai ordered wooden barricades forward, protecting his warriors as they pulled at weakened stones with long hooked pikes. The city archers could not take a shot without risking their own lives, and even when they were successful, their arrows thumped into wood and were wasted.

As Genghis watched, a group of defenders showed their heads to tip an iron pot over the crest of the wall. Many of them fell to arrows, but there were always more to take their place. Genghis frowned as they succeeded in drenching a dozen pikemen in black liquid. The warriors ducked down behind their wooden shield, but only moments later, torches were thrown onto the oil and flames exploded, louder than the choking screams as their lungs charred.

Genghis heard men curse around him. Tsubodai’s burning pikemen went stumbling into the other groups, fouling the smooth rhythms of the attack. In the confusion, Chin archers picked off anyone who stepped from his shield to fend them off or put an end to their agony.

Tsubodai roared fresh orders and the shield groups moved slowly back, leaving the writhing men until they were consumed. Genghis nodded in approval as the catapults began to whistle once more. He had heard of the oil that burned, though he had never seen it used in such a way. It took flame much faster than the mutton fat in Mongol lamps, and he decided to secure a supply. Perhaps there would be some left in Linhe when it fell. His mind filled with the thousand details he needed to remember each day until his head felt swollen with plans.

Dark, smoking bodies lay under the wall and he could hear thin cheering inside the city. Genghis waited for Tsubodai to make a breach, his impatience growing. The light would not last much longer and at sunset Tsubodai would have to order his men to retreat for the night.

As the catapults sang again, Genghis wondered how many they had lost in the assault. It did not matter. Tsubodai commanded the least experienced of his warriors, and they needed to be hardened in war. In the two years he had spent in the Khenti mountains, another eight thousand boys had reached their adult growth and mounted to join him. Most of them rode with Tsubodai and called themselves the Young Wolves to honor Genghis. Tsubodai had almost begged to be first in the assault on Linhe, but Genghis had already planned to have those boys lead the attack. Along with their new general, they had to be blooded.

Genghis heard the cries of wounded men carry on the wind and tapped his wrist guard unconsciously against the lacquered plates of his thigh. Two more sections of wall fell. He saw a turret of stone collapse, spilling a nest of archers almost at the feet of Tsubodai’s gleeful warriors. The walls of Linhe now resembled broken teeth, and Genghis knew it would not be long. Wheeled ladders were rolled up as the catapult teams stood down at last, exhausted and triumphant.

Genghis felt the excitement build around him as Tsubodai’s Young Wolves swarmed over the defenders, darkening the pale gray stone with their scrambling bodies. His best archers covered the assault from below, men able to pierce an egg at a hundred paces. Chin soldiers who showed themselves on the walls were fat with quivering arrows by the time they fell back.

Genghis nodded sharply to himself and took the reins of his mare to mount. The animal snorted, sensing his mood. He looked to his left and right, seeing the patient faces of his bondsmen and the ranks and columns in a great circle around the city. He had made armies within armies, so that each of his generals commanded a tuman of ten thousand men and acted on his own. Arslan was lost to sight behind Linhe, but Genghis could see the horse-tail standard of Jelme fluttering in the breeze. The sunlight cast them all in burnished gold and orange, throwing long shadows. Genghis looked for his brothers, ready to ride into the east and west gates if they opened first. Khasar and Kachiun would be keen to be first in the streets of Linhe.

At his shoulder, the huge figure of Tolui who had once been bondsman to Eeluk of the Wolves was worth only a glance, though Genghis saw the man stiffen with pride. Old friends were there, responding with nods. The front line of the column was only twenty horses wide, men approaching thirty years of age, as he was himself. It lifted Genghis’s spirit to see the way they strained forward, watching the city hungrily.

Smoke spiraled into the air from a dozen points within Linhe, like the distant threads of a rainstorm on the plains. Genghis watched and waited, his hands shaking slightly with tension.

“May I bless you, great khan?” came a voice he knew, interrupting his thoughts. Genghis turned and gestured to his personal shaman, first among the men who walked the dark paths. Kokchu had thrown away the rags from his days serving the Naiman khan. He wore a robe of dark blue silk, tied with a sash of gold. His wrists were bound in leather hung with pierced Chin coins, and they chimed as he raised his arms. Genghis bowed his head without expression, feeling the cool touch of sheep blood as Kokchu striped his cheeks with it. He felt a rush of calm settle on him, and he kept his head lowered as Kokchu chanted a prayer to the earth mother.

“She will welcome the blood you send into her, my lord, as much as if the rains themselves ran red.”

Genghis let out a slow breath, pleasantly aware of the fear in the men around him. Every one of them was a warrior born, hardened in fire and battle from the first years, but still they closed their mouths of idle chatter when Kokchu walked amongst them. Genghis had seen the fear grow and he had used it to discipline the tribes, giving Kokchu power by his patronage.

“Shall I have the red tent taken down, my lord?” Kokchu asked. “The sun is setting and the black cloth is ready for the frame.”

Genghis considered. It had been Kokchu himself who suggested this means to sow terror in the cities of the Chin. On the first day, a white tent was raised outside their walls, its very existence showing that there were no soldiers to save them. If they did not open their gates by sunset, the red tent went up at dawn and Genghis sent the promise that every man in the city would die. On the third day, the black tent meant that there would be only death without end, without mercy, for anyone alive within.

The lesson would be learned by cities to the east, and Genghis wondered if they would surrender more easily as Kokchu said. The shaman understood how to use fear. It would be difficult not to allow the men to loot them as savagely as the cities that resisted, but the idea appealed to him. Speed was everything and if cities fell without a fight, he could move all the faster. He inclined his head to the shaman, giving him honor.

“The day is not yet over, Kokchu. The women will live without their husbands. Those who are too old or too plain for us will take the word further and the fear will spread.”

“Your will, my lord,” Kokchu said, his eyes gleaming. Genghis felt his own senses kindle in return. He needed clever men if he was to take the path his imagination drew for him.

“My lord khan!” an officer called. Genghis snapped his head round, seeing the north gate heaved open by Tsubodai’s young warriors. The defenders were still fighting and he could see some of Tsubodai’s men fall as they struggled to keep the advantage they had won. On the edge of his vision, Khasar’s ten thousand kicked into a gallop and he knew the city was open in at least two places. Kachiun was still stationary on the east gate and could only watch in frustration as his brothers moved in.

“Ride!” Genghis bellowed, digging in his heels. As the air whipped past him, he recalled racing across the plains of home in distant days. He hefted a long birchwood lance in his right hand, another innovation. Only a few of the strongest men had begun to train with them, but the fashion was growing amongst the tribes. With the point held upright, Genghis thundered across the land, surrounded by his loyal warriors.

There would be other cities, he knew, but these first ones would always be sweetest in his memory. He roared with his men, the column galloping at full speed through the gates, scattering defenders like bloody leaves in their wake.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

Temuge walked through pitch darkness to the ger of Kokchu. As he passed the door, he heard the muffled sound of weeping from within, but he did not stop. The moon was absent from the sky and Kokchu had told him that was when he would be strongest and most able to learn. Fires still burned in the gutted shell of Linhe in the distance, but the camp was quiet after the destruction.

Close by the shaman’s ger was another, so low and squat that Temuge had to go down on his knees to enter. A single shuttered lamp cast a dim glow and the air was thick with fumes that made Temuge dizzy after just a few breaths. Kokchu sat cross-legged on a floor of wrinkled black silk. All the things inside had come from the hand of Genghis, and Temuge felt envy mingling with his fear of the man.

He had been called and he had come. His place was not to question, and as he sat and crossed his legs to face the shaman, he saw Kokchu’s eyes were closed and that his breath was no more than a slight flutter of the chest. Temuge shuddered in the thick silence, imagining dark spirits in the smoke that filled his lungs. It came from incense burning on a pair of brass plates, and he wondered which city had been looted for them. The gers of his people were host to many strange objects in these bloody days, and there were few who could recognize them all.

Temuge coughed as the smoke came too thickly into his lungs. He saw Kokchu’s bare chest shudder and the man’s eyes opened blindly, looking for him but not seeing. As the focus returned, the shaman smiled at him, his eyes in deep shadow.

“You have not come to me for a full turn of the moon,” Kokchu said, his voice hoarse from the smoke.

Temuge looked away. “I was troubled. Some of the things you told me were . . . disturbing.”

Kokchu chuckled, a dry hacking in his throat. “As children are wary of the dark, so are men wary of power. It tempts them and yet it consumes them. It is never a game to play lightly.” He rested his gaze on Temuge until the younger man looked up and winced visibly. Kokchu’s unblinking eyes were strangely bright, the pupils wider and darker than Temuge had ever seen them.

“Why have you come tonight,” Kokchu murmured, “if not to plunge your hands into the darkness once more?”

Temuge took a deep breath. The smoke no longer seemed to irritate his lungs and he felt light-headed, almost confident.

“I heard you found a traitor while I was away in Baotou. My brother the khan spoke of it. He said it was wondrous how you picked the man out of a line of kneeling warriors.”

“Much has changed since then,” Kokchu said with a shrug. “I could smell his guilt, my son. It is something you could learn.” Kokchu summoned his will to keep his thoughts focused. He was used to the smoke and could take a great deal more of it than his young companion, but still there were bright lights flashing at the edges of his vision.

Temuge felt all his worries dissolving as he sat there with this strange man who smelled of blood despite his new silk robes. Words tumbled out of him and he did not know he slurred them.

“Genghis said you laid your hands on the traitor and spoke words in the oldest tongue,” Temuge whispered. “He said the man cried out and died in front of them all without a wound.”

“And you would like to do the same, Temuge? There is no one else here and there is no shame between us. Say the words. Is that what you want?”

Temuge slumped slightly, letting his hands drop to the silken floor so that he could feel it slide under his fingers with extraordinary clarity.

“It is what I want.”

Kokchu smiled wider at that, showing dark gums as his lips slid back. He did not know the identity of the traitor or even if there had been one. The hand he had pressed against the man’s scalp had held two tiny fangs and a venom sac embedded in wax. It had taken him many nights of hunting the vicious little pit viper he wanted, risking being bitten himself. He began to chuckle again at the memory of the awe on the face of the khan as the victim writhed from just a touch. The dying man had gone almost black in the face before the end, the twin spots of blood hidden by his hair. Kokchu had chosen him because of the Chin girl he had taken to wife. She had roused the shaman to lust as she passed his ger to draw water, and then she had refused him, as if she were one of the people and not a slave. He laughed harder as he remembered the knowledge coming into her husband’s eyes before death stole it away with everything else. Since that moment, Kokchu had been feared and honored in the camp. Not one of the other shamans of the tribes dared challenge his position, not after that display of power. He felt no guilt at the deception. His fate was to stand with the khan of the nation, triumphant over his enemies. If he had to kill a thousand to do so, he would count it worth the price.

He saw Temuge was glassy-eyed as he sat there in the stifling smoke. Kokchu clamped his jaw shut, pressing away his amusement. He needed his mind clear to bind the younger man, so close that he would never tear free.

Slowly Kokchu reached into the small pot of thick black paste at his side, holding up a finger so that tiny seeds were visible in the gleaming muck. He reached out to Temuge and opened his mouth without resistance, smearing the paste onto his tongue.

Temuge choked at the bitter taste, but before he could spit, he felt numbness spreading quickly. He heard whispering voices behind him and he jerked his head back and forth as his eyes glazed, searching for the origin of the sound.

“Dream the darkest dreams, Temuge,” Kokchu said, satisfied. “I will guide you. No, even better. I will give you mine.”

It was dawn before Kokchu staggered out of the ger, sour sweat staining his robe. Temuge was unconscious on the silk floor and would sleep for most of the day to come. Kokchu had not touched the paste himself, unwilling to trust the way it made him babble and not yet sure how much Temuge would remember. He had no wish to put himself in the other’s power, not when the future was so bright. He took deep breaths of freezing air and felt his head clear itself of the smoke. He could smell its sweetness coming out of his pores, and he giggled to himself as he crossed back to his own ger and banged open the door.

The Chin girl knelt where he had left her, on the floor by the stove. She was incredibly beautiful, pale and delicate. He felt his lust swell for her again and wondered at his own stamina. Perhaps it was the remnant of smoke in his lungs.

“How many times did you disobey me and rise?” he demanded.

“I did not,” she said, trembling visibly.

He reached out to raise her head, his hands slipping clumsily from her face and enraging him. The gesture became a blow and he knocked her sprawling.

He stood panting as she scrambled back and knelt once more. Just as he began untying the sash on his deel, she raised her head. There was blood on her mouth and he saw her lower lip was already swelling. The sight inflamed him.

“Why do you hurt me? What more do you want?” she asked, tears shining in her eyes.

“Power over you, little one,” he said, smiling. “What does any man want but that? It is something in the blood of every one of us. We would all be a tyrant if we could.”

CHAPTER 17

THE EMPEROR’S CITY OF YENKING grew quiet in the hours before dawn, though it was more from a surfeit of food and drink in the Feast of Lanterns than any fear of the Mongol army. As the sun had set, Emperor Wei mounted a platform to be seen by the heaving crowds, and a thousand dancers had made a din to raise the dead with cymbals and horns. He had stood with his feet bare, showing his humility before the people as a million voices chanted, “Ten thousand years! Ten thousand years!”, the sound crashing across the city. Night was banished on the Feast of Lanterns. The city gleamed like a jewel, a myriad of flames lighting squares of boiled horn or glass. Even the three great lakes were aglow, their black surfaces covered in tiny boats each carrying a flame. The water gate was open to the great canal that stretched three thousand li to the southern city of Hangzhou, and the boats drifted out like a river of fire throughout the night, taking the light with them. The symbolism pleased the young emperor as he endured the noise and smoke from fireworks banging and echoing from the great walls. There were so many that the whole city was covered in white gunpowder smoke and the air itself was bitter on the tongue. Children would be made that night, by force or for pleasure. There would be more than a hundred murders, and the lakes themselves would claim a dozen drunkards in the dark depths as they tried to swim across. It was the same every year.

The emperor had suffered through the adoring chants, buffeted by the clamor in his name that stretched from the walls and beyond. Even the beggars, slaves, and whores cheered him on that night and lit their ramshackle homes with precious oil. He endured it all, though at times his gaze over their heads was distant and cold as he planned to crush the army that had dared to enter his lands.

The peasants knew nothing of the threat and even the sellers of news had little information. Emperor Wei had seen to it that the gossipmongers were kept quiet, and if their arrest disturbed those who looked for such signs, the festival had gone ahead with all its usual gusto, mad with drink and noise and light. Seeing the revelers, the emperor was reminded of maggots writhing on a corpse. His Imperial messengers brought grim reports as they rejoiced. Beyond the mountains, cities were aflame.

With dawn lighting the horizon, the shouting and singing in the streets died down finally, giving him peace. The last of the little wooden candle boats had vanished out to the countryside, and only a few firecrackers could be heard rattling in the distance. Emperor Wei sat in his private rooms and stared out over the still, dark heart of Songhai lake, surrounded by hundreds of great houses. The most powerful of his nobles clustered around that central mass of dark water, in sight of the man from whom they took their power. He could have named every member of the highborn families that fought and struggled like jeweled wasps to administer his northern empire.

The smoke and chaos of the festival trailed away with the morning mist on the lakes. With such a scene of ancient beauty, it was difficult to comprehend the threat from the west. Yet war was coming and he wished his father still lived. The old man had spent his life crushing the slightest hint of disobedience to the very edges of the empire and beyond. Emperor Wei had learned much at his feet, but he felt the newness of his position keenly. He had already lost cities that had been part of Chin lands since the great schism that split the empire into two halves three hundred years before. His ancestors had known a golden age and he could only dream of restoring the empire to its former glory.

He smiled wryly to himself at the thought of his father hearing of the Mongol horde on their family lands. He would have raged down the corridors of the palace, striking slaves out of his way as he summoned the army. His father had never lost a battle and his confidence would have raised them all.

Emperor Wei started from his thoughts as a throat was cleared softly behind him. He looked back from the high window to see his first minister bowing to the floor.

“Imperial Majesty, General Zhi Zhong is here as you asked.”

“Send him in and see that I am not disturbed,” the emperor replied, turning away from the dawn and seating himself. He glanced around his private rooms, seeing that nothing was out of place. His writing desk was freed of the clutter of maps and papers, and there was no sign of his anger as he waited for the man who would rid him of the tribesmen. He could not help thinking of the Xi Xia king and the letter he had sent to him three years before. With shame, he recalled the spite of his words and the pleasure he had felt in sending them. Who could have known then that the Mongol threat was more than a few shouting tribesmen? His people had never feared those who could be culled whenever they grew restless. Emperor Wei bit the inside of his lip as he considered the future. If they could not be beaten quickly, he would have to bribe the Tartars to attack their ancient enemies. Chin gold could win as many battles as bows and spears. He remembered his father’s words with fondness and once more wished he were there to offer his counsel.

General Zhi Zhong was a man of immense physical presence, with the build of a wrestler. His head was perfectly shaven and gleamed with oil as he bowed. Emperor Wei felt himself straighten automatically as he entered, the legacy of many hours on the training ground. It was reassuring to see that fierce glare and massive head once more, for all it had caused him to quiver as a boy.

As Zhi Zhong straightened, the emperor saw he looked murderous and once more he felt like a child. He struggled to keep his voice firm as he spoke. An emperor could not show weakness.

“They are coming here, General. I have heard the reports.”

Zhi Zhong weighed the smooth-faced young man he faced, wishing it could have been the father. The old man would already have acted, but the wheel of life had taken him and this was the boy with whom he must deal. The general clenched both fists at his sides, standing painfully straight.

“They have no more than sixty-five thousand warriors, Imperial Majesty. Their cavalry is superb and every one is an archer of extraordinary skill. In addition, they have learned the art of the siege and have weapons of great power. They have achieved a discipline I have not witnessed in my dealings with them before.”

“Do not tell me of their strengths!” the young emperor snapped. “Tell me instead how we will crush them.”

General Zhi Zhong did not react to the tone. His silence was enough criticism and the emperor waved for him to go on, a flush staining his pale cheeks.

“To defeat the enemy, we must know them, my lord, Son of Heaven.” He spoke the title as an aid to control, to remind the emperor of his status at a time of crisis. General Zhi Zhong waited until the emperor had firmed his mouth and mastered his fear. At last, he went on.

“In the past we would have looked for weaknesses in their alliance. I do not believe the tactic will work here.”

“Why not?” Wei blurted out. Would the man not tell him how to defeat these tribesmen? As a boy, he had suffered through many lectures from the grizzled general, and it seemed he could not escape them even with an empire at his feet.

“No Mongol force has ever come past the outer wall before, Imperial Majesty. They could only howl at it.” He shrugged. “It is not the barrier it once was and these Mongols have not been thrown back by superior force as they might once have been. They have grown bold as a result.” He paused, but his emperor did not speak again. The general’s glare lost some of its fierceness. Perhaps the boy was beginning to understand when to keep his mouth shut.

“We have tortured their scouts, Imperial Majesty. More than a dozen in the last few days. We lost men to bring them in alive, but it was worth it to know the enemy.” The general frowned in recollection.

“They are united. Whether the alliance will fall apart in time I cannot say, but for this year, at least, they are strong. They have engineers, something I thought I would never see. More, they have Xi Xia wealth behind them.” The general paused, his face showing contempt for their old allies. “I will enjoy taking the army to the Xi Xia valley, Imperial Majesty, when this is over.”

“The scouts, General,” Emperor Wei prompted, his impatience growing.

“They talk of this Genghis as beloved of their gods,” the general continued. “I could find no hint of a disaffected group in their number, though I will not cease to search. They have been broken apart before with promises of power and wealth.”

“Tell me how you will defeat them, General,” Emperor Wei snapped, “or I will find one who can.”

At that, Zhi Zhong’s mouth became a sharp line in his face. “With the outer wall broken, we cannot defend the cities around the Yellow River, lord,” he said. “The land is too flat and gives them every advantage. His Imperial Majesty must reconcile himself to losing those cities as we move men back.”

Emperor Wei shook his head in frustration, but the general pressed on.

“We must not let them choose the battles. Linhe will fall as Xamba and Wuyuan have fallen. Baotou, Hohhot, Jining, Xichen— all are in their path. We cannot save those cities, only avenge them.”

Emperor Wei rose to his feet in fury. “Trade routes will be cut and our enemies will know we are weak! I brought you here to tell me how to save the lands I inherited, not watch them burn with me.”

“They cannot be held, Imperial Majesty,” Zhi Zhong said firmly. “I too will grieve for the dead when this is ended. I will travel to each of the cities and spread ashes on my skin and make offerings in atonement. But they will fall. I have given orders to pull back our soldiers from those places. They will serve His Imperial Majesty better here.”

The young emperor was speechless, his right hand fluttering against the lining of his robe. With a vast effort of will, he steadied himself.

“Speak carefully to me, General. I need a victory and if you tell me one more time that I must give up my father’s lands, I will have your head right now.”

The general held his emperor’s furious gaze. There was no trace of the weakness he had seen before. For an instant, he was reminded of the boy’s father, and the notion pleased him. Perhaps war would bring the strong blood to the fore as nothing else could.

“I can gather almost two hundred thousand soldiers to face them, Imperial Majesty. There will be famine as supplies are diverted for the army, but the Imperial guard will keep order in Yenking. The place of battle will be of my choosing, where the Mongols cannot ride us down. I swear to the Son of Heaven by Lao Tzu himself that I will destroy them utterly. I have trained many of the officers and I tell Your Majesty they will not fail.”

The emperor raised a hand to a waiting slave and accepted a cool glass of water. He did not offer a drink to the general, nor thought of it, though the man was almost three times his age and the morning was warm. Water from the Jade spring was for the Imperial family alone.

“This is what I wanted to hear,” he said gratefully, sipping. “Where will the battle take place?”

“When the cities have fallen, they will move on to Yenking. They will know this city is where the emperor resides and they will come. I will stop them in the range of mountains to the west, at Yuhung Pass, the one they call the Badger’s Mouth. It is narrow enough to hamper their horses and we will kill them all. They will not reach this city. I swear it.”

“They cannot take Yenking, even if you fail,” the emperor said confidently.

General Zhi Zhong looked at him, wondering if the young man had ever left the city of his birth. The general cleared his throat softly.

“The question will not arise. I will destroy them there, and when the winter has passed, I will travel to their homeland and burn the last of them from the earth. They will not grow strong again.”

The emperor felt his spirits lift at the general’s words. He would not have to stand in shame before his father in the land of the silent dead. He would not have to atone for failure. For a moment, he thought again of the cities the Mongols would take, a vision of blood and flames. He forced it away from his mind, taking another sip of water. He would rebuild. When the last of the tribesmen had been cut to pieces, or nailed to every tree in the empire, he would rebuild those cities and the people would know their emperor was still powerful, still beloved of heaven.

“My father said you were a hammer to his enemies,” the emperor said, his voice gentled by his changing mood. He reached out and took hold of Zhi Zhong’s armored shoulder. “Remember the fallen cities when you have the chance to make them suffer. In my name, exact retribution.”

“It will be as His Imperial Majesty desires,” Zhi Zhong replied, bowing deeply.

Ho Sa walked through the vast camp, lost in thought. For almost three years, his king had left him with the Mongol khan, and there were times when he had to struggle to remember the Xi Xia officer he had once been. In part, it was that the Mongols accepted him without question. Khasar seemed to like him and Ho Sa had spent many evenings drinking airag in the man’s ger, waited on by his pair of Chin wives. He smiled wryly as he walked. They had been good evenings. Khasar was a generous man and thought nothing of lending his wives to a friend.

Ho Sa stopped for a moment to inspect a bundle of new arrows, one of a hundred others under a rigid construction of leather and poles. They were perfect, as he had known they would be. Though the Mongols scorned the regulations he had once known, they treated their bows like another child and only the best would do for them.

He had long since realized he liked the tribes, though he could still miss the tea of his home, so different from the salty muck they drank against the cold. The cold! Ho Sa had never known such a vicious season as that first winter. He had listened to all the advice they gave him just to stay alive, and even then, he had suffered miserably. He shook his head at the memory and wondered what he would do if his king summoned him home as he surely must one day. Would he go? Genghis had promoted him to lead a hundred under Khasar, and Ho Sa enjoyed the camaraderie of the officers together. Every one of them could have commanded in Xi Xia, he was certain. Genghis did not allow fools to be promoted, and that was a matter of pride for Ho Sa. He rode with the greatest army in the world, as a warrior and a leader. It was no small thing for a man, being trusted.

The ger of the khan’s second wife was different from every other one in that immense camp. Chin silk lined the walls, and as Ho Sa entered, he was struck once again by the scent of jasmine. He had no idea how Chakahai had managed to secure a supply, but in the years away from their home, she had not been idle. He knew that other wives of the Xi Xia and the Chin met in her ger at regular intervals. When one of the husbands had forbidden it, Chakahai had dared to bring the problem to Genghis. The khan had done nothing, but the Chin wife had been free to visit the Xi Xia princess after that. It had taken only a word in the right place.

Ho Sa smiled as he bowed to her, accepting the hands of two young Chin girls on his shoulders as they removed his outer deel. Even in that was something new. The Mongols dressed only to keep out the cold and had no thought for correctness.

“You are welcome in my home, countryman,” Chakahai said, bowing in turn. “It is good of you to come.” She spoke in the Chin language, though the accent was that of his home. Ho Sa sighed as he heard the tones, knowing she did it to please him.

“You are the daughter of my king, the wife of my khan,” he replied. “I am your servant.”

“That is good, Ho Sa,” she said, “but we are friends as well, I hope?”

Ho Sa bowed again, deeper than before. As he straightened he accepted a bowl of dark green tea and inhaled with appreciation.

“We are, of course, but what is this? I have not smelled . . .” He took another deep breath, letting the warm scent into his lungs. He was homesick then and the force of it made him sway as he stood.

“My father sends a little in his tribute each year, Ho Sa. The tribes have let it grow stale, though this is the freshest batch.”

Ho Sa sat carefully, cradling the bowl as he sipped. “You are too kind to have thought of me.” He did not press her, but he did not know why she had summoned him on that day. He was aware that they could not spend too much time in each other’s company. As natural as it might have seemed for two of the Xi Xia to seek one another out, a man did not visit a khan’s wife without a reason. Over two years, they had met barely half a dozen times.

Before she could reply, another man entered. Yao Shu pressed his hands together to bow to the lady of the ger. Ho Sa watched in amusement as the monk too was handed a bowl of real tea and breathed a sigh of delight at the scent. It was only as Yao Shu finished his greeting that Ho Sa frowned. If there was danger in meeting the wife of a khan in private, there was more in being accused of conspiracy. His concern mounted as the two slave girls bowed and left the three of them alone. Ho Sa began to rise to his feet, the tea forgotten.

Chakahai pressed a hand on his arm and he could not move without throwing it off. He settled uncomfortably and she looked into his eyes. Her own were wide and dark against her pale skin. She was beautiful and no taint of rancid mutton fat lingered around her. He could not resist a delicate shiver running down his back at the touch of cool fingers on his skin.

“I have asked you here, Ho Sa. You are my guest. It would be an insult for you to leave now, would it not? Tell me, I do not yet understand the manners of the ger.” It was a rebuke as well as a lie. She understood the subtleties of Mongol status very well indeed. Ho Sa reminded himself that this woman had grown up as only one of many daughters to his king. Despite her beauty, she was not innocent in the affairs of the court. He sat back and forced himself to sip the tea.

“There is no one to hear us here,” she said lightly, worsening his agitation. “You fear conspiracy, Ho Sa, where there is none. I am second wife to the khan, mother to a son and his only daughter. You are a trusted officer and Yao Shu has tutored my husband’s other boys in language and martial skills. No one would dare to whisper about any one of us. If they did, I would have their tongues cut out.”

Ho Sa stared at the delicate girl who could make such a threat. He did not know if she had the power to match the words. How many friends had she cultivated in this camp with her status? How many of the Chin and Xi Xia slaves? It was possible. He forced himself to smile, though he was cold inside.

“Well then, here we are. Three friends, drinking good tea. I will finish my cup, Majesty, then I will leave.”

Chakahai sighed and her face softened. To the astonishment of both men, tears shone on the rims of her eyes.

“Must I be always alone? Must I be suspected even by you?” she whispered, clearly struggling with herself. Ho Sa would never reach out and touch a member of the Xi Xia court, but Yao Shu had no such inhibition. The monk put an arm around her shoulder and let her rest her head on his chest.

“You are not alone,” Ho Sa said softly. “You understand that your father has given my service to your husband. For a moment, I thought perhaps that you were conspiring against him. Why else bring us here and send your girls away?”

The princess of the Xi Xia sat up, pressing a strand of hair back into place. Ho Sa swallowed dryly at her beauty.

“You are the only man from my home in this camp,” she said. “Yao Shu is the only man of the Chin who is not a soldier.” Her tears seemed forgotten and her voice strengthened as she spoke. “I would not betray my husband, Ho Sa, not for you or a thousand like you. But I have children and it is the women who must look to the years ahead. Will we three sit and watch the Chin empire dragged down in flames? Will we see civilization torn apart and say nothing?” She turned to Yao Shu, who was listening intently. “Where will your Buddhism be then, my friend? Will you see it crushed under the hooves of these tribes?”

Yao Shu spoke for the first time at that, looking troubled. “If my beliefs could be burned, lady, I would not trust them, nor live by them. They will survive this war with the Chin, even if the Chin themselves do not. Men strive to be emperors and kings, but they are just names. It does not matter which man holds a name. The fields will still need to be worked. The towns will still be thick with vice and corruption.” He shrugged. “No man knows where the future will take us. Your husband has raised no objection to having his sons trained by my hand. Perhaps the words of the Buddha will take root in one of them, but it is foolish to look so far ahead.”

“He is right, Majesty,” Ho Sa said quietly. “You have spoken out of fear and loneliness, I see that now. I had not considered how hard this must have been for you.” He took a deep breath, knowing he played with fire, but intoxicated with her. “You have a friend in me, as you said.”

Chakahai smiled then, her eyes bright with fresh tears. She reached out her hands and they each took one, feeling the coolness of her fingers in theirs.

“Perhaps I have been afraid,” she said. “I have imagined my father’s city being overrun and my heart goes out to the Chin emperor and his family. Can they survive this, do you think?”

“All men die,” Yao Shu replied before Ho Sa could speak. “Our lives are no more than a bird flying through a lighted window, then out again into the darkness. What matters is that we do not cause pain. A good life will defend the weak and by so doing, set a lamp in the darkness that will last for many lives to come.”

Ho Sa glanced at the solemn monk, seeing how his shaven head gleamed. He did not agree with the words and could almost shudder at the thought of such an earnest and joyless life. He preferred Khasar’s simpler philosophy that the sky father would not have given him strength to waste. If a man could raise a sword, he should use it, and there were no better opponents than the weak. They were less likely to gut you when you weren’t looking. He said none of this aloud and was pleased to see Chakahai relax and nod to the monk.

“You are a good man, Yao Shu. I have sensed it. My husband’s sons will learn much from you, I am certain. Perhaps one day, they will have Buddhist hearts.”

She rose suddenly then, almost making Ho Sa spill the dregs of his cold tea. He placed the bowl to one side and bowed to her once more, thankful that the strange meeting was at an end.

“We are from an old culture,” Chakahai said softly. “I think we can influence a new one, as it grows. If we are careful, it will benefit us all.”

Ho Sa blinked at the princess of his people, before falling into the courteous routines that would take him back into the outside air, Yao Shu beside him. Both men stared at each other for a moment before taking separate paths into the camp.

CHAPTER 18

THE USUAL PEACE AND ORDER of the Imperial barracks in Baotou was lost as the soldiers packed their equipment onto carts. The orders from Yenking had come in the night, and the commander, Lujan, had wasted no time. Nothing of value was to be left for the Mongols, and anything they could not take with them had to be destroyed. He had men already at work with hammers, breaking the surplus stores of arrows and spears with methodical efficiency.

Ordering the evacuation had been hard and he had not slept since receiving the command. The soldiers who guarded Baotou from bandits and criminal tongs had been in the city for almost four years. Many had families there and Lujan had looked in vain for permission to take them out with him.

The letter from General Zhi Zhong had come by Imperial messenger, the seals perfect. Lujan knew he risked demotion or worse by allowing men with wives and children to gather their families, but he could not leave them to the enemy. He saw another group of young boys take their seats on a cart and look around with frightened eyes. Baotou was all they had ever known, and in a single night, they had been told to leave everything and move quickly to the nearest barracks.

Lujan sighed to himself. With so many people involved, the secret had been impossible to keep. No doubt the wives had warned their friends and the news had spread in widening ripples through the night. Perhaps that was why the orders had not included the command to evacuate the families of his men.

Outside the barracks gates, he could hear the gathering crowd. He shook his head unconsciously. He could not save them all and he would not disobey his orders. He felt shame at his own relief not to have to stay in the path of the Mongol army and tried not to hear the voices calling in confusion and terror on the streets.

The sun had risen and already he feared he had delayed too long. If he had not sent for the army families, he would have been able to slip out in the night. As it was, they would pass through a hostile crowd in full daylight. He steeled himself to be ruthless now the decision had been made. There would be bloodshed if the citizens grew angry, perhaps a running fight to the river gate, four hundred paces from the barracks. It had not seemed so far the previous day. He wished another solution had presented itself, but his path was set and soon it would be time to leave.

Two of his men ran past on some final errand. Neither acknowledged their commander and Lujan sensed their anger. No doubt they were men who kept whores or had friends in the city. They all had. There would be riots when they left, with the tongs running wild in the streets. Some of the criminals were like savage dogs, barely held in check by the threat of force. With the soldiers gone, they would glut themselves until the enemy came to burn them out.

That thought gave Lujan some satisfaction, though he still felt ashamed. He tried to clear his mind, to concentrate on the problem of getting the column of soldiers and carts out of the city. He had placed crossbowmen along the line, with orders to shoot into the crowd if they were attacked. If that failed, pikes would hold the mob at bay long enough to leave Baotou, he was almost sure. Either way, it would be vicious and he could take no pride in the planning.

Another of his soldiers came running up and Lujan recognized him as one of those he had stationed at the barracks gate. Had the rioting started already?

“Sir, there is a man wishing to speak to you. I told him to go home, but he gave me this token and said you would see him.”

Lujan looked at the little piece of blue shell marked with Chen Yi’s personal chop. He winced. It was not a meeting he wanted to have, but the carts were almost ready and the men had formed ranks before the gate. Perhaps because of his guilt, he nodded.

“Have him enter through the small door and be certain not to let anyone force their way in with him.” The soldier rushed away and Lujan was left alone with his thoughts. Chen Yi would die with the rest of them and no one would ever learn of the arrangement they had formed over the years. It had profited them both, but Lujan would not regret being free of the little man’s influence. He struggled against weariness as the soldier returned with the leader of the Blue Tong.

“I can do nothing for you now, Chen Yi,” Lujan began as the soldier ran back to take his place in the column. “My orders are to withdraw from Baotou and join the army assembling before Yenking. I cannot help you.”

Chen Yi stared at him and Lujan saw he was armed with a sword on his hip. It should have been removed at the door set into the main gate, but none of the routines were in force today.

“I thought you would lie to me,” Chen Yi said, “telling me that you were out on maneuvers or training. I would not have believed you, of course.”

“You would have been among the first to hear last night,” Lujan said with a shrug. “I must follow my orders.”

“You will let Baotou burn?” Chen Yi said. “After so many years of telling us you are our protectors, you will run as soon as a real threat appears?”

Lujan felt himself flush. “I am a soldier, Chen Yi. When my general tells me to march, I march. I am sorry.”

Chen Yi was red-faced, though whether it was from anger or the exertion of running to the barracks, Lujan could not tell. He felt the force of the man’s gaze and could hardly meet it.

“I see you have allowed your men to take their wives and children to safety,” Chen Yi noted. “Your own wife and sons will not suffer when the Mongols come.”

Lujan looked away at the column. Already there were faces turned toward him, waiting for his word to march.

“I have exceeded my authority even in that, my friend.”

Chen Yi made a snarling sound in his throat. “Do not call a man ‘friend’ as you leave him to be killed.” His anger was clear now and Lujan could not meet his eyes as he went on.

“The wheel will turn, Lujan. Your masters will pay for their cruelty even as you pay for this shame.”

“I must leave now,” Lujan said, staring into the distance. “You could empty the city before the Mongols come. Many could be saved if you order it.”

“Perhaps I will, Lujan. After all, there will be no other authority in Baotou when you are gone.”

Both men knew it was impossible to evacuate the population of Baotou. The Mongol army was no more than two days away. Even if they filled every boat and used the river to escape, there would not be enough places for more than a few. The people of Baotou would be slaughtered as they ran. Picturing the rice fields running red with blood, Lujan let out a long breath. He had already delayed too long.

“Good luck,” he murmured, glancing at Chen Yi’s eyes. He could not understand the triumph he saw sparkling there, and he almost spoke again before he thought better of it. He strode to the front of the column, where his horse was held for him. As Chen Yi watched, the barracks gates opened and those in the front rank stiffened as the crowd fell silent.

The roads were lined with people staring in. They had left the way clear for the Imperial soldiers and their carts, but the faces were cold with hatred and Lujan snapped loud orders for his crossbowmen to be ready, letting the crowd hear as he trotted out. The silence was unnerving and he expected a barrage of abuse to start at any second. His men fingered their swords and pikes nervously, trying not to see the faces of people they knew as they left the barracks behind. The same scene would be happening at the other barracks, and they would meet the second and third column outside the city before moving east to Yenking and the Badger’s Mouth pass. Baotou would then be defenseless, for the first time in its history.

Chen Yi watched the column of guards leave, heading toward the river gate. Lujan could not know that many of the crowd were his own men, there to keep order and prevent the more reckless citizens from showing their disgust at the withdrawal. He did not want Lujan to delay his departure, but he had not been able to resist seeing his shame before he left. Lujan had been a sympathetic voice in the garrison for many years, though they had not been friends. Chen Yi knew the orders to leave would have been hard on the man, and he had enjoyed every moment of his humiliation. It had been a struggle not to show his inner satisfaction. There would be no dissenting voice when the Mongols came, no soldiers ordered to fight to the last. The emperor’s betrayal had given Baotou into Chen Yi’s hands in one morning.

He frowned to himself as the column of soldiers reached the river gate and Lujan passed under the shadow of the deserted archer platforms. Everything depended on the honor of the two Mongol brothers he had aided. He wished he could know for certain whether Khasar and Temuge could be trusted, or whether he would see his precious city torn apart. The crowd at the barracks watched the retreating soldiers in eerie silence, and Chen Yi offered up prayers to the spirits of his ancestors. Remembering his Mongol servant, Quishan, he mouthed a final prayer to the sky father of those strange people, asking for his help in the coming days.

Leaning on the wooden bar of a goat pen, Genghis smiled at the sight of his son Chagatai, hearing the boy’s whoops across the encampment. He had given the ten-year-old a set of armor that morning, specially made for his small frame. Chagatai was too young to join the warriors in battle, but he had been delighted with the armor, riding around and around the camp on a new pony to show the older men. There were many smiles as they saw him brandishing his bow and alternating between war cries and laughter.

Genghis stretched his back, running a hand along the thick cloth of the white tent he had raised before the walls of Baotou. It differed from the gers of his people, so that those in the cities would know it and beg their leaders to surrender. Twice as high as even his own great ger, it was not so solidly built and shivered in the wind, its sides snapping in and out like breath. White horse-tail standards stood on tall pikes on either side of it and whipped around as if alive.

Baotou stood closed to them and Genghis wondered if his brothers were correct in their judgment of this Chen Yi. The scouts had brought news of a column of soldiers marching from the city just the day before. Some of the young warriors had ridden close enough to score distant kills with their bows before being driven off. If they had estimated the numbers correctly, the city had no soldiers to defend it, and Genghis found himself in a mellow mood. One way or another, the city would fall like the others.

He had spoken to the Baotou mason and been reassured that Chen Yi would not have forgotten his agreement. Lian’s family remained inside the walls he had helped to build, and he had many reasons for wanting a peaceful submission. Genghis looked up at the white tent. They had until sunset to surrender, or they would see the red tent the following day. No agreement would save them then.

Genghis felt eyes on him and turned to see his oldest son, Jochi, on the opposite side of the milling goats. The boy was watching him in silence, and despite what he had promised to Borte, Genghis felt himself respond as if to a challenge. He held the boy’s eyes coldly until Jochi was forced to look away. Only then did Genghis speak to him.

“It is your birthday in a month. I will have another set of armor made for you then.”

Jochi wrinkled his lip into a sneer. “I will be twelve. It will not be long before I can ride with the warriors. There is no point in playing children’s games until then.”

Genghis’s temper prickled. The offer had been generous. He would have spoken again, but they were both distracted by Chagatai’s return. The boy thundered up on his pony and leaped to the ground, barely stumbling as he steadied himself on the wooden pen and whipped the reins around a post in a quick knot. The goats in the pen bleated in panic and pressed away from him to the other side. Genghis could not help but smile at Chagatai’s uncomplicated joy, though he felt Jochi’s gaze settle on him again, always watching.

Chagatai gestured toward the silent city of Baotou, less than a mile away. “Why are we not attacking that place, father?” he said, glancing toward Jochi.

“Because your uncles made a promise to a man inside it,” Genghis replied patiently. “In return for the mason who helped us win all the others, this one will be allowed to stand.” He paused for a moment. “If they surrender today.”

“And tomorrow?” Jochi said suddenly. “Another city, and another after that?” As Genghis turned to him, Jochi straightened. “Will we spend all our lives taking these places one by one?”

Genghis felt blood rush into his face at the boy’s tone, then he recalled his promise to Borte that he would treat Jochi the same as his brothers. She did not seem to understand the way he needled him at every opportunity, but Genghis needed peace in his own ger. He took a moment to master his temper.

“It is not a game we are playing here,” he said. “I do not choose to crush Chin cities because I enjoy the flies and the heat of this land. I am here, you are here, because they have tormented us for a thousand generations. Chin gold has had every tribe at the throat of all the others for longer than anyone can remember. When we have peace for a generation, they set the Tartars on us like wild dogs.”

“They cannot do that now,” Jochi replied. “The Tartars are broken and our people are one nation, as you say. We are too strong. Is it vengeance then that drives us?” The boy did not look directly at his father, only risking glances at him when Genghis turned away, yet there was genuine interest in his gaze.

His father snorted. “For you, the history is only stories. You were not even born when the tribes were scattered. You did not know that time and perhaps you cannot understand it. Yes, this is vengeance, in part. Our enemies must learn they cannot ride us down without a storm coming after.” He drew his father’s sword and turned it into the sun, so that the shining surface flashed a golden line onto Jochi’s face.

“This is a good blade, made by a master. But if I buried it in the ground, how long would it keep its edge?”

“You will say the tribes are like the sword,” Jochi said, surprising him.

“Perhaps,” Genghis replied, irritated to have had his lecture interrupted. The boy was too sharp for his own good. “Anything I have won can be lost, perhaps by a single foolish son who does not have the patience to listen to his father.” Jochi grinned at that and Genghis realized he had acknowledged him as a son even as he sought to wipe the arrogant expression off his face.

Genghis pulled open the gate to the goat pen and stepped inside, holding his sword up. The goats struggled to get away from him, climbing over each other and bleating mindlessly.

“In your cleverness, Jochi, tell me what would happen if the goats attacked me.”

“You would kill them all,” Chagatai said quickly behind him, trying to be involved in the contest of wills. Genghis did not look back as Jochi spoke.

“They would knock you down,” Jochi said. “Are we goats then, united as a nation?” The boy seemed to find the idea amusing and Genghis lost his temper, snapping out an arm to heave Jochi over the rail and send him sprawling among the animals. They ran in bleating panic, some trying to leap the barrier.

“We are the wolf, boy, and the wolf does not ask about the goats it kills. It does not consider the best way to spend its time until its mouth and paws are red with blood and it has conquered all of its enemies. And if you ever mock me again, I will send you to join them.”

Jochi scrambled to his feet, the cold face dropping over his features like a mask. In Chagatai, the discipline would have earned approval, but Genghis and Jochi stood facing each other in strained silence, neither willing to be the first to turn away. Chagatai leered on the edge of Jochi’s vision, enjoying his humiliation. In the end, Jochi was still a child and his eyes filled with hot tears of frustration as he broke his father’s gaze and clambered back over the wooden bar.

Genghis took a deep breath, already looking for some way to smooth over the anger he had felt.

“You must not think of this war as something we do before we return to quieter lives. We are warriors, if talk of swords and wolves is too fanciful. If I spend my youth breaking the strength of the Chin emperor, I will consider every day a joy. His family has ruled for long enough and now my family has risen. We will not suffer their cold hands on us any longer.”

Jochi was breathing heavily, but he mastered himself to ask one more question.

“So there will be no end to it? Even when you are old and gray, you will still be looking for enemies to fight?”

“If there are any left,” Genghis replied. “What I have begun cannot be given up. If we ever lose heart, if we ever falter, they will come for us in greater numbers than you can imagine.” He struggled to find something to say that would raise the boy’s spirits. “But by then, my sons will be old enough to ride to new lands and bring them under our rule. They will be kings. They will eat greasy food and wear jeweled swords and forget what they owe to me.”

Khasar and Temuge had walked past the edge of the camp to stare up at the walls of Baotou. The sun was low on the horizon, but the day had been hot and both men were sweating in the thick air. They never sweated in the high mountains of home, where dirt fell as dust from their dry skin. In the Chin lands, their bodies became foul and flies tormented them constantly. Temuge in particular seemed pale and sickly and his stomach roiled as he remembered the last time he had seen the city. He had spent too many evenings in the smoke-filled ger of Kokchu, and some of the things he had seen distressed him still. As his throat tightened, he coughed. The action seemed to make it worse until he felt dizzy and ill.

Khasar watched him recover without a trace of sympathy.

“Your wind is broken, little brother. If you were a pony, I would cut you up to feed the tribes.”

“You understand nothing, as always,” Temuge replied weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The flush in his cheeks was draining away and his skin looked waxy in the sunlight.

“I understand you are killing yourself to kiss the feet of that filthy shaman,” Khasar replied. “You are even beginning to smell like him, I’ve noticed.”

Temuge might have ignored his brother’s barb, but as he looked up, there was a wariness in Khasar’s eyes that he had not seen before. He had sensed it in others who associated him with the great khan’s shaman. It was not exactly fear, unless it was fear of the unknown. He had dismissed it before as the ignorance of fools, but seeing the same caution in Khasar was strangely pleasing.

“I have learned much from him, brother,” he said. “At times, I have been frightened by the things I have seen.”

“The tribes mutter many things about him, but nothing good,” Khasar said softly. “I heard he takes the babies whose mothers don’t want them. They are not seen again.” He did not look at Temuge as he spoke, preferring to fix his gaze on the walls of Baotou. “They say he killed a man with just a touch.”

Temuge straightened slowly from the cramp of his coughing. “I have learned to summon death in such a way,” he lied. “Last night, while you were sleeping. It was agony and it is why I cough today, but the flesh will recover and I will still know.”

Khasar looked sideways at his brother, trying to see if he was telling the truth. “I’m sure it was a trick of some kind,” he said.

Temuge smiled at him and the fact that his gums were stained from the black paste made the expression terrible. “There is no need to be frightened of what I know, brother,” Temuge said softly. “Knowledge is not dangerous. Only the man is dangerous.”

Khasar snorted. “That’s the sort of childish talk he teaches you, is it? You sound like that Buddhist monk, Yao Shu. There’s one who doesn’t stand in awe of Kokchu, at least. They’re like spring rams on each other’s territory whenever they meet.”

“The monk is a fool,” Temuge snapped. “He should not be teaching the children of Genghis. One of them may be khan one day and this ‘Buddhism’ will make them soft.”

“Not with the monk teaching it,” Khasar replied with a grin. “He can split boards with his hands, which is more than Kokchu can do. I like him, though he can hardly speak a word of proper speech.”

“ ‘He can split boards,’ ” Temuge said, mocking his brother’s voice. “Of course you would be impressed by such a thing. Does he keep dark spirits from entering the camp on moonless nights? No, he makes firewood.”

Despite himself, Khasar found he was growing angry. There was something about this new assurance in Temuge that he disliked, though he could not have put it into words.

“I’ve never seen one of these Chin spirits Kokchu claims to banish. I do know I can use firewood.” He chuckled scornfully as Temuge flushed, his own temper rising. “If I had to choose between them, I’d rather have a man who can fight the way he fights and I’ll take my chances with the spirits of dead Chin peasants.”

Furious, Temuge raised his arm to his brother, and to his astonishment, Khasar flinched. The man who would charge into a group of soldiers without a thought took a pace back from his younger brother and dropped his hand to his sword. For an instant, Temuge almost laughed. He wanted to make Khasar see the joke, and recall that they had once been friends, but then he felt coldness steal into him and he exulted in the fear he had seen.

“Do not mock the spirits, Khasar, nor the men who control them. You have not walked the paths when the moon has gone and seen what I have seen. I would have died many times if Kokchu had not been there to guide me back to the land.”

Khasar knew his brother had seen him react to nothing more than an open palm, and his heart pounded in his chest. Part of him did not believe little Temuge could know anything that he did not, but there were mysteries, and at the feasts he had seen Kokchu push knives into his flesh without a drop of blood falling.

Khasar stared at his brother in frustration, before turning on his heel and striding back to the gers of his people, to the world he knew. Left alone, Temuge felt like howling in triumph.

As he faced Baotou, the city gates opened and warning horns sounded across the camp behind him. The warriors would be racing for their horses. Let them run, he thought, giddy with the victory over his brother. The sickness had passed and he strolled confidently toward the open gate. He wondered if Chen Yi would have archers on the walls, ready for treachery. It did not matter to him. He felt invulnerable and his feet were light on the stony ground.

CHAPTER 19

THE CITY OF BAOTOU WAS SILENT as Chen Yi welcomed Genghis into his home. Ho Sa accompanied the khan and Chen Yi bowed deeply to him, acknowledging that promises had been kept.

“You are welcome in my home,” Chen Yi said in the language of the tribes, bowing again as he came face to face with Genghis for the first time. Genghis towered over him, taller even than Khasar had been. The khan wore full armor and had a sword belted on his hip. Chen Yi could feel the inner force of him, as strong as anyone he had ever met. Genghis did not reply to the formal greeting, merely nodding as he strode into the open courtyard. Chen Yi had to move quickly to lead him into the main house, and in his hurry, he did not see Genghis glance at the immense roof and steel himself to enter. Ho Sa and Temuge had described it to him, but he was still curious to see how a wealthy man lived in the heart of a city.

Outside, the streets were empty even of beggars. Every house was barricaded against the tribesmen who wandered through the streets, peering through gates and looking for items worth taking. Genghis had given orders to leave the city intact, but no one thought the order could include stores of rice wine. Household images of gods were in particular demand. The tribesmen reasoned that they could not have enough protection in their own gers and collected any small statue that looked suitably potent.

An honor guard of warriors waited outside at the gate, but in truth Genghis could have walked alone anywhere in the city. The only possible danger came from men he could command with a word.

Chen Yi had to struggle not to show his nervousness as Genghis strolled around the inside of his house, examining items. The khan seemed tense and Chen Yi was unsure how to begin the conversation. His guards and servants had been sent away for the meeting, and the house felt oddly empty.

“I am glad my mason could be of use to you, my lord,” Chen Yi said to break to silence. Genghis was inspecting a black lacquered pot and didn’t look up as he placed it back on its stand. He seemed too large for the room, as if at any moment he could take hold of the beams and bring the whole place crashing down. Chen Yi told himself it was just his reputation that made him seem powerful, but then Genghis turned pale yellow eyes on him and his thoughts froze.

Genghis ran a finger over the pot’s decoration of figures in a garden, then turned to his host.

“Do not fear me, Chen Yi. Ho Sa says you are a man who has made much of little, a man who has been given nothing but yet survived and become wealthy in this place.” Chen Yi glanced at Ho Sa at hearing the words, but the Xi Xia soldier showed him nothing. For once in his life, Chen Yi felt at a loss. Baotou had been promised to him, but he did not know if the khan would keep his word. He did know that when a great wind destroys a man’s home, he can only shrug and know it was fate and could not be resisted. Meeting Genghis was like that for him. The rules he had known all his life had been thrown away. At a single command from the Mongol khan, Baotou would be razed to the ground.

“I am a wealthy man,” Chen Yi agreed. Before he could continue, he felt Genghis’s eyes on him, suddenly interested. The khan picked up the lacquered pot once more and gestured with it. In his hands, it looked incredibly fragile.

“What is wealth, Chen Yi? You are a man of cities, of streets and houses. What do you value? This?”

He spoke quickly and Ho Sa bought Chen Yi time to reply by translating it. ChenYi flashed a grateful glance at the soldier.

“That pot took a thousand hours of labor to make, lord. When I look at it, it gives me pleasure.”

Genghis turned the pot in his hands. He seemed obscurely disappointed and Chen Yi glanced at Ho Sa again. The soldier raised his eyebrows, urging more.

“But it is not wealth, lord,” Chen Yi went on. “I have starved, so I know the value of food. I have been cold, so I know the value of warmth.”

Genghis shrugged. “A sheep knows as much. Do you have sons?” He knew the answer, but still he wanted to understand this man who came from a world so different from his own.

“I have three daughters, lord. My son was taken from me.”

“Then what is wealth, Chen Yi?”

Under the questions, Chen Yi became very calm. He did not know what the khan wanted, so he answered honestly.

“Revenge is wealth, lord, for me. The ability to reach out and strike down my enemies. That is wealth. Having men who will kill and die for me is wealth. My daughters and my wife are my wealth.” With great gentleness, he took the pot from Genghis’s hands, then dropped it on the wooden floor. It shattered into tiny pieces, exploding across the polished wood.

“Anything else is worthless, lord.”

Genghis grinned briefly. Khasar had spoken the truth when he said Chen Yi would not be cowed.

“I think if I had been born in a city, I might have led your life, Chen Yi. Though I would not have trusted my brothers, knowing them as I do.”

Chen Yi did not reply that he had trusted only Khasar, but Genghis seemed to guess his thoughts.

“Khasar speaks well of you. I will not go back on his word, given in my name. Baotou is yours. It is just a step on the path to Yenking for me.”

“I am glad, lord,” Chen Yi replied, almost shuddering with relief. “Will you share a cup of wine?”

Genghis nodded and a vast pressure left the room. Ho Sa relaxed visibly as Chen Yi looked around automatically for a servant and found none. Stiffly he gathered the cups himself, his sandals crunching on shards of priceless pottery that had once adorned the home of an emperor. His hand shook slightly as he poured three cups, and only then did Genghis sit down. Ho Sa took another seat, his armor creaking as he settled. He dipped his head a fraction to Chen Yi when their eyes met again, as if he had passed some sort of test.

Chen Yi knew the khan would not be taking the time to sit unless there was something he wanted. He watched the dark, flat face as Genghis accepted the cup from his hand. Chen Yi realized the khan too was ill at ease and searching for words.

“Baotou must seem small to you, lord,” Chen Yi ventured as Genghis sipped at the rice wine, pausing at a taste he had not known before.

“I have never been inside a city, except to burn it down,” Genghis replied. “Seeing one so quiet is a strange thing for me.” He emptied the cup and refilled it himself, offering the bottle to Chen Yi and then Ho Sa.

“One more, but it is potent and I want a clear head,” Chen Yi replied.

“It is horse piss,” Genghis replied with a snort, “though I like the way it warms.”

“I will have a hundred bottles sent to your camp, lord,” Chen Yi said quickly.

The Mongol leader watched him over the edge of his cup and nodded. “You are generous.”

“It is not much in return for the city of my birth,” Chen Yi said.

Genghis seemed to relax at that, leaning back on the couch. “You are a clever man, Chen Yi. Khasar told me that you ruled the city even when the soldiers were here.”

“He may have exaggerated a little, lord. My authority is strongest among the lowest castes—the dockworkers and tradesmen. The nobles live a different life and it was only rarely that I could find some way to sling reins on their power.”

Genghis grunted. He could not express the discomfort he felt sitting in such a house, surrounded by a thousand others. He could almost feel the press of humanity all around him; Khasar had been right: for one raised in the clean winds of the plains, the city smelled terrible.

“You hate them, then, these nobles?” Genghis asked. It was not a casual question and Chen Yi considered his answer carefully. The language of the tribes lacked the words he needed, so he spoke in his own tongue and let Ho Sa translate.

“Most of them live lives so distant that I do not think of them, lord. Their judges make much of enforcing the emperor’s laws, but they do not touch the nobles. If I steal, I can have my hands cut off or be whipped to death. If a noble steals from me, there will be no justice. Even if he takes a daughter or a son from me, I can do nothing.” He waited patiently for Ho Sa to finish speaking, knowing his feelings had become obvious as Genghis stared at him. “Yes, I hate them,” he said.

“There were bodies hanging from the barracks gates as I came in,” Genghis said. “Two or three dozen. Was that your work?”

“I settled old debts, lord, before you arrived.”

Genghis nodded, refilling both cups. “A man must always settle his debts. Are there many who feel as you do?”

Chen Yi smiled bitterly. “More than I can count, lord. The Chin nobles are an elite who rule many times their number. Without their army they would have nothing.”

“If you have the numbers, why do you not rise up against them?” Genghis asked in genuine curiosity.

Chen Yi sighed, once more using the Chin tongue, the words pouring out at great speed. “Bakers, masons, and boatmen do not make an army, lord. The noble families are ruthless at the first sign of rebellion. There have been attempts in the past, but they have spies among the people and even a collection of weapons would have their soldiers descend upon us. If a rebellion ever took root, they would call on the emperor and his army would march. Whole towns can be put to the sword or burned. I have heard of it, in my own lifetime.” He hesitated, aware as Ho Sa spoke after him that the khan would think nothing of such acts. Chen Yi almost held up a hand to stop the Xi Xia soldier, but held still. Baotou had been spared, after all.

Genghis assessed the man he faced, fascinated. He had forced the idea of a nation on the tribes, but it was not shared by men like Chen Yi, not yet. Each city might have been ruled by the Chin emperor, but they did not look to him for leadership, or feel part of his family. It was clear that the nobles took their authority from the emperor. It was also clear that Chen Yi hated them for their arrogance, wealth, and power. The knowledge could be useful.

“I have felt their gaze on my own people, Chen Yi,” he said. “We have become a nation to resist them—no, to crush them.”

“And will you then rule as they did?” Chen Yi asked, hearing the bitterness in his tone before he could stop himself. He felt a dangerous freedom in talking to the khan, he realized. The usual curbs and cautions on his tongue were flimsy protection under that yellow gaze. To his relief, Genghis chuckled.

“I have not given thought to what comes after the battles. Perhaps I will rule. Is that not the right of a conqueror?”

Chen Yi took a deep breath before replying. “To rule, yes, but will your lowest-ranking warrior walk like an emperor among those you have conquered? Will he sneer and take whatever he has not earned?”

Genghis stared at him. “The nobles are the family of the emperor? If you are asking if my family will take what they want, of course they will. The strong rule, Chen Yi. Those who are not strong dream of it.” He paused, trying to understand. “You would have me bind my people by petty rules?” he asked.

Chen Yi took another deep breath. He had spent his life with spies and falsehood, protection layered on protection against the day when the emperor’s army would root him out in fire and blood from the city. That day had not come. Instead, he found himself facing one before whom he could speak without any restraint. He would never again have such an opportunity.

“I understand what you have said, but will that right be passed on to their sons and grandsons, further? When some cruel weakling kills a boy a hundred years from now, will no one dare protest because your blood is in him?”

Genghis remained motionless. After a long time, he shook his head. “I do not know these Chin nobles, but my own sons will rule after me, if they have the strength. Perhaps in a hundred years, my descendants will still rule and be these nobles you despise.” He shrugged, draining his cup.

“Most men are like sheep,” he went on. “They are not as we are.” He waved away Chen Yi’s reply. “Do you doubt it? How many in this city can match your influence, your power, even before I came? Most cannot lead—the idea terrifies them. Yet for those like you and me, there is no greater joy than knowing there is no help coming. The decision is ours alone.” He gestured wildly with his cup, spilling some of the wine. Chen Yi broke the wax seal on another bottle and poured the wine once more.

The silence grew strained. To the surprise of both men, it was Ho Sa who broke it.

“I have sons,” he said. “I have not seen them in three years. When they are grown, they will follow me into the army. When men hear they are mine, they will expect more from them. They will rise faster than a man with no name. I am content with that. For that, I work hard and endure anything.”

“They will never be noble, those soldier sons of yours,” Chen Yi said. “A boy from the great houses would order them to their deaths in a fire just to save a pot like the one I broke tonight.”

Genghis frowned, troubled by the image. “You would make all men the same?”

Chen Yi shrugged. His thoughts swirled in wine and he didn’t know he spoke in the Chin tongue.

“I am not a fool. I know there is no law for the emperor, or his family. All law comes from him and the army he wields. He cannot be under it like other men. For the rest, though, for the thousands of parasites who feed from his hand, why should they be allowed to murder and steal without punishment?” He emptied his cup as Ho Sa translated, nodding as if the soldier spoke in agreement.

Genghis stretched his back, wishing for the first time that Temuge were there to argue the point for him. He had intended to speak to Chen Yi and understand the strange breed that lived in cities. Instead, the little man made his head swim.

“If one of my warriors wishes to marry,” Genghis said, “he finds an enemy and kills him, taking whatever he owns. He gives those horses and goats to the girl’s father. Is that murder and theft? If I forbade that, I would make them weak.” He was light-headed from the wine, but his mood was mellow and once more he filled the three cups.

“Does this warrior take from his own family, his own tribe?” Chen Yi asked.

“No. He would be a criminal, beneath contempt if he did,” Genghis replied. Even before Chen Yi spoke again, he saw where the little man was going.

“Then what of your tribes now that they are bound together?” Chen Yi said, leaning forward. “What will you do if all Chin lands are yours?”

It was a dizzying concept. It was true that Genghis had already forbidden young tribesmen to raid each other, instead providing marriage gifts from his own herd. It was not a solution he could maintain for long. What Chen Yi suggested was merely an extension of that peace, though it would encompass lands so vast it was difficult to imagine.

“I will think on it,” he said, slurring slightly. “Such thoughts are too rich to be eaten in one sitting.” He smiled. “Especially as the Chin emperor remains safe in his city and we have barely begun. Perhaps next year I will be scattered bones.”

“Or you will have broken the nobles in their forts and cities,” Chen Yi said, “and have a chance to change it all. You are a man of vision. You showed that when you spared Baotou.”

Genghis shook his head blearily. “My word is iron. When all else is lost, there is still that. But if I had not spared Baotou, it would have been another city.”

“I do not understand,” Chen Yi replied.

Genghis turned his hard gaze on him again. “The cities will not surrender if there is no benefit to them.” He raised a clenched fist and Chen Yi’s gaze was drawn to it. “Here, I have the threat of bloodshed, worse than anything they can imagine. Once I raise the red tent, they know they will lose every man within the walls. When they see the black, they know they will all die.” He shook his head. “If death is all I offer, they have no choice but to fight to the last man.” He dropped the fist and reached again for a fresh cup, which Chen Yi filled with shaking hands.

“If I spare even one city, the word will spread that they do not need to fight. They can choose to surrender when the white tent goes up. That is why I spared Baotou. That is why you still live.”

Genghis recalled his other reason for seeking the meeting with Chen Yi. His mind seemed to have lost its customary sharpness, and he thought perhaps he should not have drunk quite so much.

“Do you have maps in this city? Maps of the lands to the east?”

Chen Yi felt dazed at the insight he had been given. The man who faced him was a conqueror who would not be stopped by the feeble Chin nobles and their corrupt armies. He shivered suddenly, seeing a future filled with flames.

“There is a library,” he said, stammering slightly. “It has been forbidden to me until now. I do not think the soldiers destroyed it before they left.”

“I need maps,” Genghis replied. “Will you look over them with me? Help me plan the destruction of your emperor?”

Chen Yi had matched him drink for drink and his thoughts spun themselves to wisps in his head. He thought of his dead son, hanged by nobles who would not even look at a man of low birth. Let the world change, he thought. Let them all burn.

“He is not my emperor, lord. Everything in this city is yours. I will do what I can. If you want scribes to write new laws, I will send them to you.”

Genghis nodded drunkenly. “Writing,” he replied, scornfully. “It traps words.”

“It makes them real, lord. It makes them last.”

The morning after his meeting with Chen Yi, Genghis awoke with a pounding headache so bad he did not leave his ger all day except to vomit. He could not remember much after the sixth bottle had been brought out, but Chen Yi’s words came back to him at intervals and he discussed them with Kachiun and Temuge. His people had only known a khan’s rule, with all justice stemming from one man’s judgment. Even as things stood, Genghis could have spent each day deciding arguments and punishing criminals in the tribes. It was already too much for him, yet he could not allow the small khans to resume their roles, or risk losing it all.

When Genghis gave the order to move on at last, it was strange to leave a city without seeing flames on the horizon behind them. Chen Yi had given him maps of Chin lands all the way to the eastern sea, more precious than anything they had won before. Though Chen Yi remained in Baotou, the mason Lian had agreed to accompany Genghis to Yenking. Lian seemed to regard the walls of the emperor’s city as a personal challenge to his skill, and he had come to Genghis to make the offer before he could be asked. His son had not beggared his business in his absence, and Genghis privately thought it was a matter of going on with the invading army or settling for a quiet retirement.

The great trek continued into Chin lands, the central mass of carts and gers moving slowly, but always surrounded by tens of thousands of horsemen looking for the slightest chance to earn the praise of their commanders. Genghis had allowed messengers to travel from Baotou to other cities on their route to the mountains west of Yenking, and the decision quickly bore fruit. The emperor had stripped the garrison from Hohhot, and without soldiers to bolster their nerve, the city surrendered without a single arrow being shot, then provided two thousand young men to be trained in the art of sieges and the pike. Chen Yi had shown the value of that with his own draft, choosing the best of his city to accompany the Mongols and learn the skills of battle. It was true that they had no horses, but Genghis gave them as infantry to Arslan and they accepted the new discipline without question.

Jining’s garrison had refused to obey the emperor’s order, and the gates remained closed. It had been burned to the ground after the black tent was raised on the third day. Three other cities had surrendered after that. Those men who were young and strong were taken as prisoners, driven like sheep. There were simply too many to use as soldiers without seeing the tribes outnumbered. Genghis did not want them, but he could not leave so many at his back. His people drove half their number again over the land, and every day, there were bodies in their wake. As the nights grew colder, the Chin prisoners huddled together and whispered, a constant susurration that was eerie in the darkness.

It had been one of the hottest summers any of them had ever known. The old men said a freezing winter would follow, and Genghis did not know whether he should move on the capital or leave the campaign for another year.

The mountains before Yenking were already visible and his scouts raced after mounted observers for the emperor whenever they appeared in the distance. Though their horses were swift, some of the Chin watchers were caught, and each one added detail to the picture Genghis was building.

On a morning where the ground had frozen in the night, he sat on a pile of wooden saddles and stared into the weak sun. It rose over the range of steep green crags that protected Yenking from him, shrouded in mist. Taller than the peaks between the Gobi and Xi Xia, they made even the mountains he remembered from home seemed less impressive. Yet the captured observers spoke of the pass known as the Badger’s Mouth and he felt he was being drawn to it. The emperor had gathered his strength there, gambling on a single massive force that dwarfed the army Genghis had brought to that place. Everything could end there and all his dreams would become ashes.

He chuckled to himself at the thought. Whatever the future held, he would meet it with his head raised and his sword drawn. He would struggle to the end, and if he fell against his enemies, it would have been a life well spent. Part of him felt a pang at the thought that his sons would not long survive his death, but he crushed the weakness. They would make their own lives as he had made his. If they were swept up in the wind of greater events, that would be their fate. He could not protect them from everything.

In the ger at his back, he heard one of Chakahai’s children squalling. He could not tell if it was the son or the daughter. He brightened at the thought of the little girl who, though barely walking, toddled over to press her head affectionately against his leg whenever she saw him. He had seen a terrible jealousy in Borte when she had witnessed the simple act, and he sighed at the memory. Conquering enemy cities was far less complicated than the women in his life, or the children they bore for him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother Kachiun approach, strolling along one of the camp paths in the morning sun.

“Have you escaped out here?” Kachiun called to him. Genghis nodded, patting a place next to him on the saddles. Kachiun joined him and handed Genghis one of two hot pouches of mutton and unleavened bread, thick with warm grease. Genghis took his gratefully. He could smell snow on the air and he longed for the cold months to come.

“Where is Khasar this morning?” Genghis asked, tearing off a piece of the bread with his fingers and chewing it.

“Out with Ho Sa and the Young Wolves, teaching them how to charge against groups of the prisoners. Have you seen it? He gives the prisoners pikes! We lost three young men yesterday against them.”

“I heard,” Genghis said. Khasar used only small groups of the prisoners to train. It surprised Genghis how few were willing to take part, even with the promise of a pike or a sword. Surely it was better to die like that than in listless apathy. He shrugged to himself at the thought. The young men of the tribes had to learn to fight, as they would once have done against their own people. Khasar knew what he was doing, Genghis was almost certain.

Kachiun was watching him in silence, a wry smile on his face.

“You never ask about Temuge,” he said.

Genghis grimaced. His youngest brother made him uneasy and Khasar seemed to have fallen out with him. In truth, he could not make himself care about Temuge’s latest enthusiasms. He surrounded himself with captured Chin scrolls, reading them even by lamplight in darkness.

“So why are you sitting here?” Kachiun asked to change the subject.

His brother snorted. “Do you see the men waiting nearby?”

“I noticed one of the Woyela sons, the eldest,” Kachiun admitted. His sharp eyes missed nothing.

“I have told them not to approach me until I stand. When I do, they will come with questions and demands, as they do every morning. They will make me decide which one of them has the right to a particular colt, as one owns the mare and one the stallion. Then they will want me to commission new armor from some metalworker who just happens to be a relative. There is no end to it.”

He groaned at the thought. “Perhaps you can delay them long enough for me to get away.”

Kachiun smiled at his brother’s predicament. “And I thought nothing could frighten you,” he said. “Appoint another to deal with them. You must be free to plan the war with your generals.”

Genghis nodded, reluctantly. “You have said it before, but who can I trust in such a position? At a single stroke, he would have as much power as any man in the tribes.” An answer occurred to both of them at the same time, but it was Kachiun who spoke.

“Temuge would be honored to take on the work. You know he would.”

Genghis did not reply and Kachiun went on as if he sensed no objection.

“He is less likely to steal from you than other men, or to abuse the position. Give him a title like ‘Master of Trade.’ He will be running the camp in a few days.” Seeing that his brother was unmoved, Kachiun chose another approach.

“It might also force him to spend less time with Kokchu.”

Genghis looked up at that, seeing the waiting men take a step forward in case he was about to rise. He thought back to the conversation with Chen Yi in Baotou. Part of him wanted to make every decision himself, but it was true that he had a war to win.

“Very well,” he said reluctantly. “Tell him the task is his for a year. I will send him three warriors who have been maimed in battle for the work. It will give them something to do and I want one of them to be your man, Kachiun, reporting only to you. Our brother will have many chances to skim the cream from whatever passes through his hands. A little will not hurt, but if he is greedy, I want to know.” He paused for a moment. “And make sure he understands that Kokchu is to have nothing to do with his new role.” He sighed then. “If he refuses, who else is there?”

“He will not refuse,” Kachiun said with certainty. “He is a man of ideas, brother. This role will give him the authority he wants to run the camp.”

“The Chin have judges to pass on the laws and decide disputes,” Genghis said, looking off into the distance. “I wonder if our people would ever accept such men among them?”

“If they were not from your own family?” Kachiun asked. “It would be a brave man who tried to settle blood feuds, no matter what title he was given. In fact, I will send another dozen guards to Temuge to keep him safe. Our people are not beyond showing their resentment with an arrow in the back. He is not their khan, after all.”

Genghis sneered. “No doubt he would have his dark spirits snatch it out of the air. Have you heard the stories growing around him? It’s worse than with Kokchu. I sometimes wonder if my shaman knows what he has created.”

“We are from a line of khans, brother. We rule wherever we are placed.”

Genghis clapped him on the back. “We will find out if the Chin emperor feels the same way. Perhaps he will have his army stand down when he sees us coming.”

“Will it be this year, then? In winter? I think it will snow before too long.”

“We cannot remain here, without better grazing. I must make the decision quickly, but I do not like the thought of leaving their army at this Badger’s Mouth without a challenge. We can stand cold that will leave them slow and useless.”

“But they will have fortified the pass, sown spikes on the ground, dug trenches, anything they can think of,” Kachiun said. “It will not be easy for us.”

Genghis turned his pale eyes on his brother, and Kachiun looked away at the mountains they would dare to cross.

“They are so arrogant, Kachiun. They made a mistake in letting me know where they are,” Genghis said. “They want us to ride against them where they are strongest, where they wait. Their wall did not stop me coming. Their mountains and their army will not.”

Kachiun smiled. He knew the way his brother thought. “I saw you have all the scouts in the foothills. That is strange if we are to risk it all on a strike through the pass.”

Genghis smiled wryly. “They think their mountains are too high to be climbed, Kachiun. Another of their walls runs across the range, and only the highest peaks are left as their own protection, too high for men.” He snorted. “For Chin soldiers, perhaps, but we are born in the snow. I remember my father turning me out of the ger naked when I was just eight years old. We can stand their winter and we can cross this inner wall.”

Kachiun too had wailed at the door of their father’s ger, calling to be let back in. It was an old custom that many believed would make children strong. Kachiun wondered if Genghis had done the same with his own boys, and even as he formed he thought, he knew he had. His brother would not allow weakness, though he could break his sons in the process of making them strong.

Genghis finished his meal, sucking hardening grease from his fingers. “The scouts will find trails around the pass. When the Chin are shivering in their tents, we will come at them from all sides. Only then, Kachiun, will I ride down the Badger’s Mouth, driving their own people before me.”

“The prisoners?” Kachiun asked.

“We cannot feed them,” Genghis replied. “They can still be useful if they soak up the arrows and bolts of our enemies.” He shrugged. “It will be faster for them than starving to death.”

At that, Genghis rose to his feet, glancing up at the heavy clouds that would turn the Chin plain into a wilderness of snow and ice. Winter was always a time of death, when only the strongest survived. He sighed as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The watching men had seen him rise and they hurried closer before he could change his mind. Genghis stared sourly at them.

“Tell them to go and see Temuge,” he said, striding away.

CHAPTER 20

THE TWO SCOUTS WERE STARVING. Even the porridge of cheese and water in their packs had frozen as they climbed high above the pass of Badger’s Mouth. To the north and south, the second Chin wall ran across the mountains. It was less massive than the wall the tribes had crossed to enter Chin lands, though this one had not been allowed to crumble over the centuries. Preserved in ice, it wound its way through distant valleys, a gray snake in the whiteness. It might once have been a marvel to the Mongol scouts, though now they merely shrugged. The Chin armies had not sought to build their wall right to the peaks. They thought no one could survive the rocks and slopes of solid ice, so cold at that height that the blood would surely freeze. They were wrong. The scouts climbed past the level of the wall into a world of snow and ice, looking for a way over the mountains.

Fresh snow had come to the plains, whirling from storm clouds on the peaks that blinded them. There were moments when the gales punched a hole in the whiteness, revealing the pass and the spider legs of the inner wall stretching away. From that height, both men could see the dark smudge of the Chin army on the far side. Their own people were lost to sight on the plain, but they too were there, waiting for the scouts to return.

“There is no way through,” Taran shouted over the wind. “Perhaps Beriakh and the others had better luck. We should go back.” Taran could feel the ice in his bones, the crystals in every joint. He was certain he was close to dying, and it was hard not to show his fear. His companion, Vesak, merely grunted without looking at him. Both were part of a group of ten, one of many who had gone into the mountains to find a way to attack the rear of the Chin army. Though they had become separated from their companions in the night, Taran still trusted Vesak to smell out a route, but the cold was crippling him, too vicious to resist.

Vesak was an old man of more than thirty, while Taran had yet to see his fifteenth year. The other men in his group said Vesak knew the general of the Young Wolves, that he greeted Tsubodai like an old friend whenever they met. It could have been true. Like Tsubodai, Vesak was of the Uriankhai tribe far in the north and he did not seem to feel the cold. Taran clambered down an icy slope, almost falling. He caught himself by hammering his knife into a fissure, his hand nearly slipping from the hilt as he jerked to a stop. He felt Vesak’s hand on his shoulder, then the older man was trotting again and Taran staggered on, trying to match his pace.

The Mongol boy was lost in his own world of misery and endurance when he saw Vesak stop ahead of him. They had been following an eastern ridge, so slippery and dangerous that Vesak had roped them together so one could save the other. Only the tugging at his waist kept Taran from falling asleep as he went on, and he walked five paces before he even realized Vesak had fallen into a crouch. Taran lowered himself to the ground with a barely stifled groan, the ice on his deel falling away in sharp chips. He wore sheepskin gloves, but his fingers were still frozen as he packed his mouth with snow and sucked on it. Thirst was the one thing he remembered from previous attempts on the peaks. Once the water in his skin froze, there was nothing but snow to melt. It was never enough to satisfy his parched throat.

As he crouched he wondered how the ponies managed to survive at home, when the rivers turned to ice. He had seen them cropping at snow and it seemed enough for them. Dazed and exhausted, he opened his mouth to ask Vesak. The older scout glanced at him and gestured for silence.

Taran felt his senses sharpen, his heart beginning to lose its sluggishness. They had come close to Chin scouts before. Whoever commanded the army in the pass had sent them out in force to observe and report. With the storm making it hard to see more than a few paces ahead, the high climbs had become a deadly contest between the two forces. Taran’s older brother had stumbled right into one of them, almost falling over the man. Taran remembered the ear his brother had brought back as proof and envied him. He wondered if he would get the chance to take his own trophy and stand tall with the other warriors. Fewer than a third had been blooded and it was known that Tsubodai chose his officers from among that number rather than those whose courage was unknown. Taran had no sword or bow, but his knife was sharp and he rolled his numb wrists to make them supple.

With his knees aching, he crept closer to Vesak, the howling wind hiding any sound of movement. He peered into the whiteness, looking for whatever the older man had spotted. Vesak was like a statue and Taran tried to copy his stillness, though the cold seeped into him from the ground and he shivered constantly.

There. Something had moved in the white. The Chin scouts wore pale clothing that blended with the snow, making them almost invisible. Taran recalled the stories told by the older tribesmen, that the mountains hid more than just men when the snow was whirling. He hoped they were just spinning tales to scare him, but he gripped his knife tightly. At his side, Vesak raised his arm, pointing. He too had seen the shape.

Whatever it was, it had not moved again. Vesak leaned closer to whisper, and as he did so, Taran saw the figure of a man rise jerkily from a bank of snow, a crossbow in his hands.

Vesak’s instincts were good. He saw Taran’s eyes widen and threw himself down, somehow spinning away as he did. Taran heard the snap of the bolt without seeing it and suddenly there was blood on the snow and Vesak was crying out in rage and pain. The cold fell away and Taran stood, ignoring the writhing figure of his friend. He had been told how to act against a crossbow, and his mind went blank as he rushed forward. He had only a few heartbeats before the man heaved back the cord for another shot.

Taran slipped on the treacherous ground, the rope that held him to Vesak snaking across the snow in his wake. He had no time to cut it. He saw the Chin scout wrestling with his weapon and crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The crossbow spun away and Taran found himself locked in an embrace with a man stronger than he was.

They fought in gasping silence, alone and frozen. Taran had landed on top of the soldier and tried desperately to use the advantage. He struck out with knees and elbows, his knife hand held by both his enemy’s. Taran was staring into the man’s eyes when he brought his head down hard on the other’s nose, feeling it break and hearing him cry out. Still his knife hand was held and he struck again and again, thumping his forehead into the bloody face under him. He managed to get his free forearm under the man’s chin, heaving down at the exposed throat. The grip on his wrist fell away then and fingers clawed at his eyes, trying to blind him. Taran screwed up his face, smashing his head down without looking.

It ended as quickly as it had begun. Taran opened his eyes to see the Chin soldier staring blindly upwards. His knife had gone in without him even feeling it and still stuck out from the man’s fur-lined robe. Taran lay gasping in the thin air, unable to take a proper breath. He heard Vesak call and realized the sound had been going on for some time. He struggled then for the cold face, summoning his discipline. He would not be shamed in front of the older warrior.

With a jerk, Taran freed his knife and heaved himself off the body. The rope had tangled itself around his feet in the struggle, and he stepped out of the coils, kicking them away. Vesak called again, the sound weaker than before. Taran could not tear his eyes from the man he had killed, but he did not stop to think. It was the work of moments to yank the heavy robe from the soldier, wrapping it around himself. The body seemed smaller without it and Taran stood staring down at the spattered blood on the snow, a ring of droplets forming the shape where the head had been. He could feel blood stiffening on his skin and he rubbed his face roughly, suddenly sickened. When he looked again at Vesak, his companion had dragged himself to a sitting position and was watching him. Taran nodded at the older man, then reached down to saw off an ear from his first kill.

Tucking the grisly scrap into a pouch, he staggered back to Vesak, still dazed. The cold had vanished in the struggle, but it returned in force and he found himself shivering, his teeth clicking whenever he unclenched his jaw.

Vesak was panting, his face tight with pain. The bolt had struck him in the side below the ribs. Taran could see the black end of the shaft protruding, the blood already beginning to freeze like red wax. He reached out an arm to help Vesak to his feet, but the older man shook his head wearily.

“I cannot stand,” Vesak murmured. “Let me sit here while you go further on.”

Taran shook his head, refusing to accept it. He heaved Vesak up, though the weight was too much for him. Vesak groaned and Taran fell with him, ending up on his knees in the snow.

“I cannot go with you,” Vesak said, gasping. “Let me die. Scout the man’s back trail as best you can. He came from further up. Do you understand? There must be a way through.”

“I could drag you on the soldier’s robe, like a sled,” Taran said. He could not believe his friend was giving up, and he started laying out the fur on the snow. His legs almost buckled as he did so and he steadied himself on a rock, waiting for his strength to return.

“You must find the back trail, boy,” Vesak whispered. “He did not come from our side of the mountain.” His breath was coming at longer intervals and he sat with his eyes closed. Taran looked past him to where the soldier lay in blood. The sudden memory of it made his stomach clench and he leaned over and heaved. There was nothing solid to come out, though a spool of thick yellow liquid spilled from his lips and drew lines in the snow. He wiped his mouth, furious with himself. Vesak had not seen. He glanced at his companion, at the flakes settling on his face. Taran shook him, but there was no response. He was alone and the wind howled for him.

After a time, Taran staggered up and returned to where the Chin soldier had lain in wait. For the first time, Taran looked beyond the body, and his strength returned in a rush. He cut the rope with his knife, then staggered on, climbing recklessly and slipping more than once. There was no trail, but the ground seemed solid as he punched grips into the snow and clambered up a slope. He was sobbing each breath in the thin air when the wind died and he found himself in the lee of a great rock of granite. The peak was still far above, but he did not need to reach it. Ahead, he saw a single rope where the soldier had climbed to that point. Vesak had been right. There was a route to the other side and the precious inner wall of the Chin had proved no better a defense than the other.

Taran stood numbly in the cold, his thoughts sluggish. At last he nodded to himself, then began to walk back past the two dead men. He would not fail. Tsubodai was waiting for news.

Behind him the snow fell thickly, covering the dead and erasing all the signs of the bloody struggle until it was frozen and perfect once more.

The encampment was not silent in the snow. The generals of Genghis had their men riding across it, practicing maneuvers and archery, hardening themselves. The warriors covered their hands and faces in thick mutton grease, and they worked for hours firing arrows at full gallop into straw dummies, ten paces apart. The straw men jerked again and again and boys ran to yank the arrows out, judging their chance before the next rider came down the line.

The prisoners they had taken from the cities still numbered in their thousands, despite the war games Khasar had made them play. They sat or stood in a mass outside the gers. Only a few herdsmen watched over the starved men, but they did not run. In the early days, some had escaped, but every warrior of the tribes could track a lost sheep and they brought back only heads, casting them high into the crowd of prisoners as a warning to the others.

Smoke hung over every ger as the stoves worked, the women cooking the slaughtered animals and distilling black airag to warm their men. When the warriors were training, they ate and drank more than usual, trying to add a layer of fat against the cold. It was hard to build it with twelve hours in the saddle each day, but Genghis had given the order and almost a third of the flocks had been killed to satisfy their hunger.

Tsubodai brought Taran to the great ger as soon as the young scout reported. Genghis was there with his brothers Khasar and Kachiun, and he came out as he heard Tsubodai approach. The khan saw that the boy with Tsubodai was exhausted, swaying slightly in the cold. Black circles lay under his eyes and he looked as if he had not eaten for days.

“Come with me to my wife’s ger,” Genghis said. “She will put hot meat in your stomach and we can talk.” Tsubodai bowed his head and Taran tried to do the same, awed at speaking to the khan himself. He trotted behind the two men as Tsubodai told of the pass he and Vesak had found. As they spoke the boy glanced at the mountains, knowing that Vesak’s frozen body was up there somewhere. Perhaps the spring thaw would reveal him once again. Taran was too cold and tired to think, and when he was out of the wind, he took a bowl of greasy stew in numb hands, shoveling it into his mouth without expression.

Genghis watched the young boy, amused at his ravenous appetite and the way he cast envious glances at the khan’s eagle on its perch. The red bird was hooded, but it turned toward the young newcomer and seemed to watch him.

Borte fussed around the scout, refilling his bowl as soon as it was empty. She gave him a skin of black airag as well, making him cough and splutter, then nodded as a bloom appeared once more on his frozen cheeks.

“You found a way through?” Genghis asked him, when Taran’s eyes had lost their glassy look.

“Vesak did, lord.” A thought seemed to strike him and he fumbled with stiff fingers in his pouch, producing something that was clearly an ear. He held it up with pride.

“I killed a soldier there, waiting for us.”

Genghis took the ear from him, examining it before handing it back.

“You have done well,” he said patiently. “Can you find the way again?”

Taran nodded, gripping the ear like a talisman. Too much had happened in a short time and he was overwhelmed, once again aware that he was speaking to the man who had formed a nation from the tribes. His friends would never believe he had met the khan himself, with Tsubodai watching like a proud father.

“I can, lord.”

Genghis smiled, his gaze far away. He nodded to Tsubodai, seeing his own triumph reflected there.

“Go and sleep, then, boy. Rest and eat until you are full, then sleep again. You will need to be strong to lead my brothers.” He clapped Taran on his shoulder, staggering him.

“Vesak was a good man, lord,” Tsubodai said. “I knew him well.”

Genghis glanced at the young warrior he had promoted to lead ten thousand of the people. He saw a depth of grief in his eyes and understood that Vesak was of the same tribe. Though he had forbidden talk of the old families, some bonds went deep.

“If his body can be found, I will have it brought down and honored,” he said. “Did he have a wife, children?”

“He did, lord,” Tsubodai replied.

“I will see they are looked after,” Genghis replied. “No one will take their flock, or force his wife into another man’s ger.”

Tsubodai’s relief was obvious. “Thank you, lord,” he said. He left Genghis to eat with his wife and took Taran out into the wind once more, gripping him around the back of the neck to show his pride.

The storm still raged two days later when Khasar and Kachiun gathered their men. Each of them had supplied five thousand warriors, and Taran would lead them over the peaks in single file. Their horses were left behind and Genghis had not wasted those two days. The archery dummies had been copied by the thousand, placing men of straw, wood, and cloth on every spare horse. If Chin scouts were able to see the plain at all in the snow, they would not notice the smaller number of men.

Khasar stood with his brother, rubbing grease into each other’s faces in preparation for the hard climb to follow. Unlike the scouts, their men were burdened with bows and swords as well as a hundred arrows in two heavy quivers strapped to their backs. Between them all, the ten thousand men carried a million shafts—two years of labor in the making and more valuable than anything else they owned. Without birch forests, they could not be replenished.

Everything they carried had to be wrapped in oiled cloth against the wet, and they moved stiffly under the extra layers, stamping their feet and clapping their gloved hands together against the wind.

Taran was stiff-backed with pride at leading the khan’s brothers, so filled with excitement that it was all he could do to stand still. When they were ready, Khasar and Kachiun nodded to the boy, looking back at the column of men who would cross the mountains on foot. The ascent would be fast and hard, a cruel trial even for the fittest. If they were spotted by Chin scouts, the men knew they had to reach the high pass before their movements were reported. Anyone who fell would be left behind.

The wind tore through the ranks as Taran started off, looking back as he felt their eyes on him. Khasar saw his nervousness and grinned, sharing the moment of excitement with his brother Kachiun. It was the coldest day yet, but the mood was light amongst the men. They wanted to smash the army that waited for them on the other side of the pass. Even more, they reveled in the thought of coming up behind them and shattering their clever defenses. Genghis himself had come out to see them off.

“You have until dawn on the third day, Kachiun,” Genghis had told his brother. “Then I will come through the pass.”

CHAPTER 21

IT TOOK UNTIL THE MORNING of the second day to reach the spot high in the peaks where Vesak had died. Taran dug his friend’s body out of a snowdrift, wiping snow from the gray features in awed silence.

“We could leave a flag in his hand to mark the path,” Khasar murmured to Kachiun, making him smile. The line of warriors stretched down the mountain and the storm seemed to be easing, but they did not hurry the young scout as he took a strip of blue cloth and draped it around Vesak’s corpse, dedicating him to the sky father.

Taran stood and bowed his head for a moment before hurrying up the final stretch of icy ground that led to the downward slope. The column moved past the frozen figure, each man glancing at the dead face and murmuring a few words in greeting or a prayer.

With the high pass behind them, Taran was on new ground and the pace slowed frustratingly. The sun’s light was diffused into a glare from all directions, making it difficult to keep going east. When the wind revealed the mountains on either side, Khasar and Kachiun peered into the distance, marking details of the terrain. By noon they judged they were halfway down the descent, the twin forts of the pass far below them.

A sheer drop of more than fifty feet slowed them again, though old ropes showed where the Chin scout had climbed. After days in the cold, the braided cords were brittle, and they tied new ones, climbing down with elaborate care. Those who had gloves tucked them into their deels for the descent and then found that their fingers grew pale and stiff with alarming speed. Frostbite was more than a worry to men who expected to use their bows. As they jogged along the broken slopes, every warrior clenched and unclenched his hands, or kept them tucked into his armpits so that the deel sleeves swung freely.

Many slipped on the icy ground and those who had hidden their hands fell hardest. They rose stiffly, their faces screwed tight against the wind as other men trotted past without looking at them. Each of them was alone and struggled to his feet rather than be left behind.

It was Taran who called out a warning when the trail split. Under such a blanket of snow, it was barely more than a crease in the white surface, but it snaked in another direction and he did not know which one would take them down.

Khasar came up to him, halting those behind with a raised fist. The line of men stretched almost back to Vesak’s body. They could not delay and a single mistake at that point could mean a lingering death, trapped and exhausted in a dead end.

Khasar gnawed a piece of broken skin on his lips, looking to Kachiun for inspiration. His brother shrugged.

“We should keep going east,” Kachiun said wearily. “The side path leads back toward the forts.”

“It could be another chance to surprise them from behind,” Khasar replied, staring into the distance. The path was lost to sight in no more than twenty paces as the wind and snow swirled.

“Genghis wants us behind the Chin as fast as possible,” Kachiun reminded him.

Taran watched the exchange in fascination, but they both ignored the boy.

“He didn’t know there could be another path right up behind the forts,” Khasar said. “It’s worth a look, at least.”

Kachiun shook his head, irritated. “We have one more night in this dead place, then he moves at dawn. If you get lost, you could freeze to death.”

Khasar looked at his brother’s worried face and grinned. “I notice how you are certain it would be me. I could order you to take the path.”

Kachiun sighed. Genghis had not put either one of them in charge, and he considered that an error when dealing with Khasar.

“You could not,” he said patiently. “I am going on, with or without you. I will not stop you if you want to try the other way.”

Khasar nodded thoughtfully. For all his light tone, he knew the risks. “I’ll wait here and take the last thousand. If it leads nowhere, I’ll double back and join you in the night.”

They clasped hands briefly, then Kachiun and Taran moved off again, leaving Khasar there to hurry the others along.

Counting nine thousand slow-moving men took a lot longer than he had thought it would. When the last thousand came into sight, it was already growing dark. Khasar approached a stumbling warrior and took him by the shoulder, shouting over the wind.

“Come with me,” he said. Without waiting for a reply, he stepped onto the other path, sinking almost to his hips in fresh snow. The weary men behind him did not question the order, each one numb from misery and cold.

Without his brother to talk to, Kachiun spent many of the remaining hours of daylight in silence. Taran still led them, though he knew the path no better than any of the others. The way down was a little clearer on the far side of the mountains, and after a long time, the air seemed less thin. Kachiun realized he was not gasping quite so fiercely to fill his lungs, and though he was exhausted, he felt stronger and more alert. The storm died out in the darkness and they could see the stars for the first time in several days, bright and perfect through the drifting clouds.

The cold seemed to intensify as the night wore on, but they did not stop, eating dried meat from their pouches to give them strength. They had slept the first night on the slopes, each man digging a hole for himself as wolves did. Kachiun had managed to snatch only a few hours then, and he was desperately tired. Without knowing how close they were to the Chin army, he did not dare allow them to rest again.

The slope began to ease after a time. Pale birches mingled with black pines, growing so thick in places that they walked on dead leaves rather than snow. Kachiun found the sight of them comforting, proof that they were close to the end of their journey. Yet he did not know if they had made their way past the Chin soldiers, or still walked parallel to the Badger’s Mouth.

Taran too was suffering and Kachiun saw him windmill his arms at intervals. It was an old scout trick to force blood back into the fingertips so that they would not freeze and go black. Kachiun copied him and sent the word back down the line to do the same. The thought of the line of grim soldiers flapping like birds made him chuckle, despite the pain in every muscle.

The moon rose full and bright above the mountains, illuminating the tired column as they trudged onwards. The peak they had climbed was high above them, another world. Kachiun wondered how many of his men had fallen on the high passes, to be left behind like Vesak. He hoped the others had had the sense to take their quivers of arrows before the snow covered them. He should have remembered to give the order and muttered irritably to himself as he walked. Dawn was a long way off and he could only hope he would find his way to the Chin army before Genghis attacked. His thoughts drifted as he strode through the snow, fastening on Khasar for a moment, then on his children back in the encampment. At times, he dreamed just as if he were in a warm ger, and it was with a start that he surfaced to find himself still walking. Once, he fell and it was Taran who hurried back to help him up. They would not let the khan’s brother die on the side of the path, his quivers of arrows taken for the others. For that, at least, Kachiun was grateful.

He felt as if he had been walking forever when they passed out of the treeline and Taran fell into a crouch ahead. Kachiun copied the boy before creeping forward on protesting knees. Behind him, he heard muffled curses as his men bumped into each other in the moonlight, woken from their drifting trances by the sudden halt. Kachiun looked around him as he wormed his way forward. They were on a gentle slope, a valley of perfect whiteness that seemed to go on forever. On the far side, the mountains rose again in cliffs so sheer he doubted anyone would ever climb them. To his left, the pass of the Badger’s Mouth ended in a great flat area no more than a mile away. Kachiun’s vision seemed sharper than usual in the moonlight and he could see right across the emptiness, beautiful and deadly. A sea of tents and banners lay across the end of the pass. Smoke rose above them to join the mist from the peaks, and as Kachiun’s senses came alive, he could smell woodsmoke on the air.

He groaned to himself. The Chin had assembled an army so vast he could not see the end of them. The Badger’s Mouth gave way to flats of ice and snow, almost the bottom of a bowl of high peaks before the road that led to the emperor’s city. Yet the Chin soldiers filled it and spilled further and further back onto the plain beyond. The white mountains hid the full extent of them, but even so, they had more men than Kachiun had ever seen before. Genghis did not know how many and he would be riding slowly down the pass in just a few short hours.

With a sudden stab of fear, Kachiun wondered if his men could be seen from the camp. Chin scouts had to be patrolling the area. They would be fools not to, and there he was, with a line of warriors stretching back into the white fastness of the hills. They needed surprise and he had almost thrown it away. He clapped Taran on the back in thanks for the warning and the boy smiled in pleasure.

Kachiun made his plans, passing word down the line. The men behind would retreat far enough for dawn not to reveal them to sharp-eyed enemies. Kachiun looked up at the clear sky and wished for more snow to cover their tracks. Dawn was close and he hoped Khasar had made it to safety. Slowly, painfully, the line of warriors began moving back up the slope to the trees they had left behind. A memory came to Kachiun of his childhood as he climbed. He had hidden with his family in a cleft in the hills of home, with death and starvation always close. Once more he would hide, but this time he would come roaring out and Genghis would ride with him.

In silence he sent up a prayer to the sky father that Khasar too had survived and was not freezing to death on the high slopes, lost and alone. Kachiun grinned at the thought. His brother was not easy to stop. If anyone could make it out, it would be him.

Khasar whipped a hand back and forth over his throat, signaling for silence from the men behind him. The storm had died at last and he could see stars overhead, revealed through drifting clouds. The moon lit the sterile slopes and he found himself on a sharp edge over a sheer drop. His breath caught in his throat as he saw the black tower of one of the Chin forts below him, almost under his feet, but separated by a plunge into blackness over rocks so sharp that only a little snow had settled on them. Great drifts humped themselves around the fort where they had slid from the crags, and Khasar wondered if his men could make the final descent. The fort itself had been built on a ridge overlooking the pass, no doubt filled with weapons that would smash anyone coming through. They would not expect an attack from the cliffs at their back.

At least there was moonlight. He went back to where his men had begun to cluster. The wind had dropped to no more than a gentle moan, and he was able to whisper his order, beginning with a command for them to eat and rest while they passed their ropes forward. This last thousand had come from the tuman of Kachiun, and Khasar did not know them, but the officers came forward and only nodded as they heard his orders. The word spread quickly and the first group of ten began tying ropes together, coiling them near the edge. They were cold and their hands were clumsy with the knots, making Khasar wonder if he was sending them all to their deaths.

“If you fall, remain silent,” he whispered to the first group. “Or your shout will wake the fort below us. You might even survive if you hit the deep snow.” One or two of them grinned at that, looking over the edge and shaking their heads.

“I will go first,” Khasar said. He removed his fur gloves, wincing at the cold as he took hold of the thick rope. He had climbed worse cliffs, he told himself, though never when he was this tired or cold. He forced a confident expression onto his face as he jerked on the line. The officers had tied it to the trunk of a fallen birch, and it seemed solid. Khasar backed to the edge and tried not to think of the drop behind him. No one could survive it, he was certain.

“No more than three men on a rope,” he said as he went over. He hung out as far as he could, beginning to walk down the icy rock. “Tie some more together or it will take all night to get down.” He was giving orders to conceal his own nervousness, forcing the cold face to hide his fear. They gathered around the edge to watch him until finally he was past the edge and clambering down. The closest men began tying more ropes together to allow a second descent, and one of them nodded to his friends and lay on his stomach to take hold of the quivering rope that held Khasar. He too vanished over the edge.

Genghis waited impatiently for dawn. He had sent scouts down the pass as far as they could go, so that some of them returned with crossbow bolts buried in their armor. The last of them had come back to the camp as the sun set, two bolts sticking out of his back. One had penetrated the overlapping iron and left a streak of blood that smeared his leg and his pony’s heaving flanks. Genghis heard his report before the man could have his wounds tended, needing the information.

The Chin general had left the pass open. Before the scout was driven back by a storm of bolts, he had seen two great forts looming over the strip of land below. Genghis did not doubt the soldiers in them were ready to pour death on anyone trying to force their way through. The fact that the pass had not been blocked worried him. It suggested the general wanted him to try a frontal assault and was confident the Mongol army could be funneled into his men and smashed where they were weakest.

At its opening, the pass was almost a mile wide, but under the forts, the rock walls narrowed to a pinch of no more than a few dozen paces. Even the thought of being hemmed in and unable to charge brought a sick feeling to Genghis’s stomach that he crushed as soon as he recognized it. He had done everything he could and his brothers would attack as soon as they could see well enough to aim. He could not call them back, even if he found a better plan in the last moments. They were lost to him, hidden by the mountains and the snow.

At least the storm had eased. Genghis looked up at the stars, whose light revealed the huddled mass of prisoners he had herded to the mouth of the pass. They would go ahead of his army, soaking up the bolts and arrows of the Chin. If the forts poured fire oil, the prisoners would take the brunt of it.

The air was frozen in the night, but he could not sleep and took deep breaths, feeling the chill reach into his lungs. Dawn was not far away. He thought through his plans once more, but there was nothing else to do. His men were well fed, better than they had been in months. Those he would lead into the pass were veteran warriors in good armor. He had formed the first ranks of men with lances, in part to aid them in herding the prisoners forward. Tsubodai’s Young Wolves would come behind him, then the warriors of Arslan and Jelme, twenty thousand who would not run, no matter how vicious the fighting.

Genghis drew his father’s sword, seeing the wolf’s-head hilt shine in the starlight. He lunged with it, grunting as he did so. The camp was silent around him, though there were always eyes watching. He put his body through a routine Arslan had taught him that stretched his muscles as well as strengthening them. The monk Yao Shu was teaching a similar discipline to his sons, hardening their bodies like any other tool. Genghis sweated as he whipped his sword through the sequences. He was not as lightning quick as he had once been, but he had grown in strength and sheer power and he was still supple, despite the scarring of so many old wounds.

He did not want to wait for dawn. He considered finding a woman, knowing it would help to burn off a little of his nervous energy. His first wife, Borte, would be sleeping in the ger, surrounded by his sons. His second wife was still nursing their baby daughter. He brightened at that thought, imagining her pale breasts heavy with milk.

He sheathed his sword as he strode through the camp to Chakahai’s ger, already aroused at the prospect. He chuckled to himself as he walked. A warm woman and a battle to come. To be alive on such a night was a wondrous thing.

In his tent, General Zhi Zhong sipped a cup of hot rice wine, unable to sleep. The winter had closed over the mountains and he thought he could well spend the coldest months in the field with his army. It was not such an unpleasant thought. He had eleven children with three wives in Yenking, and when he was at home, there was always something to distract him. He found the routines of camp life restful in comparison, perhaps because he had known them all his life. Even there in the darkness, he could hear the murmured passwords as the guards changed and he knew a sense of peace. Sleep had always come slowly for him and he knew it was part of his legend amongst the men that he sat up night after night, the lamps showing through the heavy cloth of the command tent. Sometimes he slept with the lamps still burning, so that the guards thought he needed no rest as they did. It did not hurt to encourage their awe, he believed. Men needed to be led by one who showed none of their weaknesses.

He thought of the vast army around him and the preparations he had made. His sword regiments and pikemen alone outnumbered the Mongol warriors. Simply feeding so many had stripped the storehouses of Yenking. The merchants could only wail in disbelief as he showed them the documents the emperor had signed. The memory made him smile. Those fat grain sellers thought they were the heart of the city. It had amused Zhi Zhong to remind them where true power lay. Without the army, their fine houses were worth nothing.

To keep two hundred thousand men fed all winter would beggar the farmers for a thousand miles east and south. Zhi Zhong shook his head at the thought, his mind too busy to consider trying for sleep. What choice did he have? No one fought in winter, but he could not leave the pass unguarded. Even the young emperor understood it could be months before battle was joined. When the Mongols came in spring, he would still be there. Zhi Zhong wondered idly if their khan had the same supply problems he had. He doubted it. The tribesmen probably ate each other and considered it a delicacy.

He shivered as the cold night seeped into his tent, pulling his blankets close around his massive shoulders. Nothing had been the same since the old emperor died. Zhi Zhong had given his loyalty utterly to the man, revering him. Truly, the world had been shaken when he died at last, taken in his sleep after a long illness. He shook his head, sadly. The son was not the father. For the general’s generation, there could only ever be one emperor. Seeing a young, untried boy on the throne of the empire ate at the foundations of his entire life. It was the end of an era and perhaps he should have retired with the old man’s death. That would have been a fitting and dignified response. Instead, he had hung on to see the new emperor established and then the Mongols had come. Retirement would not come for another year, at least.

Zhi Zhong grimaced as the cold worked its way into his bones. The Mongols did not feel cold, he recalled. They seemed able to stand it as a wild fox can, with nothing more than a single layer of fur over bare skin. They disgusted him. They built nothing, achieved nothing in their short lives. The old emperor had kept them in their place, but the world had moved on and now they dared to threaten the gates of the great city. He would not show mercy when the battle was over. Nor would he let his men run wild in their camps, lest the blood of the tribes survive in a thousand ill-born children. He would not let them breed like lice to threaten Yenking again. He would not rest until the last of them lay dead and the land was empty. He would burn them out, and in the future, if another race dared to rise against the Chin, perhaps they would remember the Mongols and slink away from their plots and ambitions. That was the only response they deserved. Perhaps that could be the legacy he left as he retired, a vengeance so bloody and final that it would echo through the centuries ahead. He would be the death of an entire nation. It would be immortality of a sort and the idea pleased him. His thoughts whirled as the camp slept. He decided to leave the lamps burning and wondered if he would get any sleep at all.

As the first light of dawn appeared behind the mountains, Genghis looked up at the clouds that wreathed the high peaks. The plains below were still in darkness and he felt his heart lift at the sight. The army of prisoners he would drive through the pass had fallen silent. His people had formed up behind his bondsmen, hands tapping on lances and bows as they waited for his order. Only a thousand would remain behind to protect the women and children in the camp. There was no danger. Any threat on the plains had already been met and crushed.

Genghis clenched his hands tight on the reins of a dark brown mare. At the first sign of dawn, the drummer boys had begun to beat out a rhythm that was the sound of war to his ears. A thousand of them waited in the ranks with the drums strapped to their chest. The noise they made echoed back from the mountains and made his pulse thump faster. His brothers were somewhere ahead, half frozen after their trek across the high trails. Beyond them lay the city that had spilled Chin seed among his people for a thousand years, bribing them and slaughtering them like a pack of dogs when they saw the need. He smiled to himself at the image, wondering what his son Jochi would make of it.

The sun was hidden as it rose above him, then, in an instant, the plains were lit in gold and Genghis felt warmth touch his face. His gaze came up from the ground. It was time.

CHAPTER 22

KACHIUN WAITED AS THE DAWN drew fingers of shadow from the trees. Genghis would move through the pass as fast as possible, but it would still take time for him to reach the main Chin army. All around him, Kachiun’s men readied their bows and loosened the tightly packed arrows in their quivers. Twelve men had died in the high passes, their hearts bursting in their chests as they gasped in the thin air. Another thousand had gone with Khasar. Even without those, almost nine hundred thousand shafts could still be loosed upon their enemy when the time came.

Kachiun had searched in vain for a place to form ranks that would not be seen by the Chin, but there was none. His men would be exposed in the valley, with only volleys of arrows to hold off a charge. Kachiun grinned at the thought.

The Chin camp was barely stirring in the dawn cold. Snow had erased the marks of their time there, so that the pale tents looked beautiful and frozen, a place of calm that hardly hinted at the number of fighting men within. Kachiun prided himself on his sharp vision, but there was no sign that they knew Genghis was on the move at last. The guards changed at dawn, hundreds of them heading back for a meal and sleep while others took their places. There was no panic in them yet.

Kachiun had formed a grudging respect for the general who organized the camp in the distance. Just before dawn, horsemen had been sent to scout the valley, riding its length to the south before returning. It was clear they were not expecting an enemy to be so close, and Kachiun had heard them calling lightly to one another as they rode, hardly looking up at the peaks and foothills. No doubt they thought it was an easy duty to spend a winter warm and safe, surrounded by so many other swords.

Kachiun started when one of the officers tapped his shoulder and pressed a package of meat and bread into his hand. It was warm and damp from where it had been pressed against someone’s skin, but Kachiun was ravenous and only nodded in thanks as he sank his teeth into it. He would need all his strength. Even for men who had been born to the bow, drawing a hundred shafts at full speed would leave their shoulders and arms in agony. He whispered an order for the men to form pairs as they waited, using each other’s weight to loosen muscles and keep the cold at bay. The warriors all knew the benefit of such work. None of them wanted to fail when the moment came.

Still the Chin camp was quiet. Kachiun swallowed the last of the bread nervously, packing his mouth with snow until he had enough moisture to let it slide down his throat. He had to time his attack perfectly. If he went before Genghis was in sight, the Chin general would be able to divert some part of his vast army to run Kachiun’s archers down. If he left it late, Genghis would lose the advantage of a second attack and perhaps be killed.

Kachiun’s eyes began to ache with the strain of staring into the distance. He dared not look away.

The prisoners began to moan as they moved into the pass, sensing what lay ahead. The front ranks of the Mongol riders blocked the retreat so that they had no choice but to keep trotting further in. Genghis saw a few of the younger men make a dart between two of his warriors. Thousands of eyes watched the attempt to escape with feverish interest, then turned away in despair as the men were beheaded in quick blows.

The noise of drums, horses, and men echoed back from the high walls of the pass as they entered its embrace. Far ahead, Chin scouts were racing back with the news for their general. The enemy would know he was coming, but he was not depending on surprise.

The horde of prisoners trudged forward on the rocky ground, looking fearfully for the first sign of Chin archers. Progress was slow with more than thirty thousand men walking ahead of the Mongol riders, and there were some that fell, lying exhausted on the ground as the horsemen reached them. They too were impaled on lances, whether they were feigning or not. The others were urged on with sharp cries from the tribesmen, just as they would have hooted and yipped to goats at home. The familiar sound was strange in such a place. Genghis took a last look at his ranks, noting the positions of his trusted generals before he stared hungrily ahead. The pass was two miles long and he would not turn back.

Kachiun saw frantic movement in the Chin camp at last. Genghis was moving and word had reached the man in command. Cavalry cantered through the tents, a better quality of animal than Kachiun had seen them use before. Perhaps the emperor kept the best bloodlines for his Imperial army. The animals were larger than the ponies he knew, and they shone in the dawn sun as their riders formed up, facing the Badger’s Mouth.

Kachiun could see regiments of crossbow and pikemen hurrying to the front ranks and he winced at the sheer number of them. His brother could be engulfed in a charge against so many. His favorite tactic of encircling a foe was impossible in the narrow space.

Kachiun turned to the men behind him and found them staring in his direction, waiting for the word.

“When I give the order, come out at the run. We’ll form three ranks across the valley, as close to them as we can get. You will not be able to hear me over the sound of bows, so pass the word to loose twenty shafts and then wait. I will raise and drop my arm for twenty more.”

“Their cavalry are armored. They will run us down,” a man said at his shoulder, staring past Kachiun. All of them were horsemen. The idea of standing alone against a charge went against everything they knew.

“No,” Kachiun said. “Nothing in the world can stand against my people armed with bows. The first twenty shafts will cause panic. Then we will advance. If they charge, and they will, we will put a long shaft through the throat of every man.”

He gazed back down the valley at the Chin camp. It looked now as if someone had kicked a nest of ants. Genghis was coming.

“Pass the word to be ready,” Kachiun muttered. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His judgment had to be perfect. “Just a little longer. When we go, we go fast.”

Almost halfway along the pass, the prisoners came abreast of the first nests of crossbowmen. Chin soldiers had taken positions on shelves of rock fifty feet above the ground. The prisoners saw them first and swung away from the sides, slowing them all as they compressed the center. The Chin soldiers could hardly miss and they sent bolts whirring into the press. As the screams echoed, the front three ranks with Genghis raised their bows. Every one of them could hit a bird on the wing, or three men in a line at full gallop. As they came into range their shafts tore through the air. The soldiers fell onto the heads of those passing below. The bloody crevices were left behind as the warriors went on, forcing the wailing prisoners into a stumbling trot.

The first pinch between two great shelves of rock came just a little further down the pass. The prisoners funneled toward it, staggering into a run as the Mongols yelled and prodded them with their lances. All of them could see the two great forts that hung over the only path through. That was as far as any scout had managed to see before they had ridden back. After that, they were on new ground and no one knew what lay ahead.

Khasar was sweating. It had taken a long time to get a thousand men down only three ropes, and as more and more made it safely to flat ground, he had been tempted to leave the others. The snow was deep enough for men to sink to the waist as they moved around, and he no longer believed the trail had been a hunting track for men at the fort, unless he had missed steps cut into the rock further along. His men had found their way to the rear of the fort, but in the darkness, he could not see a way in. Like its partner on the other side of the pass, the fort had been designed to be impregnable for anyone passing through the Badger’s Mouth. For all he knew, those who manned it were hauled up on ropes.

Three of his men had fallen on the descent, and against all expectations, one of them had survived, landing in a drift so deep that the stunned warrior had to be dug out by his companions. The other two were not so lucky and struck exposed rocks. Neither had called out and the only sound was the hooting of night owls returning to their nests.

When dawn came, Khasar had moved the men on through the heavy snow, the first ones making slow progress as they tramped it down. The fort loomed blackly above their heads and Khasar could only swear in frustration, convinced that he had taken a tenth of Kachiun’s force for no good reason.

When he reached a path across their route, he felt a rush of excitement. Nearby, they found a vast pile of firewood, hidden from the pass below. It made sense that the Chin warriors took their wood from the cliffs at their back, piling it up for a long winter. One of Khasar’s men found a long-handled axe buried in a log. The blade was oiled and showed only specks of rust. He grinned at the sight of it, knowing there had to be a way in.

Khasar froze as he heard the tramp of feet and the wailing voices of the prisoners in the distance. Genghis was coming and he was still in no position to help his brothers.

“No more caution,” he said to the men around him. “We need to be in that fort. Get forward and find whatever door they use to bring in the wood.”

He broke into a run then and they followed him, readying swords and bows as they went.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

General Zhi Zhong was at the center of a swirl of running messengers, giving orders as quickly as he received news. He had not slept, but his mind sparked with energy and indignation. Though the storm had passed, the air was still frozen and ice lay on the ground of the pass and layered the cliffs all around them. Frozen hands would slip on swords. Horses would fall and every man there would feel his strength stolen away by the cold. The general looked wistfully to where a cooking fire had been set but not lit. He could have ordered hot food brought, but the alarm had come before his army had eaten and now he did not have time. No one went to war in winter, he told himself, mocking the certainty he had felt in the night.

He had held the end of the pass for months while the Mongol army ravaged the lands beyond. His men were ready. When the Mongols came in range, they would be met with a thousand crossbow bolts every ten heartbeats, and that was just the beginning. Zhi Zhong shivered as the wind built, roaring through the camp. He had brought them to the only place where they could not use the tactics of plains warfare. The Badger’s Mouth would guard his flanks better than any force of men. Let them come, he thought.

Genghis squinted ahead as the prisoners streamed under the forts. The pass was crammed with men so far ahead of his own people that he could barely see what was happening. In the distance, he heard screams come back on the frozen air and saw a sudden bloom of flame. The prisoners at the rear had seen it too and they faltered in the mad rush before his riders, terrified. Without an order from him, lances came down and forced them onward into the maw between the forts. No matter what weapons the Chin had, thirty thousand prisoners were hard to stop. Already some of them were past the pinch and streaming out beyond it. Genghis rode on and could only hope that by the time he came under the forts, they would have exhausted their oil and shafts. Bodies lay still on the ground, more and more of them as he closed on the narrow place.

Above his head, Genghis saw archers on the forts, but to his astonishment, they seemed to be aiming across the pass itself, loosing shaft after shaft at their own men. He could not understand it and a spike of worry came into his thoughts at the development. Though it seemed a gift, he did not like to be surprised when he was hemmed into such a place. He felt the walls of rock pressing on him, forcing him on.

Closer to the forts he could hear the thump of catapults, now a sound he knew well and understood. He saw a smoke trail crease the air above the pass and a wash of fire spread over the walls of the fort on his left hand. Archers fell burning from their platforms and a cheer went up from the other side. Genghis felt his heart leap. There could only be one explanation and he roared orders to thin the column so that it passed on the right side of the Badger’s Mouth, as far from the left as they could manage.

Kachiun or Khasar had taken the fort. Whoever it was up there, Genghis would honor him when the battle was over, if they both still lived.

More and more corpses lay sprawled on the floor of the pass, so that his horse had to step on them, whinnying in distress. Genghis felt his heart hammer in fear as a bar of shadow crossed his face. He was almost under the forts, in the heart of a killing ground designed by long-dead Chin nobles. Thousands of his prisoners had died and there were places he could hardly see the ground for bodies. Yet his ragged vanguard had pushed through, running now in wild terror. The Mongol tribes themselves had hardly lost a man, and Genghis exulted. He passed under the right-hand fort, shouting loudly to those of his people above who had smashed their way in. They could not hear him. He could hardly hear himself.

He leaned forward in the saddle, needing to gallop. It was difficult to hold his mount to a trot with arrows in the air, yet he controlled himself, holding up a flat palm to keep the men steady. One of the forts was burning inside, the flames licking out of the killing holes. Even as Genghis glanced up, a wooden platform collapsed in fire, tumbling to the ground below. Horses screamed in distress and some of them bolted, racing after the prisoners.

Genghis stood in the saddle to look down the pass. He swallowed nervously as he saw a dark line across its end. There the pass was as narrow as the pinch between the forts, a perfect natural defense. There was no way through but over the army of the Chin emperor. Already the prisoners were reaching it and now Genghis heard the snap of crossbow volleys like thunder, so loud in the confined space that it hurt his ears with every strike.

The prisoners went berserk in their panic, bolts hammering them from their feet as each man was struck over and over, spinning and torn as he fell. They ran into a hailstorm of iron and Genghis bared his teeth, knowing his turn would come.

The general’s messenger was pale with fear, still shaking at what he had seen. Nothing in his career to that point had prepared him for the carnage of the pass.

“They have taken one of the forts, General,” he said, “and turned the catapults on the other.”

General Zhi Zhong looked calmly at the man, irritated with his show of fear. “The forts could only have thinned so many,” he reminded the man. “We will stop them here.”

The messenger seemed to take confidence from the general’s composed manner and let out a long breath.

Zhi Zhong waited for the messenger to control himself, then gestured to one of the soldiers nearby. “Take this one out and whip the skin from his back,” he said. The messenger gaped at hearing the order. “When he has learned courage, you may cease the instruction, or at sixty strokes of the cane, whichever comes first.”

The messenger bowed his head in shame as he was led away, and for the first time that morning, Zhi Zhong was left alone. He swore under his breath for a moment before striding outside his tent, hungry for information. He knew by then that the Mongols were driving Chin prisoners before them, soaking up the defenses with his own people. Zhi Zhong could silently applaud the tactic, even as he sought ways to counter it. Tens of thousands of unarmed men could be as dangerous as an army if they reached his lines. They would foul the crossbow regiments he had spread across the pass. He ordered a waiting soldier to send fresh carts of bolts to the front and watched as they trundled away.

The khan had been clever, but the prisoners would only be a shield until they were dead and Zhi Zhong was still confident. The Mongols would have to fight for every foot. Without space to maneuver, they would be drawn in and slaughtered.

He waited, wondering if he should move closer to the front line. From his viewpoint further back, he could see black smoke rising from the captured fort and cursed again. It was a humiliating loss, but the emperor would not care once the last of the tribesmen were dead.

Zhi Zhong had hoped to kill many of them before opening a path into his army, compressing them further. They would race forward into the gap and find themselves attacked on all sides, the spearhead lost in a mass of veteran soldiers. It was a good tactic. The alternative was to block the pass completely. He had planned for both and he weighed one against the other. He calmed his racing heart, showing a confident expression to the men around him. With a steady hand, he took a jug of water and poured it into a cup, sipping as he stared down the pass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement in the snow-covered valley. He glanced over and froze for a moment. Dark lines of men were spilling out of the treeline, forming ranks as he watched.

Zhi Zhong threw the cup down as messengers raced through the camp to tell him of the development. The peaks could not be climbed. It was impossible. Even in his shock, he did not hesitate, snapping orders before the messengers could reach him.

“Cavalry regiments one to twenty, form up!” he roared. “Hold the left flank and sweep those lines away.” Horsemen raced to pass on the orders and half his cavalry force began to peel off the main army. He watched the Mongol lines form, striding through the snow toward him. He did not allow himself to panic. They had climbed the peaks on foot and they would be exhausted. His men would ride them down.

It seemed to take an age for twenty thousand Imperial riders to form in blocks on the left flank, and by that point, the Mongol lines had halted. Zhi Zhong clenched his fists as orders sounded up and down the line and his horsemen began to trot toward the enemy, standing in the snow. He could see no more than ten thousand of them, at most. Infantry could not stand against a disciplined charge. They would be destroyed.

As the general watched, his cavalry accelerated, swords raised to take heads. He forced himself to look back at the pass, his mouth dry. They had driven prisoners before them, taken one of his forts, and flanked him over the peaks. If that was all they had, he could still break them. For an instant, his certainty wavered and he considered ordering the pass blocked. No, it had not yet come to that. His respect for the Mongol khan had increased sharply, but the general remained confident as his cavalry thundered down the valley.

CHAPTER 23

AT NINE HUNDRED PACES AWAY, the Chin cavalry hit full gallop. It was too early, Kachiun thought. He stood calmly watching with his nine thousand. At least the valley wasn’t so wide that he would automatically be flanked. He could feel the nervousness in the men around him. None of them had ever faced a charge on foot, and they realized how their own enemies must feel. The sun shone on Chin armor and the swords the horsemen raised, ready to crash through the line.

“Remember this!” Kachiun shouted. “These men have not met us in war. They do not know what we can do. One shaft to knock them down, then one more to kill them. Choose your men and on my signal, loose twenty!”

He drew his bow back to his ear, feeling the power of his right arm. This was why he had trained for years, building muscles until they were like iron. His left arm was nowhere near as strong as his right, and the hump of muscle on his shoulder gave him a lopsided look when he was bare-chested. He could feel the ground shake as the mass of riders came on. At six hundred paces, he glanced up and down his ranks, risking a look at the men behind. They had their bows bent, ready to send death to the enemy.

The Chin soldiers yelled as they came, the sound filling the valley and crashing over the silent Mongol lines. They were well armored and carried shields that would protect them from many of the shafts. Kachiun noted every detail as they closed at frightening speed. The farthest killing range was four hundred yards and he let them come through that untouched. At three hundred yards, he could see his men glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, watching for him to release his shaft.

At two hundred, the line of horses was like a wall. Kachiun felt fear gnaw at him as he gave his order.

“Take them!” he bellowed, snarling as he let go. Nine thousand shafts followed on the instant, snapping across the space.

The charge faltered as if it had hit a trench. Men spun out of the saddles and horses fell. Those behind smashed into them at full gallop, and by then, Kachiun had the second shaft on the string and was drawing back. Another volley slammed into the charge.

The Chin horsemen could not have stopped, even if they had understood what was happening. The front ranks collapsed and those who kicked their horses over them were met with another wave of arrows, each man punched by three or four shafts moving too fast to see. Reins were torn out of fingers, and even when the armor or shields saved them, sheer force of impact flung them to the ground.

Kachiun counted aloud as he shot, aiming for the bare faces of the Chin soldiers as they staggered up. If he could not see a face, he aimed for the chest and depended on the heavy arrow tip to punch through the scales. He felt his shoulders begin to burn as he reached his fifteenth arrow. The charging horsemen had run full speed into a hammer, and they had not come closer. Kachiun reached down and found he had used his twenty.

“Thirty paces forward, with me!” he shouted, breaking into a slow run. His men came with him, yanking fresh bundles of arrows from their quivers. The Chin soldiers saw them move and there were still thousands struggling through the lines of dead. Many had fallen without a wound, their horses going down in the press of dying men and animals. The officers barked orders to remount and the soldiers cried out as they saw the Mongols padding forward.

Kachiun held up his right fist and the line stopped. He saw one of his own officers cuff a younger man hard enough to send him staggering.

“If I see you hit another horse, I will kill you myself!” the officer snapped. Kachiun chuckled.

“Twenty more! Aim for the men!” he shouted, the order repeated up and down the line. The Chin cavalry had recovered from their first collapse, and he could see plumed officers urging them onwards. Kachiun took aim at one of them as the man pirouetted on his mount, waving a sword in the air.

Another nine thousand arrows followed Kachiun’s shaft as it took his man through the neck. At this range, they could pick their shots and the volley was devastating. A ragged second charge disintegrated against the whirring arrows, and the Chin soldiers began to panic. A few men galloped unscathed out of the chaos, their shields bristling with arrows. Though it hurt to give the order, Kachiun roared “Horses!” to the men around him, and the animals went down in a crackle of snapping bones.

Ten shafts came in every sixty heartbeats and there was no respite. The bravest of them died quickly and left only the weak and frightened, trying to turn their mounts back into their own men. The lines behind were fouled by bolting horses, their riders lolling in the saddles with arrows through their chests.

Kachiun’s shoulder was aching as he shot his fortieth arrow and waited as the men around him finished their strike. The valley ahead was churned with blood and dead men, a red stain of kicking hooves and flailing soldiers in the snow. There was no way for them to charge now, and though the Chin officers still yelled for them to force a way through, they could not build momentum once more.

Kachiun ran forward without giving an order and his men came with him. He counted twenty paces, then let his excitement override his better judgment, jogging another twenty so that he was dangerously close to the mass of broken men and horses. Only a hundred yards separated the two forces as Kachiun plunged another twenty arrows into pristine snow and cut the knot that bound them. Chin soldiers wailed in terror as they saw the action and the bows bent again. Panic was spreading through their ranks, and as yet more arrows ripped into them, they broke.

At first the rout was slow and as many men died trying to get away as pressed forward from behind. The Mongols fired methodically at anything they could see. The officers went down quickly and Kachiun shouted wildly as he saw the rout spread. Those who had not come near the front ranks were knocked aside and infected by fear and blood.

“Slow down!” Kachiun shouted to his men. He loosed his fiftieth arrow as he called to them, and considered striding even closer to the soldiers to complete the rout. He cautioned himself then, though he wanted to race after the fleeing soldiers. There was time, he told himself. The rate slowed as he had ordered and the accuracy increased even more, so that hundreds of men fell with more than one arrow in them. Sixty, and now the quivers were light on their backs.

Kachiun paused. The cavalry had been shattered and many were racing back with loose reins. They could still re-form, and though he did not fear another charge, he saw a chance to rout them right into their own lines. Moving closer was dangerous, he knew. If the Chin soldiers ever reached his men, the day could still turn in their favor. Kachiun looked around at the grinning faces near him and responded with a laugh.

“Will you walk with me?” he said. They cheered and he strode forward, drawing another arrow from his quiver. This time, he held it on the string as they stalked right up to the first lines of the dead. Many of them still lived and some of the Mongols picked up their valuable swords, taking precious moments to slide them under the sash of their deels. Kachiun was almost knocked down by a loose horse racing across the line. He reached out a hand for the reins and missed, though it was stopped by two of his men further down. There were hundreds of riderless animals and he grabbed for another as it ran, snorting and shying at the solid line of archers. Kachiun quieted the beast, rubbing its nose as he watched the Chin riders begin to reform. He had shown them what his people could do with bows. Perhaps it was time to show what they could do from the back of a horse.

“Take swords and mount!” he shouted. Once more, the order was repeated and he saw his men dash joyfully over the dead to leap into the saddles of Chin horses. There were more than enough, though some of the mounts were still wide-eyed with terror and spattered with the blood of their last rider. Kachiun sprang into the saddle then, standing in the stirrups to see what the enemy was doing. He wished Khasar was there to see this. His brother would have loved the chance to charge the Chin army with their own horses. He bellowed a challenge and dug in his heels, leaning low over the saddle as his mount hit its stride and leaped forward.

The end of the pass was in chaos as Genghis rode over the dead. The crossbows of the Chin soldiers had killed almost all of his prisoners, with half a million iron bolts lying in shifting piles underfoot. Yet some of them had run onto the Chin ranks, berserk in their terror. Genghis had seen them grabbing weapons and barricades with bloody hands.

The organized volley fire became sporadic as the last of them tore at the lines. Hundreds forced their way past the first rank, clawing and kicking in desperation. When they found a weapon, they used it to strike wildly around them until they were cut down.

As Genghis pressed forward he felt bolts zipping by him and ducked in his saddle as one came too close. The vast Chin army was ahead and he had done everything he could. The gap opened as he rode at it and he realized only one side was a wall of rock. From far back, he had thought of the gap as a great gate, but close to, he saw the Chin had raised a huge tree trunk upright on one side. Ropes stretched from the top and Genghis realized it could be dropped across the pass itself, cutting his army in half. If it fell, he was finished. As panic swept through him, his advance staggered to a halt against a hill of dead bodies. Genghis cried out in frustration, waiting to be struck or see the tree fall. He called men ahead of him by name, ordering them forward on foot and pointing to the great bole that would crash down on all his hopes. They struggled to reach the ropes and cut them.

Beyond the gap, Genghis could see the Chin lines swirl. Something was wrong and he risked standing in his stirrups to see what it was. The last of the prisoners were heaving at the wicker barricades that protected the Chin soldiers while they reloaded. Genghis held his breath as his warriors joined the exhausted prisoners, their swords bright lines in the sun. The crossbows had fallen silent at last and Genghis could see gesturing arms calling for more.

They had run out of bolts at last, as he had hoped. The ground was black with the ugly little spikes of iron, and every sprawled body was fat with them. Let the tree stand and he would have his breach yet in the Chin ranks. Genghis drew his father’s sword, feeling the pressure give suddenly like a breaking dam. Behind him, the Mongols lifted lances or long blades and jammed in their heels, forcing their mounts to leap up piles of dead men. The remaining barricades were kicked aside. Genghis passed under the shadow of the huge tree and could not stop as he was carried into the army of the Chin emperor.

The line of horsemen speared into the Chin soldiers, cutting deeply into their ranks. The risk increased with every length they traveled, as they were faced with men not only at the front but at the sides. Genghis hacked at anything that moved, a butcher’s style he could keep up for hours. Ahead he saw a line of panicking cavalry smash into their own lines, breaking them apart. He could not take a moment to look back at the tree with so many blades whirling around him. Only when another line hit the cavalry at full gallop did he glance up, recognizing his own people on the back of the Chin mounts. He yelled hoarsely then, sensing the swelling panic and confusion in his enemies. Behind him the impotent crossbow regiments were being gutted by his men as they cut a path deeper and deeper into the massed ranks. It would not have been enough without the flanking charge, but Genghis saw the riders wreak havoc in the Chin lines, the best horsemen in the world running wild amidst their enemies.

A blade caught his mount in the throat, opening up a great gash that pumped blood onto the faces of struggling soldiers. Genghis felt the animal falter and jumped free, knocking two men down as he hit them with his full armored weight.

His feel for the battle was lost in that instant and he could only continue the fight on foot, hoping they had done enough. More and more of his warriors were surging out of the pass, crashing into the center. The Mongol army came through like an armored fist, sending the Chin ranks reeling.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

General Zhi Zhong could only watch openmouthed as the Mongols gutted his front lines. He had seen his cavalry routed and then driven back into the main army, spreading panic through the ranks. He could have held them steady, he was certain, but then the cursed Mongols followed them in on stolen horses. They rode with astonishing skill, balancing perfectly as they fired volleys of arrows at the gallop, opening a hole. He saw a sword regiment collapse and then the front ranks at the pass crumpled back and a new wave of them sprang through his soldiers as if they were children with swords.

The general gaped, his mind blank. His officers were looking to him for orders, but too much was happening too quickly and he froze. No, he could still recover. More than half his army had yet to meet the enemy, and another twenty cavalry regiments waited further down the line. He called for his horse and mounted.

“Block the pass!” he shouted, his messengers racing through the line to the front. He had men ready for the order, if they still lived. If he could cut off the Mongols coming through the pass, he could surround and destroy those who rode so recklessly through his own lines. He had raised the tree as a last resort, but it had become the only thing that would buy him time enough to regroup.

Tsubodai saw Genghis crash through the end of the pass, his horse wild. He felt the terrible pressure begin to give around him as more and more men followed their khan through the gap. Tsubodai’s Young Wolves bayed in excitement. Many of them were still so hemmed in by men and horses that they could not move. Some had even been turned around in the heaving mass and were struggling to get back to the fighting ahead.

Tsubodai had lost sight of Genghis when he saw one of the ropes above his head grow taut as men heaved on it. He looked up, understanding in an instant that the shuddering tree could be dropped and cut him off from those who had gone through.

His men did not see the danger and kicked and urged their mounts forward, whooping like the young men they were. Tsubodai swore as another rope lost its slackness. The tree was enormous, but it would not take much to pull it down.

“Targets there!” he roared to his men, giving them the direction as he drew and loosed as fast as he ever had before. His first shaft took one of the struggling Chin in the throat and he fell away from a rope, sending two companions sprawling. It went slack, but more ran to complete Zhi Zhong’s order and the tree began to tip. Tsubodai’s Young Wolves answered with a swarm of arrows, dropping dozens of men. It was too late. The last of the Chin soldiers pulled the massive trunk right on top of them, with a crash that slammed up and down the pass. Tsubodai was no more than twenty paces from the plain beyond when it fell. His horse reared in panic and he had to heave to bring it back under control.

Even the surviving prisoners were jolted from their bloody frenzy by the sound. As Tsubodai stared in stunned horror, silence fell across the packed lines for a moment before a single terrible cry came from a warrior whose legs had been crushed. The side of the tree blocked the pass to the height of a man. No horse could leap it. Tsubodai felt thousands of eyes turn automatically to him, but he did not know what to do.

His stomach twisted as he saw lines of Chin pikemen appear behind the barrier. Those who dared to show their faces were hammered back with arrows, but their weapons remained, a line of heavy iron that showed like teeth along the length of the trunk. Tsubodai swallowed against a dry throat.

“Axes!” Tsubodai bellowed. “Axes here!” He did not know how long it would take to cut through such a massive trunk. Until they did, his khan was trapped on the other side.

CHAPTER 24

GENGHIS SAW THE TREE FALL and howled in anger, cutting a man’s head from his shoulders with a single massive blow. He was in a sea of red and gold banners, fluttering with a noise like birds’ wings. He fought alone, desperately. They had not yet realized who he was. Only those close to him tried to crush the dervish of a warrior who fought and snarled into their faces. He spun and darted between them, using every piece of armor as a weapon; anything that would keep him alive. He left a trail of pain in his wake and he never stopped moving. To stop was to die in such a host of flags.

The Chin sensed the sudden uncertainty in their enemies and roared a challenge, their confidence returning. Genghis could see a vast force of fresh cavalry thundering along the flank, and he had lost sight of his brother Kachiun. He was unhorsed among the enemy. Dust was everywhere and he knew death was just a whisper away.

As he despaired a horseman smashed soldiers out of the way and heaved the khan behind him by sheer strength. It was the wrestler, Tolui. Genghis gasped thanks to the massive warrior as they brought their blades down on those who screamed at them. Crossbow bolts rattled off their armor and Tolui grunted as the finger-width plates were snapped by the impacts, many of them falling away.

“To me! Defend the khan!” Tolui bellowed across the heads of the swarming Chin. He saw a riderless horse and aimed his mount at it. As Genghis lunged for the empty saddle, he took a cut on the thigh and shouted in pain. He kicked out wildly, his foot breaking a man’s jaw. The sting brought his senses back from despair and he looked around between blows, taking in an impression of the battlefield.

It was chaos. The Chin seemed to have no formations, as if sheer numbers could be enough. Yet to the east, their general was restoring order. The cavalry along the flank would reach Genghis’s men even as they fought in the boiling mass of soldiers. Genghis shook his head to clear his eyes of blood. He did not remember taking the wound, but his scalp was raw and his helmet had been knocked away. He could taste blood and spat downwards as he slashed another soldier across the neck.

“The khan!” Tolui shouted, his voice carrying far. Kachiun heard himand answered, his sword swinging. He could not reach his brother and many of his men were already dead, crushed underfoot. He had perhaps five thousand of his original nine. Their quivers were all empty and they were too far from the Badger’s Mouth and the khan.

Kachiun swung his sword and tore a great gash along his own horse’s flank. Blood poured as the animal screamed and bolted over men, knocking them flying. Kachiun echoed the sound with a desperate call for his men to follow him as he hung on, barely able to guide the stricken animal. He careered through the Chin soldiers, swinging at anything he could reach. The horse was running mad and Kachiun heard its breastbone break as it hit some obstacle. He went flying over its head, hitting another man with his armor. Another of his warriors yelled and Kachiun gripped a lowered arm, dazed and in pain as he swung up behind him.

The five thousand fought as if they had lost their minds, with no thought for their own safety. Those who were hemmed in cut their own mounts as Kachiun had, sending them kicking and snorting for the open plain between the mountains. They had to reach Genghis before he was killed.

Kachiun felt the second mount stumble and nearly fell once more. Somehow it righted itself and he broke through the lines onto open ground, the horse wide-eyed in terror. Riderless horses were everywhere and Kachiun leaped for one without thinking, almost tearing his right arm from the socket as he caught the reins. He looped out from the battle then as he fought the horse’s panic and brought it back in. His men had come with him, though there could not have been more than three thousand after that wild charge through the heart of the Chin army.

“Ride!” Kachiun shouted, shaking his head to clear it. He could barely see and his head throbbed from the first impact with the ground. He could feel his entire face swelling as he galloped along the army’s edge back to his brother. Half a mile ahead, the rear of Zhi Zhong’s cavalry were riding to seal the pass, twenty thousand fresh horses and men. Kachiun knew it was too many, but he did not slow. He raised his sword as he rode, putting aside the pain and showing red teeth to the wind.

No more than a thousand had come through the pass before the tree fell. Half of those were already dead and the rest clustered around their khan, prepared to defend him to the last man. The Chin soldiers swirled around them like wasps, but they fought like men possessed, and all the time, Genghis was darting glances back at the trunk that blocked the pass. His men were born to war, each one of them more skilled than the Chin soldiers who struggled at their stirrups and died. Their quivers were all empty, but many of the men maneuvered their mounts as if they were one creature. The ponies knew when to step back from a swinging blade and when to kick and cave in the chest of anyone daring to come too close. Like an island in a raging sea, the Mongol horsemen moved across the face of the Chin army and no one could bring them down. Crossbow bolts rattled their armor, but the regiments were too hemmed in for volley fire. No one wanted to come near those red blades and grim warriors. Those who rode with Genghis were slippery with blood, their hands gummed onto their swords with it. They were men who were hard to kill. They knew their khan was with them and that they only had to hold on until the barrier was cut through. Even then, their number began to dwindle, though they took ten or twenty for every man that fell. More and more began to look back at the pass, their eyes grim and growing in desperation as they fought on.

Jelme and Arslan arrived together at the blocked pass, seeing Tsubodai pale. The young general nodded to the senior men.

“We need more axe-men,” Jelme snapped. “At this rate it will take hours.”

Tsubodai glared coldly at him. “The command is yours, General. I was merely waiting for you to come to the front.” He turned his horse away from them without another word, taking a deep breath to shout over the heads of his men.

“Wolves, dismount!” he snapped. “Bows and swords! On foot! With me!”

As the senior men took charge of the axe teams, Tsubodai climbed onto the trunk with his sword drawn, looking down at the Chin pikemen before he kicked one weapon aside and leaped into them. His men followed in a great scrambling rush that knocked their own axe teams sprawling. They would not let their young general go alone to save the khan, and they were fresh and furious at the tricks of the Chin.

Genghis looked up as the Young Wolves joined the battle. They cut down the surprised Chin from behind, opening up a great rift in their ranks. Those who took wounds seemed not to feel them as they kept their eyes locked on Tsubodai as he raced on. He had seen the khan and his arm was untried that day. He hit the Chin with a rank no more than a dozen wide, young warriors who moved at such a speed that they could not be stopped. They cut a path through to Genghis over a trail of dead.

“I have been waiting for you!” Genghis called to Tsubodai. “What do you want from me this time?”

The young general laughed to see him alive, even as he ducked under a sweeping sword and gutted the man who held it. He pulled the blade out with a great heave and stamped down on a dead body as he stepped past. The Chin were reeling, but they still swarmed in such numbers that even Tsubodai’s ten thousand could be engulfed. On the flank of the great army of the Chin, cavalry horns sounded and Genghis turned in the saddle as the Chin ranks fell back in order, opening a path for the charge. The Mongol warriors looked at each other as the Chin cavalry broke into a gallop through their own ranks. Genghis grinned, panting as his men formed up around him.

“Those are good horses,” he said. “I will have the first choice of them when we are done.” Those who heard him laughed, then as one, they kicked their weary mounts into a canter, leaning low over the saddles. They left Tsubodai alone to hold the ground around the pass and slid into a gallop on their ponies just before the two forces crashed together.

The Chin cavalry commander died in the first instant of meeting the Mongol horsemen. Over the thunder of hooves, his men were cut from their saddles. Those who could strike back swung on empty air as the Mongols ducked or swayed aside. They had practiced for this all their lives. Genghis galloped on, deeper and deeper into the ranks of horsemen, his sword arm burning. There was no end to them and he took a fresh cut above his hip where the armor had broken away. Another impact knocked him back so that he saw the pale sky swinging above before he could recover. He did not fall; he could not. He heard screams as Kachiun’s mounts hit the Chin riders from behind and wondered if he would meet his brother in the middle or die first. There were just so many enemies. He no longer expected to survive and that brought a lightness to his mood that made the gallop through his enemies a moment of pure joy. It was easy to imagine his father riding with him. Perhaps the old man would be proud at last. His sons could not have chosen a better end.

Behind him the tree was finally rolled back in three pieces. The Mongol army rode slowly out onto the icy flats, grim and poised to avenge their khan. Jelme and Arslan rode at the head and both father and son were ready. They looked out at the Chin flags and banners that swirled into the distance.

“I would not change my life, Jelme, if I could go back,” Arslan called to his son. “I would still be here.”

“Where else would you be, old man?” Jelme replied with a smile. He set an arrow on the bowstring and took a deep breath before loosing the first shaft into the enemy ranks.

Zhi Zhong watched in frustration as the pass opened and twenty thousand warriors came storming out, ready to fight. The gods had not given the khan into his hands. Zhi Zhong’s own cavalry was engaging the khan’s small force, while another group cut into the Chin like a tiger ripping at the belly of a running deer. The Mongols did not seem to communicate, yet they worked together across the battlefield, while his was the only center of command. Zhi Zhong rubbed his eyes, staring into the dust clouds as they fought.

His pikemen were in chaos and some had left the plain, the figures already distant specks among the hills. Could he yet save the battle? All the tricks were finished. It came down to a fight on a flat plain, and he still had the numbers.

He gave fresh orders to his messengers and watched as they galloped across the battlefield. The Mongols from the pass were hammering his men with shaft after shaft, cutting a trench right through the center of the army that waited for them. The relentless accuracy was forcing his ranks back on themselves, making them bunch up where they should have stayed apart. Zhi Zhong wiped sweat from his brow as he saw riders ripping through his pikemen as if they were unarmed. He could only watch frozen as they split into groups of a hundred, attacking from all angles with their shafts, cutting his army to pieces.

It seemed only a moment before one of the marauding groups spotted him standing there, directing the battle. Zhi Zhong saw their faces light up as they saw the massive war banners around his command tent. As he stared he saw a dozen bows bent in his direction and others yanking at reins to turn their mounts. Surely the range was too great? Hundreds of his personal guard lay in their path, but they could not stop the arrows and the general was suddenly terrified. They were demonic, these men from the plains. He had tried everything and still they came. Many of them had been cut in the fighting, but they seemed to feel no pain as they drew their bows with bloody hands and kicked their horses at him.

A half-spent arrow thumped into his chest, sticking out of his armor and making him cry out. As if the sound released his fear, his nerve failed completely and he yelled for his guard, pulling his horse around by brute strength and hunching low in the saddle. Other shafts whistled over his head, killing men around him. General Zhi Zhong was mindless in the face of his own death, his confidence shattering. He dug in his heels and his horse bolted, galloping through the ranks to leave his guard behind.

He did not look down at the wide-eyed faces of his soldiers as they saw him desert them. Many threw down their weapons and simply ran, following his example. Some were knocked aside by his horse as they moved too slowly. His eyes blurred in the frozen wind and he knew nothing except the need to escape the cruel-faced Mongols at his back. Behind him his army crumbled in complete rout and the slaughter went on. The army of Genghis rolled over the Imperial soldiers, killing until their arms were exhausted and the mouths of their horses were white with frothy spit.

Senior officers tried three times to rally their men, each attempt failing as Genghis was able to use the wider ground to send charges in to smash them. When the last of Jelme’s arrows were gone, the lances worked well at full speed, taking men off their feet with the impact. Genghis had seen the Chin general run and no longer felt the terrible wounds he had taken. The sun rose higher on the killing, and by noon, the forces of the emperor lay in bloody mountains of the dead, the remainder scattered in every direction and still pursued.

As Zhi Zhong rode, his mind lost the numbness that had unmanned him. The sounds of battle faded into the distance as he galloped along the road to Yenking. He looked back only once at the great roiling mass of fighting men, and shame and rage were bitter in his throat. Some of his personal guard had taken horses to follow their general, loyal despite his failure. Without a word, they formed up around him, so that a grim phalanx of almost a hundred riders approached the gates of the emperor’s city.

Zhi Zhong recognized one man riding abreast, a senior officer from Baotou. At first he could not recall his name and he could only wonder at his spinning thoughts. The city grew quickly before them and it took a huge effort of will to steady himself and calm his thumping heart. Lujan. The man’s name was Lujan, he remembered at last.

The general sweated in his armor as he looked at the high walls and the moat surrounding the city. After the chaos and bloodshed, it looked sleepily peaceful, waking slowly for the new day. Zhi Zhong had outraced any messengers and the emperor remained unaware of the catastrophe only twenty miles away.

“Do you want to be executed, Lujan?” he said to the man at his side.

“I have a family, General,” the man replied. He was pale, understanding what they faced.

“Then listen to me and follow my orders,” Zhi Zhong replied.

The general was recognized at a distance and the outer gate was lowered over the expanse of water. Zhi Zhong turned in the saddle to shout orders to the men with him.

“The emperor must be told,” he snapped. “We can counterattack with the city guard.” He saw the words have an effect on the defeated men, straightening them in their saddles. They still trusted their general to salvage something from the disaster. Zhi Zhong made his face a mask as he passed into the city, the sound of hooves on paved streets loud in his ears. He had lost. Worse, he had run.

The Imperial palace was a huge construction inside the city, surrounded by gardens of great beauty. Zhi Zhong headed for the closest gate that would take him to an audience room. He wondered if the young emperor was even awake at that hour. He would be alert soon enough, when he received the news.

The guards were forced to dismount at the outer gate, striding inward along a wide road of lime trees. They were met by servants, then passed through a chain of halls. Before they could come into the emperor’s presence, soldiers from the emperor’s own guards blocked their way.

Zhi Zhong showed nothing as he handed over his sword and waited for them to step aside. His soldiers would remain in the outer halls while he went in. He imagined Emperor Wei being woken at that very moment, his slaves fussing around him with the news that the general had returned. The palace would be awash with rumor, but they knew nothing yet. The full scope of the tragedy would come later, but the emperor had to know first.

It was a long time before Zhi Zhong saw the doors of the audience chamber open before him and strode across the wooden floor to the figure seated at the far end. As he had thought, the emperor’s face was puffy from sleep, his hair braided hurriedly so that wisps of it were out of place.

“What news is so important?” Emperor Wei said, his voice strained. The general felt calm at last and took a deep breath as he knelt.

“His Imperial Majesty does me honor,” he said. He raised his head then and the eyes that looked out from the heavy brows made the young emperor clutch at the front of his robe in fear. There was madness there.

Zhi Zhong stood slowly, glancing around the hall. The emperor had dismissed his ministers to hear the private communication from his general. Six slaves stood around the room, but Zhi Zhong cared nothing for them. They would carry the news to the city as they always did. He let out a long breath. His mind had been confused for a time, but at last it was clear.

“The Mongols have come through the pass,” he said, at last. “I could not hold them.” He saw the emperor pale, his skin turning waxy in the light coming through the high windows.

“The army? Have we been forced to retreat?” Emperor Wei demanded, rising to stand before him.

“It has been broken, Imperial Majesty.”

The general’s eyes bored into the young man who faced him and this time they did not look away.

“I served your father well, Imperial Majesty. With him, I would have won. With you, a lesser man, I have failed.”

Emperor Wei opened his mouth in amazement. “You come to me with this and dare to insult me in my own palace?”

The general sighed. He had no sword, but he drew a long knife from where it had been hidden under his armor. The young emperor gaped at the sight of it, suddenly frightened.

“Your father would not have let me come to him, Imperial Majesty. He would have known not to trust a general who returns from a defeat.” Zhi Zhong shrugged. “In failing you, I earned my death. What choice is there for me, but this?”

The emperor took a deep breath to scream for his guards. Zhi Zhong lunged at him and clamped a hand around his throat, stifling the cry. He felt hands batter at his armor and his face, but the boy was weak and his grip only tightened. He could have strangled him then, but it would have been a dishonor to the son of a great man. Instead, he found a place in the emperor’s chest as it writhed and twitched, pressing the blade into the heart.

The hands fell away and only then did he feel the sting of the scratches on his cheeks. Blood stained the robe around the blade and the general lifted him up to place him back in his seat.

The slaves were screaming and Zhi Zhong ignored them, standing before the body of the young emperor. There had been no choice, he told himself.

The outer door swung open as the emperor’s guards burst in. They raised their weapons and Zhi Zhong stood to face them, seeing the figures of his men fill the corridor behind. Lujan had followed the orders he had been given, and he was already bloody. It did not take long to finish the last of them.

Lujan stood with his chest heaving, staring in wonder at the white face of a dead emperor.

“You have killed him,” he said, awed. “What do we do now?”

The general looked at the exhausted, bloody men who brought the stink of the battlefield into such a place. Perhaps later he would weep for everything he had lost, everything he had done, but now was not the time.

“We tell the people the emperor is dead and that the city must be closed and fortified. The Mongols are coming here and we can do nothing else.”

“But who will be emperor now? One of his children?” Lujan said. He had gone very pale and he did not look again at the sprawled figure on the throne.

“The eldest boy is only six,” Zhi Zhong replied. “When the funeral has been held, have him brought to me. I will rule as his regent.”

Lujan stared at his general. “Hail the new emperor,” he whispered, the words repeated by those around him. Almost in a trance, Lujan lowered himself until his forehead touched the wooden floor. The other soldiers followed suit and General Zhi Zhong smiled.

“Ten thousand years,” he said softly. “Ten thousand years.”

CHAPTER 25

THE SKY BURNED BLACK OVER THE MOUNTAINS, the oily smoke reaching for miles. Many of the Chin had surrendered at the end, but the tribes had lost too many of their own to consider mercy. The killing had gone on for days around the pass, those who still wanted to seeking out every last one of the fleeing soldiers and slaughtering them like the marmots of home.

Great bonfires had been built of the pike poles and flags, leaving only food and the dead. The families had come slowly through the pass behind the warriors, bringing carts and forges to melt down the pike heads for their steel. The Chin supplies were dragged into snowbanks where they would remain fresh. There was no tally of the Chin corpses, nor need for one. No one who saw the mountains of broken flesh would ever forget it. The children and women helped to strip the bodies of their armor and anything else of value. The stench was awful after only a day, and the air was rich with flies that crackled and burned in the swirling smoke of the bonfires.

On the edge of it, Genghis waited for his generals. He wanted to see the city that had sent such an army against him. Kachiun and Khasar rode out to join him, staring back in awe across the field of blood and fire that stretched into the distance. The bonfires threw flickering shadows on the mountains of the valley, and even the tribes were subdued as they sang in low voices for the dead.

The three brothers waited in silence as the men Genghis had summoned trotted up, their backs stiff. Tsubodai came first, pale and proud with ugly black stitches running the length of his left arm. Jelme and Arslan rode together, dark against the fires. Ho Sa and Lian the mason came last of all. Only Temuge remained behind to move the camp to a river ten miles north. The flames would burn for days yet, even without the tribes to feed them. The flies were getting worse and Temuge was sickened by the constant buzzing and the rotting dead.

Genghis could hardly drag his gaze away from the plain. It was the death of an empire he was seeing, he was certain of it. He had never come so close to defeat and destruction as in the battle through the pass. It had left its mark on him and he knew he would always be able to close his eyes and summon the memories. Eight thousand of his own men had been wrapped in white cloth and taken up to the mountains. He glanced up to where they lay like fingers of bone in the snow, far away. Already, hawks and wolves tore at their flesh. He had stayed only to see them sky buried, to honor them and give their families honor.

“Temuge has the camp,” he told his generals. “Let us see this Yenking and this emperor.” He dug in his heels and his horse jerked into a run. The others followed him, as they always had.

Built on a great plain, Yenking was by far the largest construction any of them had ever seen. As it grew before him, Genghis recalled the words of Wen Chao, the Chin diplomat he had met years before. He had said that men could build cities like mountains. Yenking was such a place.

It rose in dark gray stone that was at least fifty feet from bedrock to the crest. Genghis sent Lian and Ho Sa around the city to count the wooden towers that rose even further. When they returned, they had traveled more than five miles around and reported almost a thousand towers, like thorns along the walls. Even worse were the descriptions of huge bow weapons on the battlements, manned by silent, watching soldiers.

Genghis studied Lian for some sign that the mason was not intimidated, but the man visibly drooped in the saddle. Like the Mongols, he had never visited the capital and could not think of a way to break walls of that size.

On the corners of the immense rectangle, four forts stood apart from the main walls. A wide moat ran between the forts and the walls and yet another girdled them on the outside. A huge canal was the only breach in the walls themselves, running through an immense water gate of iron that was in turn protected by platforms for archers and catapults. The waterway stretched into the south, as far as any of them could see. Everything about Yenking was on a scale too great for the imagination. Genghis could not begin to think of a way to force the gates.

At first Genghis and his generals kept as close as they had to Yinchuan, or some of the other Chin cities to the west. Then a hammer blow sounded on the evening air and a dark blur shot past them, staggering Kachiun’s horse with the power of its wake. Genghis almost lost his seat as his own mount reared and could only gaze in amazement at a shaft half-sunk in the soft ground, more like a smooth tree trunk than an arrow.

Without a word, his generals retreated past the range of the fearsome weapon, their spirits sinking even lower as they understood another part of the defenses. To come closer than five hundred paces was to invite more of the great poles with their iron tips. Just the thought of one of them striking a mass of his riders was appalling.

Genghis turned in the saddle to the man who had broken lesser walls.

“Can we take this place, Lian?” he demanded. The mason would not meet his stare and looked over the city. At last he shook his head.

“No other city has a wall so wide at the top,” he said. “From that height, they will always have more range than anything I can make. If we built stone ramparts, I might be able to protect the counterweighted catapults, but if I can reach them, they can certainly reach me to smash them to firewood.”

Genghis glared in frustration at Yenking. To have come so far and yet be baulked at the final obstacle was infuriating. Only the day before, he had been congratulating Khasar on taking the fort in the pass and Kachiun for his inspired charge. He had believed then that his people were unstoppable, that conquest would always come easily. His army certainly believed it. They whispered that the world was his to take. Facing Yenking, he could almost feel the emperor’s scorn at such ambition.

Genghis kept the cold face as he turned to his brothers.

“The families will find good land here for grazing. There will be time to plan an attack on this place.”

Khasar and Kachiun nodded uncertainly. They too could see that the great sweeping conquest had halted at the foot of Yenking. Like Genghis himself, they had become used to the fast and exciting pace of taking cities. The carts of their people were now so laden with gold and wealth that they broke axles on any long trip.

“How long will it take to starve such a city?” Genghis demanded suddenly.

Lian had no better idea than any of them, but did not want to admit his ignorance. “I have heard more than a million of the emperor’s subjects live in Yenking. To feed so many is difficult to imagine, but they will have vast granaries and stores. They have known we were coming for months, after all.” He saw Genghis frown and hurried on. “It could be as long as three years, even four, lord.”

Khasar groaned aloud at the estimate, but the youngest of them, Tsubodai, brightened.

“They have no army left to break a siege, lord. You will not need to keep us all here. If we cannot bring the walls down, perhaps you will allow us to raid in this new land. As things stand, we don’t even have maps beyond Yenking.”

Genghis glanced at his general, seeing the hunger in his eyes. He felt his own mood lift.

“That is true. If I have to wait until this emperor is skin and bone before he submits, at least my generals will not be idle.” He swept an arm across the landscape that blurred into distance too great for any of them to imagine.

“When the families are settled, come to me with a direction and it will be yours. We will not waste the time here and grow fat and sleepy.”

Tsubodai grinned, his enthusiasm kindling that of the others to replace the dark mood of moments earlier.

“Your will, my lord,” he replied.

In shining, black-lacquered armor, General Zhi Zhong paced angrily as he waited for the emperor’s ministers to join him in the coronation hall. The morning was peaceful and he could hear the creaking squawks of magpies outside. No doubt the omen takers would read something into the quarrelsome birds, if they saw them.

The funeral of Emperor Wei had taken almost ten days, with half the city tearing their clothes and rubbing ash into their skin before the body was cremated. Zhi Zhong had suffered through endless orations by the noble families. Not one of them had mentioned the manner of the emperor’s death, not with Zhi Zhong glowering at them and his guards standing with their hands on their sword hilts. He had taken the head from the Imperial rose, nipping it off with a single blow so that everything else remained.

The first few days had been chaotic, but after three ministers had been executed for speaking out, any further resistance collapsed and the great funeral went ahead just as if the young emperor had died in his sleep.

It had been useful to find that the governing nobles had made a plan for the event long before it was needed. The Chin empire had survived upheaval and even regicide before. After the initial spasm of outrage, they had fallen into the routines almost with relief. The peasants in the city knew nothing except that the Son of Heaven had left his mortal flesh. They wailed ignorantly in the streets of the city, mindless in hysteria and grief.

The emperor’s young son had not wept when he heard of his father’s demise. In that, at least, Emperor Wei had prepared his family well. The boy’s mother had enough sense to know that any protest would mean her own death, so she had remained silent through the funeral, pale and beautiful as she watched her husband’s body burned to ash. As the funeral pyre collapsed with a cough of flame, Zhi Zhong thought he had felt her gaze on him, but when he looked up, she had her head bowed in supplication to the will of the gods. His will, he thought, though the result was much the same.

The general ground his teeth in irritation as he paced. First the funeral had taken longer than he would have believed possible, and then he had been told the coronation would take another five days. It was infuriating. The city mourned and none of the peasants actually worked while great events played themselves out. He had borne the endless fittings for new robes to mark his position as regent. He had even remained still while the ministers lectured him nervously on his new responsibilities. All the while, the Mongol khan prowled like a wolf at the door, watching the city.

In his free hours, Zhi Zhong had climbed the steps to a dozen places on the wall to watch the filthy tribes settle themselves on Imperial land. He thought sometimes that he could smell their rancid mutton and goats’ milk on the breeze. It was galling to have been beaten by sheepherders, but they would not take Yenking. The emperors who had built the city had intended it to demonstrate their power. It would not fall easily, Zhi Zhong told himself.

He still woke at night from nightmares of being chased, the humming of arrow shafts like mosquitoes whining in his ears. What else could he have done? No one thought the Mongols could climb the highest peaks to flank him. Zhi Zhong felt no more shame at the defeat. The gods had been against him and yet they had given the city into his hands as regent. He would watch the Mongols shatter their army against the walls, and when they were bloody, he would take the head of their khan in his hands and bury it in the deepest shit hole in the city.

The thought lightened his mood as he waited for the boy emperor to make his appearance. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear gongs booming, announcing the presence of a new Son of Heaven to the people.

The doors to the coronation chamber opened to reveal the sweating face of Ruin Chu, the first minister.

“My lord regent!” he said on seeing Zhi Zhong. “You are not wearing your robes! His Imperial Majesty will be here at any moment.” He seemed about to collapse, after days of organizing the funeral and the coronation. Zhi Zhong found the fat little man irritating and took pleasure from the impact his words would have.

“I have left them in my rooms, Minister. I will not need them today.”

“Every moment of the ceremony has been planned, lord regent. You must—”

“Do not tell me ‘must,’ ” Zhi Zhong snapped. “Get the boy in here and place a crown on him. Chant, sing, light tapers of incense, whatever you want, but say one more word to me about what I must do and I will have your head.”

The minister gaped at him, then lowered his eyes, shuddering visibly. He knew that the man he faced had murdered the emperor. The general was a brutal traitor and Ruin Chu did not doubt he would even shed blood on the day of a coronation. He bowed as he walked backwards, opening the doors. Zhi Zhong heard the slow pace of the procession and waited in silence as the minister reached it. He chuckled as he heard the pace increase.

When the doors opened again, there was a definite look of fear in the entourage around the six-year-old boy who would become emperor. Zhi Zhong saw he was bearing up well, despite having little sleep over the previous days.

The procession slowed again as it passed Zhi Zhong, heading toward the golden throne. Buddhist monks waved censers, filling the air with white smoke. They too were nervous to find the general in his armor, the only man with a sword in the room. He stalked behind them as Emperor Wei’s son took his place on the throne. It was only the beginning of the final stage. Reciting the titles alone would take until noon.

Zhi Zhong watched sourly as the ministers settled themselves comfortably, sitting like peacocks around the center of the ceremony. The incense made him drowsy and he could not help but think of the Mongols on the plain outside the city. At first, he had seen the need for the rituals, a way of keeping order after he had killed the emperor. The city could have erupted without a strong hand to rule it, and it had been necessary to allow the nobles the comfort of their traditions. Now he was tired of it. The city was calm in its grief and the Mongols had begun building great trebuchets, raising walls of stone to protect the weapons.

With an exclamation of impatience, Zhi Zhong strode forward, interrupting the droning voice of a priest. The little boy froze as he looked up at the dark-armored figure. Zhi Zhong took the Imperial crown from where it lay on a gold silk cushion. It was surprisingly heavy, and for an instant, he was touched with awe at the thought of handling it. He had killed the man who wore it last.

He placed it firmly on the new emperor’s head.

“Xuan, you are emperor, the Son of Heaven,” he said. “May you rule wisely.” He ignored the shock in the faces of the men around him. “I am your regent, your right hand. Until you are twenty years of age, you will obey me in everything, without question. Do you understand?”

The little boy’s eyes filled with tears. He could hardly comprehend what was happening, but he stammered a response.

“I . . . I understand.”

“Then it is done. Let the people rejoice. I am going to the wall.”

Zhi Zhong left the stupefied ministers behind with their charge as he flung open the doors and strode out of the palace. It had been built high on the edge of Songhai lake, which fed the great canal, and the view at the top of the steps allowed him to look out on the city as the subjects waited for news. Every bell would sound and the peasants would be drunk for days. He took a deep, shuddering breath as he stood there, looking out at the dark walls. Beyond those, his enemies looked for a weakness. They would not get in.

Temuge sat staring dreamily at three men who had once been khans amongst the people. He could see their arrogance in every action, their disdain for him held barely in check. When would they understand they had no power in the new order his brother had created? There was only one gurkhan, one man superior to them all. His own brother sat before them, yet they dared to speak to Temuge as if they were his equal.

As the tribes erected their gers on the plain in front of Yenking, it had pleased Temuge to keep the men waiting on his pleasure. Genghis had shown his trust in him with the title of “Master of Trade,” though Temuge himself had defined the role against surly opposition. He delighted in the power he exercised and still smiled when he thought of how long he had kept Kokchu waiting to see him the previous day. The shaman had been pale with fury by the time Temuge finally allowed him into the khan’s ger. In allowing him to use it for his work, Genghis showed his approval, a gesture not wasted on the supplicants. There was no point appealing to Genghis if they disliked a ruling made in his name. Temuge had made sure they understood. If Kokchu wanted to gather men to explore an ancient temple a hundred miles away, the request had to be granted and the spoils looked over by Temuge himself.

Temuge laced his hands in front of him, barely listening to the men who had been khans. The father of the Woyela was supported by two of his sons, unable to stand on his own. It would have been a courtesy to offer him a chair, but Temuge was not one to let old wounds be forgotten. They stood and droned on about grazing and timber, while he looked into the distance.

“If you will not allow the herds to move to new grazing without one of your little tokens,” the Woyela was saying, “we will be slaughtering healthy animals as they starve.” He had increased in bulk since Genghis had cut the tendons in his legs. Temuge enjoyed seeing the man grow red in the face with anger and only glanced lazily at him without a reply. Not one of them could read or write, he reminded himself with satisfaction. The tokens had been a fine idea, carrying the symbol of a wolf burned into the squares of pine wood. He had men in the camp who would demand to see such a token if they saw warriors cutting trees, or bartering looted wealth, or any one of a thousand things. The system was not yet perfect, but Genghis had supported him in sending back the ones who complained, their faces pale with fear.

When the men had finished their tirade, Temuge spoke to them as gently as if they discussed the weather. He had found the soft tone served to heighten their anger and it amused him to prick them in that way.

“In all our history, we have never gathered so many in one place,” he said, shaking his head in gentle reproof. “We must be organized if we are to thrive. If I let trees be cut as they are needed, there will be none left for next winter. Do you understand? As I have it now, we take timber only from woodland that is more than three days’ ride away, dragging it back. It takes time and effort, but you will see the benefit next year.”

As much as his soft speech galled them, the delicious part was that they could not fault his logic. They were men of the bow and sword and he had found he could think circles around them now that they were forced to listen.

“The grazing, though?” the crippled Woyela khan demanded. “We cannot move a goat without one of your maimed men demanding a token to show your approval. The tribes are growing restless under a controlling hand they have never known.”

Temuge smiled at the furious man, seeing how his weight was becoming a strain on his sons at each shoulder. “Ah, but there are no tribes any longer, Woyela. Is that not a lesson you have learned? I would have thought you remembered it every day.” He made a gesture and a cup of airag was placed in his hand by a Chin servant. Temuge had found his staff among those Genghis had recruited from the cities. Some of them had been servants to noble families and they knew how to treat a man of his position. He began each day with a hot bath in an iron tub built specially for the purpose. He was the only man in the camp who did, and for the first time in his life, he could smell his own people. He wrinkled his nose at the thought. This was how a man should live, he told himself, sipping as they waited.

“These are new days, gentlemen. We cannot move from here until the city falls, which means grazing must be carefully managed. If I do not exercise some control, the ground will be bare of grass come the summer and where will we be then? Will you have my brother separated from his herds by a thousand miles? I do not think you would.” He shrugged. “We may be a little hungry by the end of summer. Perhaps some of the herds will have to be slaughtered, if the land cannot support so many. Have I not sent men to look for salt to cure the meat? The emperor will starve before we do.”

The men stared at him in silent frustration. They could voice examples of how his control had spread through the vast encampment. He had an answer for each one. What they could not express was their irritation at being called to heel at every turn by some new rule from Temuge. Latrine pits must not be dug too close to running water. Ponies could be mated only according to a list of bloodlines that Temuge had made himself, without consulting anyone. A man with a fine mare and stallion could no longer put them together without begging for permission. It irked them all and it was true that discontent was spreading through the camp.

They did not dare complain openly, not while Genghis supported his brother. If he had listened to their complaints, he would have undermined Temuge and made a mockery of the new position. Temuge understood that, knowing his brother far better than they did. Once Genghis had given him the role, he would do nothing to interfere. Temuge reveled in the chance to show what an intelligent man could achieve when he was not restrained.

“If that is all, I have many others I must see this morning,” Temuge said. “Perhaps now you understand why it is difficult to see me. I find there are always some who will talk the day away before they understand what we must do here; what we must become.”

He had given them nothing and their enraged frustration was like cool wine to him. He could not resist driving in the barbs a little deeper.

“If there is anything else, I am busy, but I will find time to listen, of course.”

“You listen, but you do not hear,” the crippled khan said wearily.

Temuge spread his hands in regret. “I find that not everyone who comes before me can fully understand the problems they raise. There are even times when trade goes on in the camp without the khan’s tithe being removed and sent to me.”

He stared at the old khan hanging in the arms of his sons as he spoke, and the man’s feverish gaze faltered. How much did Temuge know? There were rumors that he paid spies to report every transaction to him, every bargain and exchange of wealth. No one knew the full extent of his influence.

Temuge sighed and shook his head as if disappointed. “I had hoped you would bring it up without my prompting, Woyela. Did you not sell a dozen mares to one of our Chin recruits?” He smiled encouragingly. “I have heard that the price was a fine one, though the mares were not the best quality. I have not yet received the tithe of two horses that you owe my brother, though I assume they will be here by sunset. Is that a reasonable thing to assume, do you think?”

The khan of the Woyela wondered who had betrayed him. After a time, he nodded and Temuge beamed.

“Excellent. I must thank you for taking time away from those who still look to you for authority. Remember that I am always here should anything else need my attention.”

He did not stand as they turned to leave the khan’s ger. One of those who had not spoken looked back in naked anger, and Temuge decided to have him watched. They feared him, both for his role as a shaman and as his brother’s shadow. Kokchu had spoken the truth in that. Seeing fear in another man’s eyes was perhaps the most wonderful feeling of all. It brought a sense of strength and lightness that came otherwise only from the black paste Kokchu supplied.

There were other men waiting to see him, some of whom he had summoned himself. He considered a dull afternoon spent in their company and, on a whim, decided against it. He turned his head to the servant.

“Prepare a cup of hot airag laced with a spoonful of my medicine,” he said. The black paste would bring colorful visions and then he would sleep through the afternoon, letting them all wait. He stretched his back at the thought, pleased with the day’s work.

CHAPTER 26

IT TOOK TWO MONTHS to build ramparts of stone and wood to protect the great engines of war. The trebuchets Lian had designed had been constructed in the forests to the east. With their great beams still sticky with sap, they sat like brooding monsters a full mile away from the walls of the city. When the ramps were built, they would be rolled up into their protective shadow. It was slow and tiring work, but in some ways, the confidence of the Mongol host had grown in the time. No army sallied out to attack them; there was a freshwater lake to the north of the city, and the shores teemed with birds they could trap during the winter months. They were the lords of the Chin plain. Yet there was nothing to do but live, and they were used to fast conquest and victory, with new lands discovered each day. Coming to a sudden halt began to sour the camaraderie between the tribes. Already there had been knife fights stemming from ancient grudges. Two men and a woman had been found dead on the shore of the lake, their murderers unknown.

The army waited restlessly for the city to starve. Genghis had not known whether the stone ramps could protect the heavy catapults, but he needed something to keep his people from idleness. At least working them to exhaustion kept them fit and too tired to bicker. The scouts had found a hill of slate, less than a day’s ride from Yenking. The warriors quarried the stone with the enthusiasm they brought to every task, breaking it with wedges and hammers, then heaving the blocks onto carts. Lian’s expertise was vital there and he hardly left the quarry site in those weeks. He showed them how to bind the stones with a paste of burned limestone, and the ramps grew daily. Genghis had lost count of how many thousands of carts had trundled past his ger, though Temuge kept a careful record on their dwindling supply of looted parchment.

The counterweights Lian had designed were rope nets of larger stones, hanging from the levers of the machines. Two men had crushed their hands in the construction, suffering agonies as Kokchu cut the mangled limbs from them. The shaman had rubbed a thick, gritty paste into their gums to dull the pain, but they had still screamed. The work went on, watched always from the walls of Yenking. Genghis had been helpless to prevent the massive war bows being moved along the crest to face his own weapons. Sweating teams of Imperial guards built new cradles for them, working as many hours as the Mongol warriors below.

It took hundreds of strong men to roll the trebuchets up to the ramps in front of Yenking. With fresh snow falling on the plain, Genghis stood in frustration as the Chin engineers wound back seven great bows, sending iron-tipped poles crashing against the ramparts. The trebuchets answered with two boulders that cracked against the walls, sending splinters flying. The Chin weapons were untouched.

It took an age to reset Lian’s great levers. In that time, the wall bows hammered the ramps over and over. Before the trebuchets were ready for a second shot at the city, cracks appeared in the ramps the tribes had built. After that, destruction came quickly. Stones exploded into the air with each strike, showering Lian and his men with splinters. Many of them fell clutching at their hands and faces, staggering back as the barrage continued. Lian himself was untouched and he stood watching in grim silence as his ramparts were torn apart and his machines exposed.

For a time, it seemed that the trebuchets themselves might survive, but then a direct hit cracked across the plain, followed almost instantly by three more. As the wall teams tired, the rate had slowed, but each blow carried terrific force. Warriors died trying to drag the machines out of range. One moment they were there, sweating and shouting. The next they were bloody smears on the wood and the air around them was filled with snow and dust.

Nothing could be salvaged. Genghis growled softly in his throat as he looked over the broken men and timbers. He was close enough to the city to hear cheering inside, and it galled him that Lian had been right. Without protection, they could not match the range of the wall weapons, and whatever they built would be hammered down. Genghis had discussed making high towers to wheel toward the city, perhaps even sheathed in iron, but the heavy bolts would punch straight through them, just as his own arrows pierced sheet armor. If his metalworkers made the towers strong enough to withstand the blows, they would be too heavy to move. It was maddening.

Genghis paced up and down as Tsubodai sent brave warriors in to collect the wounded and take them out of range. His men believed he could take Yenking as he had taken other cities. Seeing Lian’s extraordinary constructions smashed to kindling would not help morale in the camp.

As Genghis watched the Young Wolves risk their lives, Kachiun approached and dismounted. His brother’s expression was inscrutable, though Genghis thought he could detect the same deep irritation at the failure.

“Whoever built this city gave thought to its defense,” Kachiun said. “We won’t take it by force.”

“Then they will starve,” Genghis snapped. “I have raised the black tent before Yenking. There will be no mercy.”

Kachiun nodded, watching his older brother closely. Genghis was never at his best when forced into inaction. Those were the times when the generals walked with care around him. Over the previous days, Kachiun had seen Genghis lose his dark moods as the ramps rose, wondrously strong. They had all been confident, but it was clear now that the Chin commander had only waited for them to drag the new weapons into range. Whoever he was, the man was patient, and patient enemies were the most dangerous.

Kachiun knew Genghis was capable of being stung into rash decisions. As things stood, he still listened to his generals, but as the winter wore on, Genghis would be tempted to try almost anything and the tribes could suffer as a result.

“What do you think of sending men to climb the walls at night?” Genghis asked, echoing Kachiun’s thoughts. “Fifty or a hundred of them, to light fires in the city.”

“The walls can be climbed,” Kachiun replied carefully. “But the Chin patrols at the top are as thick as flies. You said it would be a waste of men, before.”

Genghis shrugged irritably. “We had catapults then. It might still be worth trying.”

Genghis turned his pale eyes on his brother. Kachiun held his gaze, knowing his brother would want the truth.

“Lian said they had more than a million in the city,” Kachiun said. “Whoever we sent would be hunted down like wild dogs and become sport for their soldiers.” Genghis grunted in response, grim and despairing. Kachiun searched for a way to lighten his mood.

“Perhaps it is now time to send the generals out to raid, as you said you would. There will be no quick victory here and there are other cities in this land. Let your sons go with them, that they can learn our trade.”

Kachiun saw doubt cross his brother’s face and thought he understood. The generals were men Genghis trusted to act without his supervision. They were loyal by any test that mattered, but the war up to that point had been fought with Genghis watching. To send them out, perhaps for thousands of miles, was not an order Genghis would give lightly. He had agreed to it more than once, and yet somehow, the final command had not come.

“Is it betrayal you fear, brother?” Kachiun asked softly. “Where would it come? From Arslan and his son Jelme, who have been with us from the beginning? From Khasar, or Tsubodai, who worships you? From me?”

Genghis smiled tightly at the idea. He looked up at the walls of Yenking, still untouched before him. With a sigh, he realized he could not keep so many active men on that plain for as long as three years. They would be at each other’s throats long before that, doing the work of the Chin emperor for him.

“Shall I send the entire army? Perhaps I will stay here on my own and dare the Chin to come out.”

Kachiun chuckled at the image. “In truth, they would probably think it was a trap and leave you there,” he replied. “Yet if I were the emperor, I would be training every able man as a warrior, building an army from within. You cannot leave too few to guard Yenking, or they could see a chance to attack.”

Genghis snorted. “You do not make a warrior in a few months. Let them train, these bakers and merchants. I would welcome the chance to show them what it means to be a warrior born.”

“With a voice of thunder, no doubt, and perhaps a penis of lightning,” Kachiun said with a straight face. After a moment of silence, both of them broke into laughter.

Genghis had lost the black mood that had settled on him with the destruction of the catapults. Kachiun could almost see the energy rise in him as he thought about the future.

“I have said I will send them out, Kachiun, though it is early yet. We do not know if other cities will try to relieve Yenking and we may need every man here.” He shrugged. “If the city hasn’t fallen by spring, I will set the generals free to hunt.”

Zhi Zhong was in a pensive mood as he stood before the high window in the audience chamber of the summer palace. He had hardly spoken to the boy emperor since the day he had crowned him. Xuan was somewhere in the labyrinth of corridors and rooms that had formed his father’s official residence, and Zhi Zhong rarely thought of him.

The soldiers had cheered their general as the Mongol trebuchets were destroyed that morning. They had looked to Zhi Zhong for approval and he had shown it in a brief nod to their officer before striding down the steps into the city. Only in private had he clenched a fist in silent triumph. It was not enough to expunge the memory of the Badger’s Mouth, but it was a victory of sorts and the frightened citizens needed something to raise them from their despair. Zhi Zhong sneered to himself as he recalled the reports of suicides. Four highborn daughters had been found dead in their rooms as soon as the news of the army’s defeat had filtered through Yenking. All four had known each other and it seemed they preferred a dignified end to the rape and destruction they saw as inevitable. Eleven more had taken the same path in the weeks that followed, and Zhi Zhong had worried the new fashion for death might spread right across the city. He clasped his hands behind his back, peering out across the lake at the noble houses. They would have better news today. Perhaps they would hesitate with their knives of ivory and their scorn for his skill. Yenking could still resist the invaders.

The lord regent realized he was tired and hungry. He had not eaten since the morning and the day had been spent in too many meetings to recall. Every man in authority in Yenking seemed to need his approval and his advice. As if he knew any better than they what to expect over the coming months. He frowned at the thought of the food supplies, glancing to a side table where scrolls lay in a pyramid. The citizens of Yenking were eating themselves into defeat. That one thing could make a mockery of his defenses, but Zhi Zhong himself had stripped the city stores to feed the army. It galled him to think of the Mongols eating the supplies he had gathered for a year at the pass, but there was no point looking back at bad decisions. After all, he and the emperor had believed the Mongols would be stopped before they ever came in sight of the Imperial city.

Zhi Zhong pursed his mouth. The Yenking merchants were not fools. Rationing was already in force across the city. Even the black market had collapsed as they realized the siege might not be broken quickly. Only a few were still selling food for huge profits. The rest were hoarding supplies for their own families. Like all their class, they would try to wait out the storm and then grow fat and rich again in the aftermath.

Zhi Zhong made a mental note to have the wealthiest merchants brought before him. He knew how to apply the sort of pressure that would reveal their secret stores. Without them, the peasants would be eating cats and dogs inside a month, and after that . . . ? He cracked his neck wearily. After that, he would be trapped in a place with a million starving people. It would be hell on earth.

The one hope was that the Mongols would not wait outside the walls forever. He told himself they would tire of the siege and ride to other cities less well defended. Zhi Zhong rubbed his eyes, glad there was no one but slaves to see his weakness. In truth, he had never worked as hard in his life as in this new role. He hardly slept, and when he did find rest, his dreams were filled with plans and stratagems. He had gone without sleep at all the night before as he stood with the bow teams.

He smiled tightly as he remembered again the destruction of the Mongol machines. If only he could have seen the khan’s face at that moment. He was tempted to summon the ministers for a final meeting before he bathed and slept. No, not while they looked at him with something more than defeat in their eyes. He would let them have this day complete, one where he had cracked the image of invincibility around the Mongol khan.

Zhi Zhong turned away from the window and took a path through dark corridors to where Emperor Wei had bathed each evening. He sighed in anticipated pleasure as he reached the door and entered a room centered around a sunken pool. The slaves had heated the water ready for his ritual, and he cracked his neck again as he prepared to have the cares of the day soothed from him.

Slaves undressed Zhi Zhong with casual efficiency as he gazed at the two girls waiting to rub his skin with oils in the pool. Silently he congratulated Emperor Wei on his taste. The slave women of the Imperial household would be wasted on his son, at least for a few more years.

Naked, Zhi Zhong lowered himself into the water, enjoying the sense of space in the high-ceilinged room. Water dripped and echoed and he began to relax as the girls soaped his skin with soft brushes. Their touch revived him. After a time, he drew one of them out of the pool, laying her on her back on the cold tiles. Her nipples stiffened in the sudden chill. Only her lower legs remained in the hot water as he took her in silence. She was well trained and her hands writhed across his back as she gasped under the man who ruled the city. Her companion observed the rutting pair with dispassionate interest for a few moments, then resumed soaping his back, pressing her breasts into him so that he groaned in pleasure. Without opening his eyes, Zhi Zhong reached for her hand, guiding it down to where the bodies met so that she could feel him enter her companion. She clung to him with professional skill and he smiled, his mind growing calm even as his body tensed and jerked. There were compensations in ruling Yenking.

Three nights after the destruction of the Mongol catapults, two men slipped unseen down the walls of Yenking, dropping the last few feet without a sound. The ropes disappeared above their heads, pulled up by the lord regent’s guards.

In the darkness, one of the men glanced at the other, controlling his nervousness. He did not like the company of the assassin and would be pleased when their paths diverged. His own mission was one he had undertaken before for Emperor Wei, and he relished the prospect of stealing among the Chin recruits who labored so tirelessly for the Mongol khan. To a man, the traitors deserved death, but he would smile at them and work just as hard as they while he gathered information. In his own way, he knew his contribution would be as valuable as that of any of the soldiers on the walls. The lord regent needed every scrap of information about the tribes, and the spy did not underestimate his own importance.

He had not learned the name of the assassin, perhaps as well protected as his own. Though they had stood together inside the wall, the dark-clothed man had not spoken a word. The spy had not been able to resist watching as the man checked his weapons, tying and securing the small blades of his trade as they waited. No doubt Zhi Zhong had paid a fortune in gold for the service, one that would almost certainly mean death for the assassin himself.

It was strange to crouch next to a man who expected to die that night, yet showed no sign of fear. The spy shuddered delicately. He would not want to exchange places and could hardly understand the way such a man must think. What devotion could inspire such fanatical loyalty? As dangerous as his own missions had been in the past, he had always hoped to make it back to his masters, to his home.

In his dark cloth, the assassin was little more than a shadow. His companion knew that he would not reply even if he dared to whisper a question to him. The man was focused, his life bought. He would not allow distraction. In utter silence, they stepped into a small wooden boat and used a pole to cross the black moat. A rope trailed from it to the other side for it to be pulled back and hidden, or sunk. There would be no trace of the men to cause suspicion in daylight.

On the far side, both men crouched as they heard a jingle of harness. The Mongol scouts were efficient, but they could not see into every pool of darkness and they watched for a show of force, not two men waiting to walk stealthily into their camp. The spy knew where the Chin recruits had pitched their gers, mimicking the homes of their new masters without shame. There was a chance that they would discover him and then he too would be killed, but that was a risk weighed against his skill and he did not let the thought disturb him. He glanced again at the assassin and this time he saw the man’s head turn toward him. He looked away, embarrassed. All his life, he had heard of the cult, men who trained every waking hour to bring death. They had no honor as soldiers understood honor. The spy had played the part of a soldier enough times to know the creed, and he felt a twinge of disgust at the thought of a man who lived only to kill. He had seen the vials of poison the man tucked away and the wire garrote he had looped expertly about his wrist.

It was said the assassins’ victims were their sacrifice to dark gods. Their own death was the ultimate proof of faith and guaranteed them a high place on the wheel of life. The spy shuddered again, disturbed that his work should have brought him into contact with such a destroyer.

The sounds of Mongol scouts died away and the spy jerked in surprise as he felt a light touch on his arm. The assassin pressed a sticky jar into his hand. It stank of rancid mutton fat and the spy could only look at it in confusion.

“Rub it onto your skin,” the assassin murmured. “For the dogs.”

As the spy understood, he looked up, but the black figure was already padding away on noiseless feet, vanishing in the darkness. The spy thanked his ancestors for the gift as he rubbed the muck over his skin. He thought at first that it had been kindness, though it was more likely the assassin did not want the camp roused while he set about his own work. His face flushed in humiliation at the thought. Let there be no other surprises that night.

When he had composed himself, he stood and trotted through the darkness, heading to a destination he had marked while there was still light. Without his grim companion, he felt his confidence begin to return. In a little while, he would be among the Chin recruits, chatting and talking as if he had known them for years. He had done it before, when the emperor suspected the loyalty of a provincial governor. He put aside the thought, realizing that he must be in place before the assassin struck or he could be caught and questioned. He strolled into the sleeping camp, calling a greeting to a Mongol warrior as the man came out to urinate in the night. The man responded sleepily in his own grunting language without expecting to be understood. A dog raised its head as he passed, but only growled softly as it caught his scent. The spy smiled, unseen in the darkness. He was in.

The assassin approached the great ger of the khan, moving through the dark camp like a wraith. The Mongol leader was a fool to reveal his location to everyone on the walls of Yenking. It was the sort of mistake a man made only once, when he knew nothing of the Black Tong. The assassin did not know if the Mongols would go back to their mountains and plains when the khan died. He did not care. He had been given a scroll tied in black silk ribbon in a formal ceremony by his master, pledging his life in a blood bond. No matter what happened, he would not return to his brothers. If he failed, he would take his own life rather than be captured and perhaps reveal the secrets of his order. The corners of his mouth tightened in dark amusement. He would not fail. The Mongols were sheepherders: good with a bow, but like children against a man of his training. There was little honor in being chosen even to kill a khan of these stinking tribesmen, but he gave no thought to that. His honor came from obedience and a perfect death.

He was not seen as he reached the great ger on its cart, shining whitely in the darkness. It loomed above him as he crept around it, looking for guards. There were two men nearby. He could hear them breathe as they stood in bored stillness, waiting for others to relieve them. From the walls of Yenking, it had been impossible to discern details, and he did not know how often they were replaced in the night. He would have to act quickly once he had brought death to that place.

Standing in perfect stillness, the assassin watched as one of the men moved away and took a tour around the khan’s ger. The warrior was not alert and by the time he sensed someone standing in the shadows, it was too late. The guard felt something whip round his neck and slice into his throat, cutting off his cry. A sigh of bloody air came from his lungs and the other guard called a whispered question, not yet alarmed. The assassin lowered the first and edged to the corner of the cart, taking the second quickly as he came around. He too died without a sound and the assassin left him where he fell, crossing quickly to the steps that led upwards. He was a small man and they barely creaked under his weight.

In the blackness within, he could hear the slow breaths of a man deep in sleep. The assassin crept lightly across the floor. In perfect balance, he reached the sleeping figure and crouched by the low bed. They were alone. He drew a sharp blade, its metal blackened with oily soot so that it would not shine.

He pressed one hand down on the source of the breath, finding the mouth. As the sleeper jerked, he brought the knife quickly across the throat. A moan was cut off as quickly as it had begun and the spasming body fell still. The assassin waited until silence had returned, breathing shallowly against the stench of opening bowels. In the blackness, he could not see the face of the one he had killed, and he used his fingers to trace the features, a frown creasing his brow. The man did not smell like the warriors outside. His hands quivered slightly as they explored the open mouth and the eyes, moving up to the hair.

The assassin cursed to himself as he fingered the oiled braid of one of his own people. It could only have been a servant, one who deserved death by the rope for aiding the Mongols with his service. The assassin sat back on his heels as he considered what to do. The khan would surely be close, he thought. There were a number of gers clustered around the largest. One of them would contain the man he sought. The assassin composed himself, reciting a mantra from his training that brought instant calm. He had not yet earned the right to die.

CHAPTER 27

THE ASSASSIN COULD HEAR BREATHING as he entered another ger. The darkness was absolute, but he shut his eyes and concentrated on the sounds. There were five sleepers in that small space, all unaware of the man standing over them. Four breathed shallowly and he grimaced to himself. Children. The other sleeper was probably their mother, though he could not be certain without a light. A single spark from a flint and steel would be enough, but it was a risk. If they woke, he would not be able to kill them all before they cried out. He made the decision swiftly.

One quick strike brought a flash of light in the ger, enough to show five sleeping bodies. None of them was large enough to be a grown man. Where was the khan? The assassin turned to leave, aware of time running out. It could not be much longer before the dead guards were discovered. When they were found, the peaceful night would be shattered.

One of the sleeping children snorted in his sleep, the rhythms changing. The assassin froze. He waited an age until the long breaths resumed, then stepped lightly to the ger door. He had greased the hinges and it opened without a sound.

He straightened as he pulled the door closed behind him, turning his head slowly to choose the next ger. With the exception of the impudent black tent facing the city and the one on the cart, all the others looked exactly the same.

The assassin heard a sound behind him and his eyes widened as he realized it was an indrawn breath, the sort that went before a shout or scream. He was moving even as the sound began, darting away into the deep shadows. He could not understand the words that echoed through the night, but the response was almost immediate. Warriors came stumbling out of every ger in sight, bows and swords ready in their hands.

It was Jochi who had shouted and whose sleep had been interrupted by the silent presence of the man in his home. His three brothers were jerked awake by his yell, and as one they began calling questions into the darkness.

“What is it?” Borte demanded over the noise, throwing back the blankets.

Jochi was already standing in the darkness. “There was someone in here,” he said. “Guards!”

“You will wake the entire camp!” Borte snapped. “It was just a bad dream.”

She could not see his face as he replied, “No. I saw him.”

Chagatai rose to stand beside his brother. Alarm horns sounded in the distance and Borte cursed under her breath.

“Pray you are right, Jochi, or your father will have the skin off your back.”

Jochi threw open the door and stepped out without bothering to reply. Warriors were swarming around the gers, searching for an intruder before they even knew there was one. He swallowed painfully, hoping he had not dreamed the figure.

Chagatai came out with him, bare-chested and with only leggings to keep out the cold. There was a little starlight outside, but all was confusion and twice men grabbed them only to loosen a fierce grip when they were recognized.

Jochi saw his father come striding through the gers, his sword drawn, but held loosely in one hand.

“What is happening?” he said. His gaze fastened on Jochi, seeing his nervousness. The boy quailed under the flat stare, suddenly convinced that he had roused them all for nothing. Nonetheless, he brazened it out, refusing to be shamed in front of his father.

“There was a man in the ger. I woke and saw him as he opened the door to leave.”

Genghis snorted, but before he could reply, fresh voices called through the night.

“Dead men here!”

Genghis lost interest in his sons, snarling aloud at the thought of an enemy loose in the camp.

“Find him!” he bellowed. He saw Kachiun coming at a run, a long blade in his hands. Khasar was not far behind and the three brothers stood together as they tried to make sense of the chaos.

“Tell me,” Kachiun said as he came to a halt, his face still puffy from sleep.

Genghis shrugged, tense as a bowstring himself. “Jochi saw a man in his ger and there are dead guards. Someone is among us and I want him found.”

“Genghis!”

He heard Borte call his name and turned to her. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shadow jerk into movement at the name.

Genghis spun and had a glimpse of the assassin leaping at him. He swung his sword and the man twisted aside, coming up from a tumbler’s roll with knives in his hands. Genghis saw he would throw them before he could strike again, and he jumped at the dark figure, hammering him off his feet. A spark of pain touched his throat and then his brothers were stabbing at the assassin, jamming their blades in with such force that they sank into the ground beneath. The man did not cry out.

Genghis tried to scramble up, but the world swam lazily and his vision was strangely blurred.

“I’m cut . . .” he said dazedly, falling to his knees. He could hear the assassin’s feet drumming on the ground as his brothers dropped their knees onto his chest, smashing his ribs. Genghis raised a hand to his neck and blinked at bloody fingers. The hand was terribly heavy and he slumped backwards onto the dry earth, still confused.

He saw the face of Jelme loom above him, moving slowly. Genghis stared upwards, unable to hear what he was saying. He saw Jelme reach down and yank cloth away from the wound in his neck. When he spoke again, the voice seemed to boom in Genghis’s ears, almost drowning out the rushing whispers that deafened him. Jelme picked up the assassin’s knife and cursed at the dark stain along the edge.

“The blade is poisoned,” Jelme said, his own fear reflected in Kachiun and Khasar as they stood dumbstruck over their brother. The general did not speak again, instead lowering his mouth to Genghis’s neck and sucking on the flow of blood. It was hot and bitter, making him gag as he spat it to one side. He did not stop, though Genghis’s hands slapped weakly at his face whenever he pulled away, all strength gone.

Jelme could hear the younger sons of the khan wailing in distress as they saw their father lying close to death. Only Jochi and Chagatai were silent, watching as Jelme spat mouthfuls of blood until the front of his deel was covered in a dark slick.

Kokchu pressed through the crowd, pausing in shock as he saw his khan on the ground. He knelt at Jelme’s side and ran his hands over Genghis’s chest to feel the heart. It was racing at incredible speed, and for a time, Kokchu could not feel individual beats. Sweat had broken out all over the khan’s body and his skin was flushed and hot to the touch.

Jelme sucked and spat and the blood flowed. The general could feel his own lips growing numb and he wondered if the poison would enter him. It did not matter. He thought of it as if he watched someone else. Blood dribbled from his lips as he gasped between each attempt.

“You must not take too much blood,” Kokchu warned him, still with his bony hands on the chest. “Or he will be too weak to resist whatever poison remains.” Jelme looked at him with glassy eyes before nodding and dipping his face to the searing skin once more. His own cheeks were flushed from contact with such heat, and he went on because to stop was to watch his khan die.

Kokchu felt the racing heart jolt and he feared it might stop under his hands. He needed the man who had won him such respect among the tribes, especially now that Temuge had abandoned him. Kokchu began to pray aloud, summoning the spirits by their ancient names. He called on the line of Genghis himself in a torrent of sound. Yesugei he called, even Bekter, the brother Genghis had killed. He needed them all to keep the khan from their realm. Kokchu could feel them gather as he chanted their names, pressing in on him so that his ears filled with whispers.

The heart jolted again and Genghis gasped aloud, his open eyes staring blindly. Kokchu felt the fluttering pulse settle, suddenly slowing as if a door had shut inside. He shivered in the cold, thinking that for a few moments, he had held the future of the tribes in his hands.

“Enough now, his heart is stronger,” he said hoarsely. Jelme sat back. As he would have done with a gashed horse, the general made a paste of dust and spit and pressed it over the wound. Kokchu leaned over to observe the process, relieved to see the blood slow to a trickle. None of the major veins had been cut and he began to rejoice at the thought that Genghis might still live.

Once more Kokchu began to pray aloud, forcing the spirits of the dead to attend the man who had formed a nation. They would not want such a man with them while he took their people onwards. He knew it with a certainty that frightened him. The tribesmen watched in awe as Kokchu ran his hands over the supine form, gathering invisible strands as if his trailing fingers wrapped the khan in a web of spirits and faith.

Kokchu looked up at Borte as she stood red-eyed and swaying in shock. Hoelun too was there, desperately pale as she recalled the death of another khan many years before. Kokchu gestured for them to come closer.

“The spirits hold him here, for now,” he told them, his eyes shining. “Yesugei is here, with his father Bartan. Bekter is here to hold the khan, his own brother.” He shuddered in the cold, his eyes glazing for a moment. “Jelme has sucked out a great deal of poison, but the heart is fluttering; sometimes strong, sometimes weak. He needs rest. If he will eat, give him blood and milk for strength.” Kokchu could no longer feel the deep coldness of the spirits clustering around him, but they had done their work. Genghis still lived. He called the man’s brothers forward to carry him into the ger. Kachiun broke from his trance to order the camp searched for any other enemy still hiding. After that, he shouldered his brother’s limp weight with Khasar and carried Genghis into Borte’s ger.

Jelme was left kneeling, shaking his head in distress. His father, Arslan, reached him just as the young general vomited over the bloody ground.

“Help me with him,” Arslan ordered, heaving his son to his feet. Jelme’s face was slack and his full weight fell on his father before two warriors stepped in and draped his arms over their shoulders.

“What is wrong with him?” Arslan demanded of Kokchu. The shaman broke his gaze from the ger of Genghis. He used his fingers to open Jelme’s eyes to their widest, staring into them. The pupils were large and dark and Kokchu swore softly.

“He may have swallowed the blood. Some of the poison has entered him also.” Kokchu shoved a hand under Jelme’s wet tunic, feeling his chest.

“It cannot be much and he is strong. Keep him awake if you can. Walk him. I will bring a draft of charcoal for him to drink.”

Arslan nodded. He motioned to one of the warriors supporting Jelme and took his place, pulling his son’s arm around his neck like an embrace. With the other man, he began walking Jelme between the gers, talking to him as he went.

The growing crowd of warriors, women, and children did not move. They would not go back to sleep until they were certain their khan would live. Kokchu turned from them, filled with the need to make a paste of charcoal that could soak up whatever poison Jelme had taken in. It would be little use to Genghis, but he would bring a second bowl for him as well. As he approached the ring of staring faces, they gave way before him and it was then that he saw Temuge pushing his way through to the front. Malice sparkled in Kokchu’s eyes.

“You are too late to help the khan,” Kokchu said softly as Temuge came close. “His brothers killed the assassin and Jelme and I kept him alive.”

“Assassin?” Temuge exclaimed, staring around at the misery and fear on so many faces. His gaze passed over the dark-clad figure lying sprawled on the ground, and he swallowed in horror.

“Some things must be handled in the old ways,” Kokchu told him. “They cannot be counted or put into one of your lists.”

Temuge reacted to the shaman’s scorn as if he had been struck. “You dare to speak so to me?” he said.

Kokchu shrugged and strode away. He had not been able to resist the barb, though he knew he would regret it. That night, death had walked the camp and Kokchu was in his element.

The crowd became thicker as late arrivals pressed forward, desperate for news. Torches were lit across the camp as they waited for dawn. The body of the assassin lay crushed and broken on the ground, and they stared at it in simple dread, unwilling to come too close.

When Kokchu returned with two bowls of thick black liquid, he thought they resembled a herd of yaks on a day of slaughter, miserable and dark-eyed but unable to understand. Arslan held his son’s jaw and tilted his head as Kokchu forced the bitter liquid into him. Jelme choked and coughed, spattering black drops onto his father’s face. He had regained some awareness in the time it had taken to grind the charcoal, and Kokchu did not linger with him. He pressed the half-empty bowl into Arslan’s free hand and went on with the other. Genghis could not die, not in the shadow of Yenking. Kokchu was filled with a cold dread as he considered the future. He crushed his own fear as he entered the tiny ger, dipping his head to pass under the lintel. Confidence was part of his trade and he would not let them see him so shaken.

As dawn approached, Khasar and Kachiun came out, blind to the thousands of eyes that fastened on them. Khasar retrieved his sword from where it had stuck in the dead man’s chest and kicked the lolling head before sheathing the blade.

“Does the khan live?” someone called.

Khasar cast a weary gaze over them, not knowing who had spoken. “He lives,” he said. His words were repeated as a whisper until they all knew.

Kachiun picked up his own blade from where it had fallen and raised his head at the sound. He was helpless to aid his brother in the ger, and perhaps that was why his temper kindled at the sight of them.

“Will our enemies sleep while we are gathered here?” Kachiun snapped. “They will not. Go home to your gers and wait for news.” Under his fierce gaze, the warriors turned away first, pressing through the throng of women and children. They too began to drift away, staring backwards as they went.

Kachiun stood with Khasar as if they guarded the ger where Genghis lay. The khan’s second wife, Chakahai, had come, her face a mask of pale fear. All the men had looked to Borte to see how she would react, but she had only nodded to the Xi Xia woman, accepting her presence. In the silence, Kachiun could hear the drone of Kokchu’s chanting in the ger. For a moment, he did not want to return to the fetid interior, packed with those who loved his brother. His own grief felt undermined somehow by the presence of the others. He breathed deeply in the cold air, clearing his head.

“There is nothing more we can do,” he said. “Dawn is not far off and there are things we must discuss. Walk with me, Khasar, for a little while.”

Khasar followed him to where they would not be heard. It was a long time before they were clear of the camp, their footsteps crunching on frozen grass.

“What is it? What do you want?” Khasar said at last, stopping his brother with a hand on his arm.

Kachiun turned to him, his face darkly furious. “We failed tonight. We failed to keep the camp safe. I should have considered that the emperor would send assassins. I should have had more guards watching the walls.”

Khasar was too tired to debate the point. “You cannot change it now,” he said. “If I know you, it will not happen again.”

“One time could be enough,” Kachiun snapped. “If Genghis dies, what then?”

Khasar shook his head. He did not want to think of that. As he hesitated, Kachiun gripped him by the shoulders, almost shaking him.

“I don’t know!” Khasar replied. “If he dies, we will return home to the Khenti mountains and lay him out for the hawks and vultures. He is a khan; what would you expect me to say?”

Kachiun let his hands fall. “If we do that, the emperor will claim a great victory against us.” He seemed almost to be speaking to himself and Khasar did not interrupt. He could not begin to imagine the future if Genghis were not there.

“The emperor would see our army retreat,” Kachiun went on grimly. “In a year, every Chin city would know we had been turned back.”

Khasar still said nothing.

“Can’t you see, brother?” Kachiun said. “We would lose everything.”

“We could return,” Khasar replied, yawning. Had he slept at all? He wasn’t sure.

Kachiun snorted. “Within two years, they would be attacking us. The emperor has seen what we can do and he will not make the same mistakes again. One chance we have made for ourselves, Khasar. You cannot wound a bear and run. It will chase you down.”

“Genghis will live,” Khasar said stubbornly. “He is too strong to fall.”

“Open your eyes, brother!” Kachiun replied. “Genghis can die like any other man. If he does, who will lead the tribes, or will we see them splinter apart? How easy would it be then for the Chin army when they come hunting?”

Khasar saw the first pink light of dawn behind Yenking in the distance. He welcomed it in a night he’d thought would never end. Kachiun was right. If Genghis died, the new nation would break apart. The old khans would assert their authority over the quarreling tribes. He shook his head to clear it.

“I understand what you are saying,” he told Kachiun. “I am not a fool. You want me to accept you as khan.”

Kachiun stood very still at that. There was no other way, but if Khasar could not see it, the new day would begin with bloodshed as the tribes fought to leave or remained loyal. Genghis had bound them together. At the first hint of weakness, the khans would taste freedom and fight to keep it.

Kachiun took a deep breath, his voice calm. “Yes, brother. If Genghis dies today, the tribes will need to feel a strong hand on their necks.”

“I am older than you,” Khasar said softly. “I command as many warriors.”

“You are not the man to lead the nation. You know it.” Kachiun’s heart was racing with the strain of making Khasar understand. “If you think you are, I will take an oath to you. The generals will follow my lead and carry the khans with them. I will not fight you for this, Khasar, not with so much at stake.”

Khasar knuckled the tiredness out of his eyes as he thought it through. He knew what it must have cost Kachiun to make the offer. The thought of leading the tribes was intoxicating, something he had not dreamed of before. It tempted him. Yet he was not the one who had seen the dangers to the fragile nation. That remained like a thorn in his flesh to worry him. The generals would come to him expecting him to solve their problems, to see a way through difficulties that they could not. He would even have to plan battles, with triumph or failure resting on his word.

Khasar’s pride warred with the knowledge that his brother was better able to lead. He did not doubt that Kachiun would give him complete support if he became khan. He would rule his people and no one would ever know this conversation had taken place. As Genghis had been, he would be father to all their people. He would be responsible for keeping them all alive against an ancient empire bent on their destruction.

He closed his eyes, letting the glowing visions drain from his mind.

“If Genghis dies, I will take an oath to you, little brother. You will be khan.”

Kachiun sighed in exhausted relief. The future of his people had hung on Khasar’s trust in him.

“If he does, I will see every Chin city destroyed in fire, beginning with Yenking,” Kachiun said. Both men glanced at the looming walls of the city, united in their desire for vengeance.

Zhi Zhong stood on an archery platform, high above the plain and the Mongol camp. A cold breeze was blowing and his hands were numb on the wooden railing. He had been standing there for hours, watching the tribes for some sign that the assassin had been successful.

Just a little while before, his vigil had been rewarded. Points of light sprang up among the gers and Zhi Zhong had gripped the railing tighter, his knuckles whitening as he squinted into the distance. Dark shadows raced through the flickering pools of light and Zhi Zhong’s hopes rose, imagining the spreading panic.

“Be dead,” he whispered, alone in the watchtower.

CHAPTER 28

GENGHIS OPENED BLOODSHOT EYES, finding both of his wives and his mother at his side. He felt appallingly weak and his neck throbbed. He raised a hand to it and Chakahai caught his wrist before he could disturb the bandage. His thoughts moved sluggishly and he stared at her, trying to remember what had happened. He recalled standing outside the ger, with warriors rushing around him. It had been night and it was still dark in the ger, with only a small lamp to banish the gloom. How much time had passed? He blinked slowly, lost. Borte’s face was pale and worried, with dark circles under her eyes. He saw her smile at him.

“Why . . . am I lying here?” he asked. His voice was feeble and he had to force the words out.

“You were poisoned,” Hoelun said. “A Chin assassin cut you and Jelme sucked out the filth. He saved your life.” She did not mention Kokchu’s part. She had endured his chanting, but not allowed him to stay, nor anyone else to enter. Those who did would always remember her son this way, and it would undermine him. As wife and mother to a khan, Hoelun knew enough of the minds of men to know the importance of that.

With a vast effort, Genghis struggled up onto his elbows. As if it had waited for exactly that moment, a headache slammed into his skull.

“Bucket,” he groaned, leaning over. Hoelun was just fast enough to shove a leather pail under his head as he emptied black liquid from his stomach in a series of painful spasms. The action made his headache almost unbearable, but he could not stop, even when there was nothing more to come out. At last he slumped back on the bed, pressing a hand over his eyes to shut out the dim light that pierced him.

“Drink this, my son,” Hoelun said. “You are still weak from the wound.”

Genghis glanced at the bowl she held to his lips. The mixture of blood and milk was sour on his tongue as he swallowed twice, then pushed it away. His eyes felt gritty and his heart thumped in his chest, but his thoughts were clearing at last.

“Help me to rise and dress. I cannot lie here, knowing nothing.”

To his irritation, Borte pressed him back onto the bed as he tried to rise. He lacked the strength to push her away and considered calling for one of his brothers. It was unpleasant to be so helpless and Kachiun would not ignore his commands.

“I have no memory,” he said hoarsely. “Did we catch the man who did this to me?”

The three women exchanged glances. It was his mother who replied.

“He is dead. It has been two days, my son. You were close to death for all that time.” Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she spoke, and he could only stare at her in bewilderment. Anger surfaced without warning in his mind. He had been fit and well, then suddenly awoke to find himself in this state. Someone had hurt him: this assassin that they mentioned. Fury seeped into him like smoke as he tried again to rise.

“Kachiun!” he called, but it was just a breath in his throat.

The women fussed around him, laying a cool wet cloth on his brow as he lowered his head onto the blankets, still glaring. He could not remember both of his wives being in the same ger before. He found the idea uncomfortable, as if they would discuss him. He needed . . .

Sleep came again without warning and the three women relaxed. It was the third time he had woken in two days, and each time he asked the same questions. They were thankful he did not remember them helping him to urinate into the bucket, or changing the blankets when his bowels emptied in a black slick, carrying the poison out of his body. Perhaps it was the charcoal Kokchu had brought, but even his urine was darker than any of the women had seen before. There had been tension in the ger as the bucket filled. Neither Borte nor Chakahai had moved to empty it, though they glanced in its direction and challenged each other with their eyes. One was the daughter of a king and the other was first wife to Genghis himself. Neither gave way. In the end, it was Hoelun who had carried it out with bad grace, glaring at both of them.

“He seemed a little stronger that time,” Chakahai said. “His eyes were clear.”

Hoelun nodded, wiping a hand across her face. They were all exhausted, but they left the ger only to take away waste, or to bring fresh bowls of blood and milk.

“He will survive. And those who attacked us will regret it. My son can be merciful, but he will not forgive them for this. Better for them that he died.”

The spy moved quickly through the darkness. The moon had passed behind clouds and he had only a little time. He had found his place among thousands of Chin recruits. As he had hoped, no one knew if a man was from Baotou or Linhe or any of the other cities. He could have passed as a resident of any of them. There were only a few Mongol officers to train the city men as warriors, and they saw no great honor in the task. It had been easy enough for him to wander up to a group and report for work. The Mongol officer had barely looked at him as he handed him a bow and sent him to join a dozen other archers.

When he had seen the wooden tokens changing hands in the camp, he had worried that they were proof of some controlling bureaucracy. It would not have been possible to join a Chin regiment in such a way, or even to approach without being challenged many times. Chin soldiers understood the danger of spies in their midst and had evolved techniques to balk them.

The spy grinned to himself at the thought. There were no passwords or codes here. His only difficulty was in forcing himself to show as much ignorance as the others. He had made a mistake on the very first day when he fired an arrow straight into the center of the target. At that time, he had no idea of the useless Chin farmers he was working with, and as they loosed after him, not one did as well. The spy had hidden his fear as the Mongol officer strolled over to him, asking in mime for him to shoot another arrow. He had been careful to shoot poorly after that, and the warrior had lost interest, his face barely hiding his disgust at their skills.

Though all the guards grumbled about taking a watch in the middle of the night, the failed assassination had rippled an effect through the entire camp. The Mongol officers insisted on maintaining a perimeter against another attempt, even in the section of the camp that housed the Chin recruits. The spy had volunteered for a late watch, from midnight to dawn. It put him out on the edge of the camp and alone. Even then, leaving his position was a risk, but he had to check in with his master, or all his efforts would be wasted. He had been told to gather information, to learn anything. It was up to them what they did with what he discovered.

He ran on bare feet in the darkness, pressing away the thought of an officer checking his guards were awake. He could not control his fate and would surely hear the alarm if they found him gone. He did have a password he could call up to the wall, and it would be only moments before his people threw down a rope and he was safe once more.

Something moved to his right and he collapsed to the ground, controlling his breath and lying absolutely still as he strained his senses. Since the attack on the khan, the scouts rode all night, in shifts, more alert than they had ever been before. It was a hopeless task for them to patrol the dark city, but they were fast and silent, deadly if they caught him. As he lay there the spy wondered if there would be other assassins coming for the khan if he survived the first.

Whoever the rider was, he saw nothing. The spy heard the man clucking softly to his pony, but the sounds faded away and then he was off again like a hare. Everything depended on speed.

The city walls were black under the clouds and he depended on his memory for the right place. He counted ten watchtowers from the southern corner and ran right up to the moat. He went down on his belly to feel along the edge, smiling as he felt the roughness of the reed coracle they had tied for him. He dared not get wet and he was careful in the dark as he knelt in it, crossing the water with a few strokes. In the darkness, he did everything by feel, stepping out of the coracle and whipping the wet rope around a stone. It would not do to have the tiny boat float away.

The moat did not reach the walls that loomed over him. A wide stone walkway ran all round the city, damp and slippery with mold. On summer days, he had seen the nobles race horses along it, wagering huge sums on the first man back to the beginning. He crossed it quickly and touched the city of his birth, a brief press of a hand on the wall that meant safety and home.

Above his head, perhaps a dozen men crouched beneath the crest in silence. Though they would not speak, they were his people, and for those few moments, the tension he lived with dwindled to nothing, unnoticed except in its absence.

His hands ran quickly along the ground, searching for a pebble. Far above his head, the clouds were blown quickly across the sky. He judged the position of the moon with care. There would be a gap in the cover in only a short while and he had to be away from the walls by then. He tapped the stone on the wall, the sound loud in the night silence. He heard the slithering rope before he saw it. He began to climb its length and at the same time, they dragged it back so that he rose at great speed.

After only moments, the spy was standing on the top of Yenking’s walls. A bow team were coiling the rope, ready to drop it back. One other man stood there and the spy bowed before him.

“Speak,” the man said, gazing out over the Mongol camp.

“The khan was wounded. I could not get too close, but he still lives. The camp is full of rumors and no one knows who will take control if he dies.”

“One of his brothers,” the man replied softly, and the spy blinked, wondering how many others reported to this one.

“Perhaps, or the tribes will break apart under the old khans. This is a time to attack.”

His master hissed under his breath in irritation. “I do not want to hear your conclusions, just what you have learned. If we had an army, do you think the lord regent would be content to sit inside the walls?”

“I am sorry,” the spy replied. “They have supplies enough for years, with what they salvaged from the army’s stores at Badger’s Mouth. I have found a faction who wish to try again with more catapults against the walls, but they are only a few and none of them have influence.”

“What else? Give me something to report to the lord regent,” his master said, gripping his shoulder tightly.

“If the khan dies, they will return to their mountains. All the men say that. If he lives, they could remain here for years.”

His master swore under his breath, cursing him. The spy endured it, dropping his gaze to his feet. He had not failed, he knew. His task was to report truthfully and he had done that.

“Find me one we can reach. With gold, with fear, anything. Find me someone in this camp who can make the khan take down the black tent. While it stands, we can do nothing.”

“Yes, master,” the spy replied. The man turned away from him and he was dismissed, the rope already snaking down the wall. He climbed down almost as fast as he had gone up and moments later he was tying the coracle on the far side and running lightly across the grass to his post. Someone else would take it in and the Mongols would know nothing.

It was hard to watch the clouds at the same time as remaining aware of the land around him. The spy was good at his work, or he would never have been chosen. He ran on, and as the moon broke through and lit the plain, he was already down, hidden by scrub bushes and still outside the main camp. In the silver light, he thought of the men around the khan. Not Khasar, or Kachiun. Not any one of the generals. They wanted nothing more than to see Yenking broken, stone by stone. He considered Temuge for a moment. He at least was not a warrior. The spy knew very little about the Master of Trade. Clouds darkened the land once more and he darted to the outer ring of sentries. He resumed his place as if he had never left, taking up his bow and knife and stepping into a pair of rope sandals. He stiffened suddenly as he heard someone approach, standing straight like any other guard.

“Anything to report, Ma Tsin?” Tsubodai called from the darkness in the Chin language.

It took a huge effort to control his breath enough to reply. “Nothing, General. It is a quiet night.” The spy breathed through his nose in silence then, waiting for some sign that his absence had been discovered.

Tsubodai grunted a response and strode away to check on the next man in the line. Left alone, fresh sweat broke out on the spy’s skin. The Mongol had used the name he had given. Was he suspected? He thought not. No doubt the young general had checked with his officer before beginning his rounds. The other guards would be in awe of such a feat of memory, but the spy only smiled in the darkness. He knew armies too well to be impressed by the tricks of officers.

As he stood his watch and allowed his pounding heart to settle, he considered the reasoning behind the order. It could only be surrender. Why else could the lord regent want the black tent removed if not to offer tribute for Yenking? Yet if the khan heard, he would know they were close to breaking and rejoice that the siege was nearing its end. The spy shook his head in numb fear as he thought it through. The army had taken the city’s stores and lost them all to the enemy at the pass. Yenking had been hungry almost from the beginning, and Zhi Zhong was more desperate than anyone knew.

His pride surfaced then. He had been chosen for the task because he was as skillful as any assassin or soldier, more useful than any of them. He had time to find a man who valued gold more than his khan. There was always one. In just a few days, the spy had learned of disaffected khans whose power had been stripped from them. Perhaps one of them could be made to see the value in tribute over destruction. He considered Temuge once again, wondering why his instincts returned to the man. He nodded to himself in the dark, relishing the challenge to his skill, for the highest stakes.

When Genghis woke again on the third day, Hoelun was outside fetching food. He asked the same questions, but this time he would not lie back down. His bladder was full to the point of pain, and he swung his legs out of the blankets, placing his feet firmly before trying to stand. Chakahai and Borte helped him to the central pole of the ger, wrapping his fingers around it until they were certain he would not fall. They placed the bucket where his arc of urine would reach and stood back.

He blinked at his wives and the strangeness of seeing them together.

“Are you two going to watch?” he said. For some reason he could not understand, both women smiled. “Out,” he told them, barely holding on until they had left the ger and he could empty his bladder. He wrinkled his nose at the foul smell of the urine, far from a healthy color.

“Kachiun!” he called suddenly. “Come to me!” He heard an answering shout of joy and he grinned. No doubt the khans had been watching to see if he died. He gripped the wooden pole tightly as he considered how best to take a hold on the camp once more. There was so much to do.

The door slammed back on its hinges as Kachiun entered the ger over the protests of his brother’s wives.

“I heard him call me,” Kachiun was saying, pushing through them as gently as he could. He fell silent as he saw his brother standing at last. Genghis wore only grubby leggings and was paler and thinner than he had ever seen him.

“Will you help me dress, Kachiun?” Genghis asked. “My hands are too weak to do it on my own.”

Kachiun’s eyes brimmed with tears and Genghis blinked at him.

“You’re not weeping?” he asked in astonishment. “By the spirits, I am surrounded by women.”

Kachiun laughed, wiping his eyes before Chakahai or Borte could see.

“It is good to see you standing, brother. I’d almost given up on you.”

Genghis snorted. He was still weak and he did not let go of the pole in case he humiliated himself and fell.

“Send someone for my armor and food. My wives have half starved me with their neglect.”

Outside, they could all hear the news passing round the camp, shouted louder and louder. He was awake. He lived. It built into a roar of sound that carried even to the walls of Yenking and interrupted Zhi Zhong in council with the ministers.

The general froze in the middle of a discussion as he heard the sound and felt a cold lump settle in his stomach.

When Genghis emerged at last from his sick-tent, the tribes gathered to cheer him, beating their bows on their armor. Kachiun stayed at his shoulder in case he stumbled, but Genghis walked stiffly to the great ger on its cart, climbing the steps without a sign of weakness.

As soon as he passed inside, he almost fell as he released the grip of his will on his weakened body. Kachiun summoned the generals, leaving his brother sitting painfully straight and alone.

As they took their places, Kachiun saw Genghis was still unnaturally pale, with sweat beading his forehead despite the cold. Genghis’s neck was wrapped in fresh bandages, like a collar. Though his face was thin enough to see the shape of his skull, his eyes shone with feverish brightness as he welcomed each man.

Khasar grinned to see the hawklike expression as he took his place by Arslan and Tsubodai. Jelme came last and Genghis gestured for him to approach. He did not think his legs would hold him if he rose, but Jelme dropped to one knee in front of him and Genghis gripped him by the shoulder.

“Kachiun said you suffered with the poison you took from me,” Genghis said.

Jelme shook his head. “It was a small thing,” he said.

Genghis did not smile at that, though Khasar did. “We have shared blood, you and I,” he said. “It makes you my brother, as much as Khasar or Kachiun or Temuge.”

Jelme did not respond. The hand on his shoulder trembled and he could see how the eyes of his khan burned, sunk in the skull. Still, he lived.

“You will take a fifth of my herds, a hundred bolts of silk, and a dozen fine bows and swords. I will honor you in the tribes, Jelme, for what you have done.”

Jelme bowed his head, feeling Arslan’s proud gaze on him.

Genghis took back his hand and looked around at the men who had gathered in his name. “If I had died, which of you would have led the tribes?” Eyes turned to Kachiun and his brother nodded to him. Genghis smiled, wondering how many conversations he had missed while he slept like the dead. He had thought it might be Khasar, but there was no humiliation in his clear gaze. Kachiun had handled him well.

“We have been foolish not to plan for such a thing,” Genghis told them. “Take this as a warning. Any one of us can fall, and if we do, the Chin will sense our weakness and strike. Each of you is to name a man you trust to take your place. And another to take his. You will establish a line of command down to the lowest soldier so that every man knows he is led, no matter how many die around him. We will not be caught by this again.”

He paused to let a wave of weakness wash through him. The meeting would have to be short.

“For me, I will accept your will and name Kachiun as my successor, until my sons are grown. Khasar will follow him. If we fall, Jelme will rule the tribes and strike back in our name.”

One by one, the men he mentioned bowed their heads, accepting the new order and taking comfort from it. Genghis could not know how close they had come to chaos while he lay injured. Every one of the old khans had gathered his men around him, an older loyalty taking precedence over the tumans and their generals. In a single stroke, the assassin had sent them back to the old ties of blood.

Though his body had been hurt, Genghis had not lost his understanding of the tribes. He could have named fifty men who would have welcomed freedom from his rule if he died. No one spoke as he considered the future, knowing he had to reestablish the structures of the army that had won them the Chin cities. Anything else would see them splintered and eventually destroyed.

“Kachiun and I have discussed sending you out many times. I have been reluctant before, but we need to separate the tribes now. Some of them will have forgotten the oath they gave to me and to their generals. They must be reminded.” He looked around at the faces of his generals. Not one of them was weak, but still they needed him to lead, to give them their authority. Perhaps Kachiun would have kept them together if he had died, but he could not be sure.

“When you leave here, form the tumans on the plain, in sight of the walls. Let them see our strength and then our contempt for them when you leave. Let them fear what so many will achieve when you take other cities.” He turned to Tsubodai, seeing bright excitement in his gaze.

“You will take Jochi, Tsubodai. He respects you.” Genghis thought for a moment. “I do not want him treated like a prince. He is a prickly, arrogant boy and that must be hammered out of him. Do not fear to discipline him in my name.”

“Your will, lord,” Tsubodai replied.

“Where will you go?” Genghis asked, curious.

Tsubodai did not hesitate. He had thought of his answer many times since the battle of the Badger’s Mouth. “North, lord. Past the hunting grounds of my old tribe, the Uriankhai, and still further.”

“Very well. Kachiun?”

“I will stay here, brother. I will see this city fall,” Kachiun replied.

Genghis smiled at the grim expression on his brother’s face. “Your company is welcome. Jelme?”

“East, lord,” Jelme replied. “I have never seen the ocean and we know nothing of those lands.”

Genghis sighed at the thought. He too had been born to the sea of grass, and the idea was tempting. Yet he would see Yenking brought down first.

“Take my son Chagatai, Jelme. He is a fine boy who may yet be khan when he has his growth.” His general nodded solemnly, still overwhelmed by the honor Genghis had paid him. Only the day before, they had all been nervous, waiting to see what would happen in the tribes when the news came that Genghis had died. Hearing him give his orders restored their confidence. As the tribes whispered, Genghis was clearly beloved of the spirits. Jelme felt his pride swell and his attempt to keep the cold face was lost in a grin.

“I want you here with me, Arslan, for when the city is starved into surrender,” Genghis continued. “Perhaps then we will take a slow road home and enjoy a few years of riding the plains in peace.”

Khasar tutted under his breath. “That is a sick man talking, brother. When you are well you will want to follow me south and take the Chin cities like ripe fruit, one by one. You remember the ambassador Wen Chao? I am for Kaifeng and the south. I would like to see his face when he sees me again.”

“South it is, Khasar. My son Ogedai is barely ten years old, but he will learn more with you than staying here to stare at walls. I will keep only little Tolui. He adores the Buddhist monk you brought back with Ho Sa and Temuge.”

“I will take Ho Sa as well, then,” Khasar replied. “In fact, I could take Temuge away where he won’t cause any other problems.”

Genghis considered the idea. He was not as deaf as he pretended to the complaints about his youngest brother.

“No. He is useful enough. He stands between me and a thousand questions from fools and that is worth something.” Khasar snorted at that, making his feelings clear. Genghis continued thoughtfully, tasting new ideas as if his illness had freed his mind.

“Temuge has been wanting to send out small groups to learn of other lands. Perhaps he is right that the information they bring will be useful. Waiting for them to return will at least ease the tedium of this cursed place.” He nodded to himself. “I will choose the men and they too will leave when you ride. We will spring out in all directions.” He felt his energy leaving him then, as suddenly as it had come, and closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness.

“Leave me now, except for Kachiun. Form your tumans and say goodbye to your wives and mistresses. They will be safe with me, unless they are very attractive.”

He smiled weakly as they rose, pleased to see them visibly more confident than when they had arrived. When Kachiun stood alone in the great ger, Genghis let the animation fall from him, looking suddenly older.

“I must rest, Kachiun, though I do not want to return to that ger that smells of sickness. Will you post a guard on the door so that I can sleep and eat in here? I do not want to be seen.”

“I will, brother. May I send Borte in to undress and feed you? She has seen the worst already.”

Genghis shrugged, his voice weak. “You had better send both my wives. Whatever peace they have found will not last long if I favor one over the other.” Already his eyes were glazed. The effort of the single meeting had brought him to the brink of exhaustion, and his hands shook as they lay loose in his lap. Kachiun turned to leave.

“How did you make Khasar accept you to succeed me?” Genghis murmured to his back.

“I told him he could be khan,” Kachiun replied. “I think it terrified him.”

CHAPTER 29

IT TOOK ANOTHER SIX DAYS for the generals to gather their men in squares of ten thousand, ready to ride. In essence, each tuman was a raiding party on a vast scale, something they all knew well. Yet that scale required organization and Temuge and his cadre of maimed men were busy with supplies, remounts, weapons, and their lists. For once, the officers didn’t grumble at the interference. Ahead of them lay lands that no one among their people had ever seen. The wanderlust was strong in the men as they stared in the direction their generals had chosen.

Those who remained behind were less cheerful and Genghis depended upon Kachiun to keep discipline while he recovered. The tactic had proved surprisingly successful, as his brother only had to glance at the khan’s great ger for the arguing men to fall silent. No one wanted to disturb Genghis while he regained his strength. The simple fact of his being alive had stolen away the growing power of the old khans in the camp. Even so, the father of the Woyela was one who had demanded to see Genghis, heedless of consequences. Kachiun had visited the man in his own ger, and after that, the Woyela khan did not speak another word to anyone. His sons would ride south with Khasar and he would be left alone with only servants to lift him upright each day.

Snow had fallen the night before, but the morning was bright and the sky an aching blue over Yenking. In vast squares on the frozen plain, warriors waited for orders, standing ready to mount while their ponies cropped the snow. Their officers were busy checking the lines and equipment, though there were few there careless enough to leave something behind, not when their lives depended on it. Many of the men laughed and joked with each other. They had moved across the face of the land all their lives, and the forced halt at Yenking was unnatural to them. There would be less-formidable cities on their journey, and each tuman traveled with catapults in a dozen carts and men trained to use them. The carts would slow them down, of course, but every man there remembered Yinchuan in the Xi Xia kingdom. They would not have to howl outside distant walls. Instead, they would break city gates and throw small kings from the heights. It was a cheerful prospect and the mood was like that of a summer feast day.

The final items that Temuge produced were tents of white, red, and black for each general to use. The warriors took heart from seeing those rolled and loaded, tied down with long ropes. As nothing else, the presence of the tents showed their intention to conquer all those who stood against them. Their strength gave them the right.

In addition to the tumans, Genghis had assembled ten groups of twenty warriors to scout new lands. At first he thought of them as raiding parties, but Temuge had persuaded him to give them cartloads of gold and looted gifts. Temuge had spoken to the officer of each group, making sure the man understood his task was to observe and learn, even to bribe. Temuge had called them diplomats, a term he had learned from Wen Chao, many years before. In that, as in so much else, Temuge had created a new thing for the tribes. He could see their value even though they themselves could not. Those men were far less cheerful than the ones who knew they would carry cities before them.

Genghis had removed the bandages on his neck, showing a thick scab over yellow and black bruising. He breathed deeply in the cold air, coughing into his hand over a wave of weakness. He was nowhere near fit, but he too wished he was riding with the others, even those who expected to talk and spy rather than raid. He shot an irritable glance at Yenking at the thought, the city squatting like a toad on the plain. No doubt the Chin emperor was on the walls at that very moment, watching this strange movement of men and horses. Genghis spat on the ground in the direction of the city. They had hidden behind soldiers at the Badger’s Mouth, and now they hid behind walls. He wondered how many more seasons they would hold out, and his mood was bitter.

“The men are ready,” Kachiun said, riding up and dismounting. “Temuge cannot think of another thing to irritate them, thank the spirits. Will you blow the horn yourself?”

Genghis looked at the polished scout horn hanging around his brother’s neck. He shook his head. “I will say goodbye to my sons first,” he said. “Bring them to me.” He gestured to a large blanket on the ground, with a bottle of black airag and four cups on the cloth.

Kachiun bowed his head and leaped back into the saddle, kicking the animal into a gallop through the squares of waiting men. It was a long way to ride to reach his nephews. Every warrior there had two other horses with him in a vast herd, and the morning was loud with their snorts and whinnying.

Genghis waited patiently until Kachiun returned with Jochi, Chagatai, and Ogedai, his brother standing aside to let the sons approach. Kachiun watched from the corner of his eye as Genghis sat cross-legged and the three boys faced him on the rough blanket. In silence, he poured each a cup of fiery spirit and they took them formally in their right hands, cupping the elbow with their left to show that they held no weapon.

Genghis could find nothing to criticize in their bearing as he looked them over. Jochi wore new armor, a little large on his frame. Chagatai still had the set he had been given. Only Ogedai wore the traditional padded deel robe, too small at ten to warrant a man’s armor, even with the amount they had captured at the Badger’s Mouth. The little boy regarded the cup of airag with some misgiving, but sipped it with the others, showing no expression.

“My little wolves,” Genghis said with a smile. “You will all be men by the time I see you again. Have you spoken to your mother?”

“We have,” Jochi replied. Genghis glanced at him and wondered at the depth of hostility in the boy’s eyes. What had he ever done to deserve it?

Returning Jochi’s dark gaze, Genghis spoke to them all.

“You will not be princes away from this camp. I have made that clear to your generals. There will be no special treatment for my sons. You will travel as any other warrior of the people, and when you are called to fight, there will be no one to save you because of who you are. Do you understand?”

His words seemed to suck the excitement out of them, their smiles fading. One by one, they nodded. Jochi drained his cup and put it down on the blanket.

“If you are raised to be officers,” Genghis continued, “it will only be because you have shown yourselves to be quick thinking, skilled, and brave beyond the men around you. No one wants to be led by a fool, even a fool who is my son.”

He paused, letting this sink in as his gaze fell on Chagatai.

“However, you are my sons and I expect to see the blood run true in each of you. The other warriors will be thinking of the next battle, or the last. You will be thinking of the nation you could lead. I expect you to find men you can trust and bind them to you. I expect you to push yourselves harder and more ruthlessly than anyone else ever could. When you are frightened, hide it. No one else will know and whatever causes it will pass. How you held yourself will be remembered.”

There was so much to tell them. It was gratifying to have even Jochi hang on every word, but who else could tell them how to rule if not their own father? This was his last duty to the boys before they became men.

“When you are tired, never speak of it, and others will think you are made of iron. Do not allow another warrior to mock you, even in jest. It is something men do to see who has the strength to stand against them. Show them you will not be cowed, and if it means you must fight, well, that is what you must do.”

“What if it is an officer who mocks us?” Jochi said softly.

Genghis looked sharply at him. “I have seen men try to deflect such things with a smile, or dipping their head, or even capering to make the others laugh all the harder. If you do that, you will never command. Take the orders you are given, but keep your dignity.” He thought for a moment.

“From this day, you are no longer children. You too, Ogedai. If you have to fight, even if it is a friend, put him down as fast and hard as you possibly can. Kill if you have to, or spare him—but beware putting any man in your debt. Of all things, that causes resentment. Any warrior who raises his fist to you must know he is gambling with his life and that he will lose. If you cannot win at first, take revenge if it is the last thing you do. You are traveling with men who respect only strength greater than theirs, men harder than themselves. Above everything else, they respect success. Remember it.”

His hard gaze swept across them and Ogedai shivered, feeling the cold of the words. Genghis did not smile to see it as he went on.

“Never allow yourself to become soft, or one day there will be a man who will take everything away from you. Listen to those who know more than you and be the last in every conversation to speak, until they wait on you to show them the way. And beware of weak men who come to you because of your name. Choose those who follow you as carefully as wives. If I have only one skill that has brought me to rule our people, it is that. I can see the difference between a blustering warrior and a man like Tsubodai, or Jelme, or Khasar.”

The ghost of a sneer touched Jochi’s mouth before he looked away, and Genghis refused to allow his irritation to show.

“One more thing before you go. Be wary of spilling your seed.” Jochi flushed then and Chagatai’s mouth dropped open. Only Ogedai looked confused. Genghis went on.

“Boys who spend each night playing with their parts become weak, obsessed with the needs of their body. Keep your hands away and treat desire as any other weakness. Abstinence will make you strong. You will have wives and mistresses in time.”

As the three boys sat there in embarrassed silence, he untied his sword and scabbard. He had not planned it, but it seemed right and he wanted to do something they would remember.

“Take it, Chagatai,” he said. He slapped the scabbard into his son’s hands. Chagatai almost fumbled it in amazed pleasure. Genghis watched as the boy held the wolf’s-head hilt up to catch the sun, then slowly drew the blade his father had carried for all his young life. The eyes of the others were on the shining metal, bright with envy.

“My father, Yesugei, wore it on the day he died,” Genghis said softly. “His father had it made at a time when the Wolves were the enemy of every other tribe. It has taken lives and seen the birth of a nation. Be sure you do not dishonor it.”

Chagatai bowed where he sat, overcome. “I will not, lord,” he replied.

Genghis did not look at Jochi’s white face. “Now go. When you return to your generals, I will sound the horn. We will see each other again when you are men and we can meet as equals.”

“I look forward to that day, Father,” Jochi said suddenly.

Genghis raised his pale gaze to him, but said nothing. The boys did not speak to each other as they galloped away on the hard ground and they did not look back.

When Genghis was once again alone with Kachiun, he felt his brother’s stare.

“Why did you not give the blade to Jochi?” Kachiun asked.

“To a Tartar bastard?” Genghis snapped. “I see his father looking back at me whenever we meet.”

Kachiun shook his head, saddened that Genghis could be so blind in this one thing and see so far in all the rest.

“We are a strange family, brother,” he said. “If you leave us alone, we grow weak and soft. If you challenge us, make us hate, we grow strong enough to strike back.” Genghis looked at him questioningly and Kachiun sighed.

“If you truly wanted to weaken Jochi, you should have given him the sword,” Kachiun said. “Now he will think of you as an enemy and he will make himself iron, just as you did. Is that what you intended?”

Genghis blinked, astonished at the idea. Kachiun saw things with painful clarity and he could not find a response.

Kachiun cleared his throat. “It was interesting advice, brother,” he said, “especially the bit about spilling their seed.”

Genghis ignored him, watching the distant figures rejoin the squares of warriors.

“It didn’t seem to do Khasar any harm,” Kachiun said.

Genghis chuckled, holding out his hand for Kachiun’s horn. He rose to his feet then and blew a long deep note across the plain. Before it had died away, the tumans rumbled into movement, his people riding to conquer. He ached to be with them, but he would yet see Yenking fall.

Temuge groaned as his servant massaged the cares of the day from his shoulders. The Chin people seemed to have an idea of civilization that no one among the tribes could match. He smiled sleepily at the thought of a warrior being asked to work the muscles of his calves with oil. The man would either take it as an insult or pound them like a woolen fleece.

At first he had regretted the loss of his first servant. The man had rarely spoken and indeed knew nothing of the Mongol tongue. Yet he had introduced Temuge to a structured day, so that events seemed to flow around him without tension. Temuge had become accustomed to waking after dawn and bathing. His servant would then dress him and prepare a light breakfast. He would read the reports of his men until late morning, then begin the proper business of the day. Losing such a man to an assassin’s blade had seemed a tragedy at first.

Temuge sighed in pleasure as the new servant worked at a muscle, his thumbs digging deeply. Perhaps it was not such a loss, after all. Old Sen had known nothing of oils and massage, and though his presence had been relaxing, the new man talked whenever Temuge allowed him to speak, explaining any aspect of Chin society that caught Temuge’s attention.

“That is very good, Ma Tsin,” he murmured. “The tenderness is almost gone.”

“My master is welcome,” the spy replied. He did not enjoy rubbing the man’s back, but he had once spent almost a year as a brothel guard and he knew how the girls relaxed their customers.

“I saw the armies move away this morning, master,” he said lightly. “I have never seen so many horses and men in one place.”

Temuge grunted. “It makes my life simpler to have them far away. I have had enough of their complaints and bickering. I think my brother has as well.”

“They will bring back gold for the khan, I do not doubt it,” the spy went on. He began to pummel the heavy muscles of Temuge’s back, before finding another knot to work with stiff fingers.

“We do not need more of it,” Temuge muttered. “There are already carts of coins and only the Chin recruits seem interested.”

The spy paused for a moment. This was one aspect of the Mongol mind that confused him. Temuge was already relaxed, but he continued to work, trying to understand.

“It is true, then, that you do not seek wealth?” he asked. “I have heard it said.”

“What would we do with it? My brother has collected gold and silver because there are some who look greedily on such hoards. But what use is it? Real wealth is not found in soft metals.”

“You could buy horses with it, though, weapons, even land,” the spy persisted. Under his hands, he felt Temuge shrug.

“From whom? If a pile of coins will make another man give us his horses, we take them from him. If he has land, it is ours anyway, to ride as we please.”

The spy blinked in irritation. Temuge had no reason to lie to him, but bribery was not going to be easy if he spoke the truth. He tried again, suspecting it was hopeless.

“In Chin cities, gold can buy huge houses by a lake, delicate foods, even thousands of servants.” He struggled for more examples. For one who had been born into a society that used coins, it was difficult to explain something so obvious. “It can even buy influence and favors from powerful men, lord. Rare pieces of art, perhaps as gifts for your wives. It makes all things possible.”

“I understand,” Temuge replied irritably. “Now be silent.”

The spy almost gave up. The khan’s brother could not grasp the concept. In truth, it made him realize the artificial nature of his own world. Gold was too soft for any real use. How had it ever been seen as valuable?

“What if you wanted a man’s horse in the tribes, master? Let us say it is a horse better than all the others.”

“If you value your hands, you will not speak again,” Temuge snapped. The spy worked in silence for a time and Temuge sighed. “I would give him five horses of lesser breed, or two captured slaves, or six bows, or a sword made by a skilled man, whatever he wanted, depending on my need.” Temuge chuckled, drifting toward sleep. “If I told him I had a bag of valuable metal that would buy him another horse, he would tell me to try it on some other fool.”

Temuge sat up then. The evening sky was clear and he yawned. It had been a busy day, arranging the departure of so many.

“I think I will take a few drops of my medicine tonight, Ma Tsin, to help me sleep.”

The spy helped Temuge into a silk robe. The man’s pretensions amused him, but he could not escape the frustration he felt. The power of the small khans had been strangled when Genghis gave the order for the tumans to form. It was no loss. None of them had real influence in the camp. The spy had cut his losses and worked quickly to replace the servant killed by the assassin. Moving at such a speed brought many dangers, and he felt the strain grow daily. He still thought Temuge a vain and shallow man, but he had not found a lever that might tempt him into a betrayal, nor any better candidate. The black tent had to come down, but Genghis could not know the agony of Yenking. The spy considered the lord regent had set him a near-impossible task.

Lost in his own thoughts, the spy prepared the draught of hot airag and added a spoonful of the shaman’s black paste, scraping it out of a pot. When Temuge wasn’t looking, he sniffed at it, wondering if it was an opiate. The nobles smoked opium in the cities and seemed attached to their pipes, much as Temuge was to the drink.

“We are almost at the end of the supply, master,” he said.

Temuge sighed. “Then I will have to ask for more from the shaman.”

“I will go to him, master. You should not be troubled with small things.”

“That is true,” Temuge replied, pleased. He accepted the cup and sipped at it, closing his eyes in pleasure. “Go to him, but tell him nothing of what you do for me. Kokchu is not a pleasant man. Make sure you do not tell him anything you have seen and heard in this ger.”

“It would be easier if you could buy the paste from him with gold coins, master,” the spy said.

Temuge replied without opening his eyes. “Kokchu does not want your gold. I think he cares only for power.” He drained the cup, grimacing at the bitter dregs, but still tipping it back to catch every drop. The thought of the empty pot troubled him strangely. He would need it again in the morning.

“See him tonight, Ma Tsin. If you can, try to discover how he makes the paste, so that you can prepare it yourself. I have asked him before, but he hides it from me. I think he enjoys the fact that he has some hold on me still. If you can find the secret, I will not forget.”

“Your will, master,” the spy replied. He was due back at the wall that night, to report. There was time to see the shaman before he went. Anything and everything could be useful, and as things stood, he had achieved little in the camp, while Yenking starved.

CHAPTER 30

THAT SUMMER WAS THE MOST PEACEFUL Genghis could remember. If it had not been for the looming presence of the city that filled the eye every day, it would have been a restful time. The khan’s attempts to rebuild his fitness were hampered by a persistent cough that left him gasping and only worsened as the year turned cold. Kokchu had become a regular visitor to his ger, bringing syrups of honey and herbs so bitter that Genghis could barely swallow them. They brought only temporary relief and Genghis lost weight alarmingly, so that his bones showed white under skin that looked sallow and ill.

Throughout the cold months, Yenking sat on the edges of his vision, unchanged and solid, mocking his presence in that land. It was almost a year since he had won the battle at the Badger’s Mouth. There were times when he would have given anything to be able to travel home and regain his strength in the clean hills and streams.

In the grip of the lethargy that affected them all, Genghis barely looked up when Kachiun darkened the door of the great ger. When he saw his brother’s expression, he forced himself upright.

“You’re bursting with news, Kachiun. Tell me it’s something that matters.”

“I think so,” Kachiun replied. “The scouts from the south say there is a relief column heading this way. As many as fifty thousand soldiers and a huge herd of prime cattle.”

“Khasar missed them, then,” Genghis replied, his mood lifting. “Or they came from somewhere off his path.” Both men knew armies could pass each other only a valley apart. The land was vast beyond imagining, coloring the dreams of men forced to stay in one place for longer than they ever had before.

Kachiun was relieved to see a spark of the old pleasure in Genghis. His older brother had been weakened by the poison running in his blood, anyone could see that. Even as he tried to reply, his wind was stolen by a fit of coughing that left him red-faced and clinging to the central spar of the ger.

“The city will be desperate for them to get through,” Kachiun said over the hacking sound. “I wonder if we will regret sending half our men away?”

Genghis shook his head mutely before pulling in a clean breath at last. He strode past Kachiun to the door and spat a wad of phlegm on the ground, wincing as he tried to clear his throat.

“See this,” he said hoarsely, picking up a Chin crossbow they had captured at the Badger’s Mouth. Kachiun followed his brother’s gaze to a straw target three hundred yards away along a path. Genghis loosed arrows for hours every day to restore his strength, and he had been fascinated by the mechanisms of the Chin weapons. As Kachiun watched, he took careful aim and pulled the carved trigger, sending a black bolt whipping through the air. It fell short and Kachiun smiled, understanding immediately. Without a word, he picked up one of his brother’s bows and selected an arrow from a quiver, drawing it back to his ear before sending it unerringly into the center of the straw shield.

The blood had faded from Genghis’s cheeks and he nodded to his brother.

“They will be slow with supplies for the city. Take your men and ride up and down the lines, never close enough for them to reach you. Thin them a little and I will do the rest when they arrive.”

♦                  ♦                  ♦

As Kachiun galloped through the camp, word from the scouts traveled even faster. Every warrior there was ready in just the few moments it took to race to his pony and grab his weapons from the walls of the gers.

Kachiun shouted orders to his senior officers and they spread the word, halting many men in their tracks. The new form of warfare was still only a veneer over the raiding bands, but the command structure was solid enough for groups of ten to gather and receive their instructions. Many had to return to their gers for another quiver of fifty arrows on Kachiun’s order before racing to form up in the great square of ten thousand. Kachiun himself marked the farthest line by riding his pony up and down, a long war banner of gold silk streaming out behind him.

He conferred once more with the scouts who had sighted the relief column and passed the fluttering standard to a messenger in the front rank, a boy of no more than twelve. Kachiun looked along the ranks as they formed and was satisfied. Each man carried two heavy quivers looped over his shoulders. They needed no supplies for a lightning raid and only bows and swords slapped on their thighs and saddles.

“If we let them through to the city,” he bellowed, turning his horse in place, “it will take another year to see it fall. Stop them and their mounts and weapons are yours, after the khan’s tithe.”

Those who could hear roared their appreciation of this, and Kachiun raised his right arm and dropped it, signaling the advance. The lines moved forward in perfect formation, the product of months of training on the plain in front of the city when there were no enemies to fight. Officers shouted orders out of habit, but in fact, there were no flaws in the lines. They had at last thrown reins on their enthusiasm for war, even after so long a wait.

The column had been forty miles south of Yenking when the scouts crossed its path. In the time it had taken Kachiun to return, the slow-moving mass of men and animals had shortened the distance to only twelve. Knowing they had been seen, they had pushed the herds as fast as possible, but there was only so much they could do before they saw the dust cloud of approaching warriors.

The senior officer, Sung Li Sen, hissed under his breath as he saw the enemy for the first time. He had brought almost fifty thousand warriors north and east from Kaifeng to relieve the emperor’s city. The column was a massive, ponderous thing, with carts and bullocks stretching back along the road. He squinted at the squares of cavalry guarding his flanks and nodded to their commander over the heads of the men. This was a battle long in coming.

“First position!” he snapped, his command repeated up and down the trudging lines. The orders he had been given were perfectly clear. He would not stop until he reached Yenking. If the enemy engaged him, he was to fight a running battle all the way to the city and avoid being bogged down in skirmishes. He frowned at the thought. He would have preferred a blanket order to crush the tribesmen and worry about resupplying Yenking when they were bones.

All along the vast snake of men, the soldiers raised long pikes like bristles. Crossbows were cocked by the thousand and Sung Li Sen nodded to himself. He saw the lines of Mongol riders more clearly now, and he braced himself in the saddle, aware that his men looked to him for an example of courage. Few of them had ever traveled this far north, and all they knew of these wild tribesmen lay in the emperor’s demand for support from his southern cities. Sung Li Sen felt his curiosity swell as the riders split along an invisible line, as if his own column was a spearhead they did not dare approach. He saw that they would pass on either side of him and smiled tightly. It suited his orders that they do so. The road lay open to Yenking and he would not stop.

Kachiun held back the gallop to the last possible moment before leaning into the wind and yelling for his mount to stretch its gait. He loved the thunder that sounded around him as he stood in the stirrups. Over such a distance, they seemed to close slowly, then everything was rushing toward him. His heart pounded as he reached the Chin column and sent his first arrow snapping through the air. He saw the Chin bolts streak out, falling uselessly into the grass. To ride along that endless line was to be untouchable, and Kachiun laughed aloud at the joy of it, sending shaft after shaft. He hardly had to aim with five thousand men on either side of the column, pinching it between them in whipping strikes.

The Chin cavalry hardly managed to reach full gallop before they were annihilated to a man, smashed from their mounts. Kachiun grinned when he saw not one of the enemy horses had been killed. His men were being careful, especially now they had seen how few riders the Chin had brought to the field.

When the cavalry were broken, Kachiun chose his targets with precision, aiming at any officer he could see. Within sixty heartbeats, his tuman loosed a hundred thousand shafts at the column. Despite the lacquered Chin armor, thousands were felled in their tracks, with those behind stumbling over them.

Kachiun could hear the cattle lowing in distress and panic, and to his pleasure, he saw the herd stampede, crushing more than a hundred of the Chin soldiers and breaking a hole in the column before they lumbered off into the distance. He had reached the end of the tail and swung in a little further, ready to double back. Crossbow bolts rattled off his chest, near spent. After the months of tedious training, it was simply wonderful to be riding against an enemy, and better, one who could not touch them but only die. He wished he’d known to bring more quivers. His grasping fingers found the first one empty and began his last fifty shafts, taking a Chin bannerman off his feet with the first.

Kachiun blinked wind-tears out of his eyes. He had thinned the column enough to see through it to the second five thousand on the eastern flank. They too were riding with impunity, striking at will. Another sixty heartbeats and a hundred thousand arrows followed the rest. The Chin soldiers could not hide and the neat column began to disintegrate. Men who trudged near carts threw themselves under them for protection while their colleagues died around them. A great wail of fear went up from the pikemen, and there were no officers left alive to rally them or keep them on the road to Yenking.

Kachiun began his second run, this time too far from the column to waste a shot. The lines reversed with the ease that comes of ceaseless hours of drill, and fresh quivers were emptied quickly. Kachiun galloped flat out along the lines, glancing back at the trail of dead they left behind as the column pushed onwards through the storm. The soldiers had kept their discipline, though the pace was slowing. Other men bawled orders in the place of dead officers, knowing that to panic was to invite complete destruction.

Kachiun grunted to himself in grudging admiration. He had seen many forces who would have broken before this. He reached the head of the column and swung back to the inside line once more, feeling his shoulders burn as he bent the bow again at full speed. He imagined his brother’s face when the straggling remnants reached the welcome they had prepared at Yenking. Kachiun barked a laugh at the thought, his fingers growing sore as he scrabbled in the fast-emptying quiver. Ten more at most, but the column seemed to shudder as panic spread again through the ranks. The crossbow bolts had not stopped and Kachiun had to make a decision. He could feel his men looking to him for the order that would have them draw swords and carve the column to pieces. They were all running low on shafts, and when the last massed volley was fired, their work was over. They knew the orders as well as he did, but still they watched him, hoping.

Kachiun tensed his jaw. Yenking was far away and Genghis would surely forgive him if he finished the column on his own. He could feel how close they were to breaking. Everything he had learned over the years of war made it something he could almost taste.

He grimaced, chewing his own cheek as the moment swelled around him. At last he shook his head and drew a wide circle in the air with his fist. Every officer in sight repeated the gesture and the lines fell back from the shattered remnants of the column.

Kachiun watched his men form up in panting lines, exhilarated. Those who still had arrows loosed them with enormous care, taking men as they pleased. Kachiun could see their frustration as they reined in behind the column and watched it move away from them. Many of them patted the necks of their mounts and stared at their officers, furious at being called back from the killing. It made no sense and Kachiun had to be deaf to the shouts of complaint from all quarters.

As the column put distance between them, many of the soldiers looked back in terror, convinced they were going to be attacked from behind. Kachiun let a gap open, then walked his pony forward. He ordered the right and left wings to move up, so that they cupped the rear of the column and herded it onwards to Yenking.

Behind them, they left a trail of dead men over more than a mile, with fluttering pennants and pikes in piles. Kachiun sent a hundred warriors to loot the bodies and dispatch wounded men, but his gaze didn’t leave the column as it made its way to his waiting brother.

It took until late afternoon for the battered column to sight the city it had come to relieve. By that point, the Chin soldiers who had survived the slaughter walked with their heads down, their spirits broken after so long with death at their backs. When they saw another ten thousand barring their way, fresh men with lances and bows, they sent up a moan of utter misery. The column shuddered again as they hesitated, knowing they could not fight their way through. Without a signal, they halted at last and Kachiun raised a fist to stop his men riding too close. In the gathering gloom, he waited for his brother to approach. He was pleased he had not denied Genghis this moment when he saw him ride apart from the tuman of warriors and come cantering across the grass.

The dull-eyed Chin soldiers watched him, panting and exhausted at the pace they had been forced to set. The carts of goods had drifted back through the hurrying ranks, left behind while Kachiun peeled men off to investigate the contents.

In a deliberate show, Genghis judged the mood of the column and rode right along the edge of it. Kachiun heard his men murmur in pleasure at the khan’s display of courage. Perhaps there was still a risk that crossbows might take him from the saddle, but Genghis did not look at the Chin soldiers as he passed, seemingly unaware of the thousands of men turning to watch him from under lowered brows.

“You have not left me with many, brother,” Genghis said. Kachiun could see he was pale and sweating from the ride. On impulse, Kachiun dismounted and touched his head to his brother’s foot.

“I wish you could have been there to see the faces of their officers,” Kachiun replied. “We are truly wolves in a world of sheep, brother.”

Genghis nodded, his weariness preventing him from sharing Kachiun’s light spirits. “I see no supplies here,” he said.

“They have left them all behind, including as fine a herd of oxen as you will ever see.”

Genghis perked up at that. “I have not eaten beef in a long time. We will roast them before Yenking and waft the smell of the meat over the walls. You have done well, brother. Shall we finish them?” Both men looked over the grim column of soldiers, now no more than half the original size.

Kachiun shrugged. “They are too many mouths to feed, unless you will give them the supplies they brought to this place. Let me try to disarm them first, or they could still fight.”

“You think they will surrender?” Genghis asked. His eyes sparkled at his brother’s suggestion, touched by Kachiun’s evident pride. Of all things, the tribes revered a general who could win with wits rather than force.

Kachiun shrugged. “Let us see.”

He summoned a dozen men who could speak the Chin language and sent them out to ride along the column as close as Genghis had himself, offering peace terms if they gave up their weapons. No doubt it helped that the men were near exhaustion after a day of being chased by an enemy who struck with shocking power while remaining untouched. Their morale had been left on the march, and Genghis smiled as he heard the crash of weapons being thrown down.

It was almost dark before the pikes, crossbows, and swords had been removed from the silent ranks. Genghis had sent fresh quivers by the thousand back to Kachiun, and the Mongols waited in calm anticipation as the sun made the plains gold.

Before the last light faded, a horn rang across the plain and twenty thousand bows bent. The Chin soldiers screeched in horror at the betrayal, the sound choked off as the volleys struck and struck and struck until it was too dark to see.

As the moon rose, hundreds of oxen were killed and roasted on the plain, and on the walls of the city, Zhi Zhong tasted his own bitter saliva, filled with a grinding despair. In Yenking, they were eating the dead.

When the feast was at its height, the spy saw the shaman rise and stagger drunkenly through the gers. He rose like a shadow to follow him, leaving Temuge to sleep off the haunch of bloody beef he had devoured. The warriors were chanting and dancing around the fires, and the drummer boys pounded out a fierce rhythm that hid the small noise of his steps. The spy kept the older man in sight as Kokchu paused to urinate on the path, fumbling blearily at himself and cursing in the darkness as he splashed his feet. The spy lost sight of his quarry as the man slipped into deep darkness between two carts. He did not hurry, guessing the man was going back to the Chin girl he kept as a slave in his home. As he walked he thought what he might say to the shaman. On his last trip to the walls, he heard the lord regent had begun a death lottery in the city, where a member of each peasant family was forced to reach into a clay pot as deep as his arm. Those who pulled out a white tile were butchered to feed the rest. Every day brought scenes of unimaginable pain and grief.

Lost in thought, he saw a shadow twitch as he came round the edge of a ger and let out a cry of shock and pain as he was knocked back into the side of it. The wicker braces creaked against his back and he could feel a cold blade at his throat, stopping his breath.

When Kokchu spoke, his voice was low and firm, with no sign of the extravagant drunkenness the spy had witnessed before.

“You have been watching me all night, slave. And now you follow me home. Hsst!” Kokchu made the sound as the spy raised his hands automatically in fear.

“If you move, I will cut your throat,” Kokchu whispered into his ear. “Be like a statue, slave, while I search you.” The spy did as he was told, enduring the bony hands as they ran over his body. The shaman could not reach right down to his ankles and still hold the blade to his neck. He did find a small knife and threw it away into the darkness without looking. The one in the boot went undetected and the spy let out a slow breath of relief.

They stood in complete darkness between the gers, hidden from the moon and the feasting warriors.

“Why would a slave follow me, I wonder? You come to me for your master’s paste and your little darting eyes are everywhere, your questions so innocent. Are you a spy for Temuge, or another assassin? If you are, you are a poor choice.”

The spy did not reply, though he set his jaw at the sting to his pride. He knew he had barely glanced at the shaman all evening, and he could only wonder what sort of mind produced such constant suspicion. He felt the knife press more firmly into his neck and blurted out the first words that came to his lips.

“If you kill me, you will learn nothing,” he said.

Kokchu remained silent for an age, digesting this. The spy swiveled his eyes in his head to see the man’s expression and found curiosity mingling with spite.

“What could there be to learn, slave?” Kokchu asked.

“Nothing you would want overheard,” the spy replied. He ignored his usual caution, knowing his life hung in the moment. Kokchu was quite capable of killing him just to deprive Temuge of a supporter. “Let me speak and you will not regret it.”

He felt a shove and stumbled forward. Even in the dark, he sensed Kokchu behind him. The spy considered ways of disarming the man without killing him, but forced himself to relax. He put his hands on his head and let Kokchu walk him forward to his ger.

It took courage to duck low at the doorway with the shaman holding a blade at his back, but the spy had gone too far to pass off his words as a bad joke even then. He knew the offer he had to make. The lord regent himself had met him on the wall on his last report. He took a deep breath and pushed the small door open.

A girl of great beauty knelt on the floor by the open door. A lamp lit her features as she looked up at him, and the spy felt his chest tighten that such a delicate girl should be made to wait on the shaman like a dog. He hid his anger as Kokchu motioned for her to leave them alone. She exchanged one final glance with her countryman as she turned in the door, and Kokchu chuckled.

“I think she likes you, slave. I am growing tired of her. Perhaps I will give her to your Chin officers. You could have a turn when they are finished teaching her humility.” The spy ignored the words, taking a seat on a low bed so that his hands dropped naturally near his ankles. If the meeting went sour, he could still kill the shaman and be back at the walls before anyone else found out. That thought gave him a confidence that Kokchu sensed, frowning.

“We are alone, slave. I do not need you, or anything you have to say to me. Speak quickly, or I will give you to the dogs tomorrow morning.”

The spy took a long, slow breath, preparing words that could mean death by torture before the sun rose. He had not chosen the moment. The bodies in Yenking had done that. Now he was either right about the shaman, or dead.

He straightened his back and rested one hand on his knee, looking sternly up at Kokchu with a faint expression of disapproval. The shaman glowered at the change in the man, going from frightened slave to a dignified warrior in just a moment.

“I am a man of Yenking,” the spy said softly. “A man of the emperor.”

Kokchu’s eyes widened.

The spy nodded to him. “Now my life is truly in your hands.” A sudden instinct made him take the dagger from his boot and place it on the floor at his feet. Kokchu nodded at the act of faith, but did not lower his own blade.

“The emperor must be desperate, or mad with hunger,” Kokchu said softly.

“The emperor is a seven-year-old boy. The general your khan defeated now runs the city.”

“He sent you here? Why?” Kokchu asked him, genuinely curious. Before the man could speak, Kokchu answered his own question. “Because the assassin failed. Because he wants the tribes to leave before the people starve to death, or burn the city down in riots.”

“It is as you say,” the spy confirmed. “Even if the general wanted to pay tribute for the city, the black tent is up before the walls. What choice does he have but to hold out for another two years, or even longer?” No trace of the desperate lie showed on the spy’s face. Yenking would fall in another month, three at the most.

At last Kokchu put away his knife. The spy did not know how to read the action. The lord regent had thrown him to the wolves to make the offer. All he had was an instinct that Kokchu was in the tribes but not of them, a man apart. Such men were ripe for picking, but he knew his life could still be measured in heartbeats. A single spasm of loyalty from the shaman, a single shout, could end it all. Genghis would know he had broken Yenking and the jewel of the empire would be lost forever. The spy felt sweat break out on his skin despite the frozen air. He went on before Kokchu could reply.

“If they have the white tent raised once more, my emperor will pay a tribute to make a hundred kings weep. Silk enough to line the roads back to your homeland, gems, slaves, written works of great magic, science and medicine, ivory, iron, timber . . .” He had seen Kokchu’s eyes flicker at the mention of magic, but did not falter in his list. “. . . paper, jade, thousands upon thousands of carts laden with wealth. Enough to found an empire if the khan desires it. Enough to build cities of his own.”

“All of which he would have anyway when the city falls,” Kokchu murmured.

The spy shook his head firmly. “At the last, when defeat is inevitable, the city will be fired from within. Know that I speak truth when I say your khan will have only ashes and two more years of waiting on this plain.” He paused, trying and failing to see how his words were being received. Kokchu stood like a statue, barely breathing as he listened.

“Why have you not made this offer to the khan himself?” Kokchu asked.

Ma Tsin shook his head, suddenly weary. “We are not children, shaman, you and I. Let me speak plainly. Genghis has raised his black tent and all his men know that it means death. It would cost him pride to accept the emperor’s tribute, and from what I have seen, he would let Yenking burn first. But if another man, one he trusted, could take the news to him in private? He could suggest a show of mercy, perhaps, for those innocents in the city who suffer.”

To his astonishment, Kokchu barked laughter at the idea. “Mercy? Genghis would see it as weakness. You will never meet a man who understands fear in war as well as the khan I follow. You could not tempt him with such a thing.”

Despite himself, the spy felt anger surface at the shaman’s mocking tone. “Then tell me how he can be turned from Yenking, or kill me here for your dogs. I have told you all I know.”

“I could turn him,” Kokchu said softly. “I have shown him what I can do.”

“You are feared in the camp,” the spy replied quickly, grabbing his bony arm. “Are you the one I need?”

“I am,” Kokchu replied. His face twisted at the other man’s relief. “All that remains is for you to name the price for my help in this small thing. I wonder, how much is your city worth to your emperor? What price should I put on his life?”

“Anything you want will be part of the tribute paid to the khan,” the spy replied. He dared not believe the man was toying with him. What choice did he have but to follow where the shaman led?

Kokchu was silent for a time then, weighing the man who sat so stiffly erect on the bed.

“There is real magic in the world, slave. I have felt it and used it. If your people know anything of the art, your boy emperor will have it in his precious city,” he said at last. “A man cannot learn enough in a hundred lifetimes. I want to know every secret your people have found.”

“There are many secrets, shaman: from making paper and silk to the powder that burns, the compass, oil that will not go out. What do you wish to know?”

Kokchu snorted. “Do not bargain with me. I want them all. Do you have men who work these arts in the cities?”

The spy nodded. “Priests and doctors of many orders.”

“Have them bind their secrets for me, as a gift between colleagues. Tell them to leave nothing out or I will tell my khan a bloody vision and he will come back to burn your lands all the way to the sea. Do you understand?”

The spy freed his tongue and answered, weak with relief. He could hear raised voices somewhere nearby and he rushed along, desperate to finish. “I will make it so,” he whispered. “When the white tent is raised, the emperor will surrender.” He thought for a moment, then spoke again. The voices outside were louder.

“If there is betrayal, shaman, everything you want to know will go up in flames. There is enough of the powder that burns in the city to tear the stones to dust.”

“A brave threat,” Kokchu replied, sneering. “I wonder if your people would truly have the will to do such a thing. I have heard you, slave. You have done your work. Now go back to your city and wait for the white tent with your emperor. It will come in time.”

The spy wanted to urge the shaman on, to make him understand that he should move quickly. Caution stopped his mouth with the thought that it would only weaken his position. The shaman simply did not care that the people of the city were dying every day.

“What is happening out there?” Kokchu snapped, disturbed by the shouts and calls outside the ger. He gestured for the spy to leave and followed him out into the moonlight. Everyone around them was staring at the city, and both men turned to gaze at the walls.

The young women walked slowly up the stone steps, wearing white, the color of death. They were skeletally thin and barefoot, but they did not shiver. The cold did not seem to touch them at all. The soldiers on the walls fell back in superstitious dread and no one barred their path. By the thousand, they gathered above the city. By the ten thousand. Even the wind fell to a whisper across Yenking, and the silence was perfect.

The walkway around the city was frozen white and hard, fifty feet below where they stood. Almost as one, the young women of Yenking stepped to the very edge. Some held hands, others stood alone, gazing out into the darkness. For all the miles of wall, they stood there, looking down into the moonlight.

The spy caught his breath, whispering a prayer he had not remembered for years, from before he had forgotten his true name. His heart broke for his people and his city.

All along the walls, figures in white had climbed like a line of ghosts. The Mongol warriors saw they were women and called out to them raucously, laughing and jeering at the distant figures. The spy shook his head to shut out the coarse sounds, tears sparkling in his eyes. Many of the girls held hands as they stared down at the enemy who had ridden right to the gates of the emperor’s city.

As the spy watched in frozen grief, they stepped off. The watching warriors fell silent in awe. From a distance, they dropped like white petals and even Kokchu shook his head, astonished. Thousands more took their place on the wall and stepped to their deaths without a cry, their bodies breaking on the hard stones below.

“If there is betrayal, the city and everything in it will be destroyed in fire,” the spy whispered to the shaman, his voice thick with sorrow.

Kokchu no longer doubted it.

CHAPTER 31

AS THE WINTER DEEPENED, children were born in the gers, many of them fathered by men away with the generals or one of the diplomatic groups Temuge had sent out. Fresh food was plentiful after the capture of the supply column, and the vast camp enjoyed a period of peace and prosperity they had never known before. Kachiun kept the warriors fit with constant training on the plain around Yenking, but it was a false peace and there were few men there who did not turn their eyes to the city many times each day, waiting.

Genghis suffered in the cold for the first time in his life. He had little appetite, but he had gained a layer of fat by forcing himself to eat beef and rice. Though he lost some of his gauntness, his cough remained, stealing his wind and infuriating him. For a man who had never known sickness, it was immensely frustrating to have his own body betray him. Of all the men in the camp, he stared most often at the city, willing it to fall.

It was in the middle of a night filled with swirling snow that Kokchu came to him. For some reason, the coughing was worse at night, and Genghis had become used to the shaman visiting him before dawn with a hot drink. With the gers as close as they were, his hacking grunts could be heard by all those around him.

Genghis sat up when he heard Kokchu challenged by his guards. There would be no repeat of the assassination attempt, with six good men around the great ger in shifts each night. He stared into the gloom as Kokchu entered and lit a lamp swinging from the roof. Genghis could not speak to him for a moment. Spasms racked his chest until he was red in the face. It passed, as always, leaving him gasping for breath.

“You are welcome in my home, Kokchu,” he whispered hoarsely. “What new herbs will you try tonight?”

It may have been his imagination, but the shaman seemed strangely nervous. Kokchu’s forehead glistened with sweat and Genghis wondered if he too was falling ill.

“Nothing I have will make you better, lord. I have tried everything I know,” he said. “I have wondered if there is something else that prevents you from becoming well again.”

“Something else?” Genghis asked. His throat tickled infuriatingly and he swallowed hard against it, the action now part of his usual manner, so that he gulped constantly.

“The emperor has sent assassins, lord. Perhaps he has other ways to attack you, ways that cannot be seen and killed.”

Genghis considered this, interested. “You think he has magic workers in his city? If the best they can do is a cough, I will not fear them.”

Kokchu shook his head. “A curse can kill you, lord. I should have considered it before this.”

Genghis sat back on his bed wearily. “What do you have in mind?”

Kokchu gestured for his khan to stand and looked away rather than see Genghis struggle up.

“If you will come to my ger, lord, I will summon the spirits and see if you are marked by some dark work of the city.”

Genghis narrowed his eyes, but he nodded. “Very well. Send one of my guards for Temuge to join us.”

“That is not necessary, lord. Your brother is not as accomplished in these matters. . . .”

Genghis coughed, a sound which he turned into a furious growl of anger at his failing body.

“Do as I tell you, shaman, or get out,” he said.

Kokchu tightened his mouth and bowed briefly.

Genghis followed Kokchu to the tiny ger, waiting in the snow and wind as Kokchu ducked inside. Temuge was not long in coming, accompanied by the warrior who had fetched him from his sleep. Genghis drew his brother aside where Kokchu could not hear.

“It seems I must endure his smoke and rituals, Temuge. Do you trust the man?”

“No,” Temuge snapped, still irritable at being woken.

Genghis grinned at his brother’s waspish expression in the moonlight. “I thought you might not, which is why you are here. You will accompany me, brother, and watch him all the while I am in his ger.” He gestured to the warrior standing nearby and the man came quickly.

“You will guard this ger, Kuyuk, against anyone who might disturb us.”

“Your will, lord,” the warrior replied, bowing his head.

“And if Temuge or I do not walk out, your task is to kill the shaman,” Genghis said. He felt Temuge’s gaze on him and he shrugged. “I am not a trusting man, brother.”

Taking a deep breath of the freezing air, Genghis stifled his twitching throat and entered the ger of the shaman, Temuge behind him. There was barely room for three in that tiny space, but they sat on the silk floor with their knees touching, waiting to see what Kokchu could do.

Kokchu lit cones of powder in gold dishes on the floor. They sparked and spat, producing a thick cloud of narcotic smoke. As the first wisps reached Genghis he doubled over in a fit of coughing. Every gasp made it worse and Kokchu grew visibly nervous that the khan would collapse. At last Genghis took a clean breath and felt coolness in his tortured throat, like stream water on a hot day. He took another breath and another, rejoicing at the numbness that flowed in him.

“That is better,” he admitted, staring at the shaman with bloodshot eyes.

Kokchu was in his element, despite Temuge’s hard gaze on him. He produced a pot of the black paste and reached out to Genghis’s mouth. He jerked as a hand snapped around his wrist.

“What is that?” Genghis said, suspiciously.

Kokchu swallowed. He had not seen him move. “It will help you to break the bonds of flesh, lord. Without it, I cannot bring you onto the paths.”

“I have had it,” Temuge said suddenly, his eyes brighter than before. “It does no harm.”

“You will not, tonight,” Genghis replied, ignoring his brother’s disappointment. “I want you to observe, Temuge, that is all.”

Genghis opened his mouth and endured the shaman’s black-nailed fingers rubbing the paste into his gums. At first there was no effect, but as Genghis began to mention this, he noticed the dim light of the shaman’s lamp had become brighter. He stared at it in wonderment and the light swelled to fill the little ger, bathing them all in gold.

“Take my hand,” Kokchu whispered, “and walk with me.”

Temuge watched mistrustfully as his brother’s eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped. Kokchu had closed his own so that Temuge felt oddly alone. He winced as Genghis’s mouth flopped open, made black by the paste. The silence stretched and Temuge lost some of his tension as he remembered his own visions in that small ger. His gaze drifted to the pot of black paste, and with the two men deep in a trance, he replaced the lid and made it disappear inside his deel. His servant Ma Tsin had secured a regular supply for a time before the man vanished. Temuge had long ceased to wonder where he had gone, though he suspected Kokchu had some hand in it. There were other servants to be found among the Chin soldiers Genghis had taken in, though none were as adept.

Temuge had no way to judge the passage of time. He sat for an age in perfect stillness, then was jerked out of his reverie by Kokchu’s voice, hoarse and distant. The words filled the ger and Temuge inched back from the rush of nonsense syllables. Genghis too stirred at the sound, opening glassy eyes as Kokchu began to talk louder and faster.

Without warning, the shaman collapsed, breaking his hold on Genghis’s hand. Genghis felt the fingers slip away and blinked slowly, still deep in the grip of the opiate.

Kokchu lay on his side, spittle dribbling from his mouth. Temuge stared at him in distaste. Without warning, the babble of alien sounds ceased and Kokchu spoke without opening his eyes in a firm, low voice.

“I see a white tent raised before the walls. I see the emperor talking to his soldiers. Men pointing and pleading with him. He is a little boy and there are tears on his face.”

The shaman fell silent and Temuge leaned close to him, worried that his stillness meant the man’s heart had given way. He touched the shaman’s shoulder lightly, and as he did so, Kokchu jerked, writhing, producing sounds that had no meaning. Once more he fell silent and the low voice spoke again.

“I see treasures, a tribute. Thousands of carts and slaves. Silk, weapons, ivory. Jade in mountains, enough to fill the sky. Enough to build an empire. It gleams so!”

Temuge waited for more, but no more came. His brother had slumped against the wicker-braced wall of the ger and was snoring softly. Kokchu’s breathing relaxed and his clenched fists fell loose as he too slept. Once more Temuge was alone and in awe of what he had heard. Would either of the men remember the words? His own recollection of visions was patchy at best, but he recalled that Kokchu had not taken the black paste into his own mouth. No doubt he would tell the khan everything he had seen.

Temuge knew he could not shake his brother awake. He would sleep for many hours, long after the camp had risen around him. Temuge shook his head wearily. Genghis was sick of the siege as the end of the second year approached. He might well grasp at any chance. Temuge grimaced to himself. If Kokchu’s vision was true, Genghis would turn to him in future, in all things.

Temuge considered cutting Kokchu’s throat as he lay in sleep. For a man who dabbled in dark magics, it would not be too hard to explain away. Temuge imagined telling Genghis how a red line appeared on Kokchu’s throat while he watched in horror. It would be Temuge who told Genghis what the shaman had seen.

Temuge drew his knife slowly, making no sound. His hand shook slightly, even as he told himself to act. He leaned over the shaman, and at that moment, Kokchu’s eyes snapped open, warned by some sense. He jerked his arm to knock the blade aside, trapping it in the folds of his robe.

Temuge spoke quickly. “You live then, Kokchu? I thought for a moment that you had been possessed. I was ready to kill whatever spirit had taken you from your body.”

Kokchu sat up, his eyes sharp and alert. A sneer touched his face. “You fear too much, Temuge. There is no spirit that can harm me.” Both men knew the truth of the moment, but for their own reasons, neither was willing to force it into the open. They stared at each other as enemies, and at last, Temuge nodded.

“I will have the guard carry my brother back to his ger,” he said. “Will his cough ease, do you think?”

Kokchu shook his head. “There is no curse that I could find. Take him, as you wish. I must think about what the spirits revealed to me.”

Temuge wanted to prick the man’s vanity with a barbed comment, but he couldn’t think of one and crawled out of the door to fetch the guard for his brother. Snow whirled around him as the burly warrior hefted Genghis onto his shoulders, and Temuge’s expression was bitter. No good could come of Kokchu’s rise, he was certain.

Zhi Zhong woke abruptly at the clatter of sandals on a hard floor. He shook his head to clear it of sleep and ignored the spasm of hunger that remained with him at all hours. Even the emperor’s court was suffering in the famine. The day before, Zhi Zhong had eaten only a single, watery bowl of soup. He had told himself the floating slivers of flesh were the last of the emperor’s horses, slaughtered months before. He hoped it was true. As a soldier he had learned never to refuse a meal, even if the meat was rotten.

He stood, throwing aside his blankets and reaching for his sword as a servant entered.

“Who are you to disturb me at this hour?” Zhi Zhong demanded. It was still dark outside and he was drugged with exhausted sleep. He lowered his blade as the servant threw himself down, touching his head to the stones.

“My lord regent, you are summoned to the presence of the Son of Heaven,” the man said without looking up. Zhi Zhong frowned in surprise. The boy emperor, Xuan, had never dared to summon him before. He repressed the twitch of anger he felt until he knew more, calling for his slaves to dress and bathe him.

The servant quivered visibly as he heard the call. “My lord, the emperor said to come at once.”

“Xuan will wait on my pleasure!” Zhi Zhong snapped, terrifying the man further. “Wait outside for me.” The servant scrambled to his feet and Zhi Zhong considered starting him on his way with a kick.

His own slaves entered, and despite his response, Zhi Zhong had them hurry. He chose not to bathe and merely had his long hair tied behind with a bronze clasp so that it hung down his back over his armor. He could smell his own sweat and his mood soured even further as he wondered if the emperor’s ministers were behind this summons.

When he left his rooms, with the servant trotting ahead of him, he could see the grayness of dawn from every open window. It was his favorite time of day, though again, his stomach clenched.

He found the emperor in the audience chamber where Zhi Zhong had killed his father. As the lord regent passed through the guards, he wondered if anyone had told the boy he sat on the same chair.

The ministers were in attendance like a flock of brightly colored birds. Ruin Chu, first among them, was standing at Xuan’s right hand while the boy sat on the throne, which dwarfed his tiny frame. The first minister looked nervous and defiant at the same time, and Zhi Zhong was curious as he approached and went down on one knee.

“The Son of Heaven summoned me and I have come,” he said clearly into the silence. He saw Xuan’s eyes fasten on the sword at his hip, and he guessed the boy knew very well what had happened to his father. If so, it made the choice of room a statement, and Zhi Zhong mastered his impatience until he knew what had given the emperor’s birds their new confidence.

To his surprise, it was Xuan himself who spoke.

“My city is starving, lord regent,” he said. His voice trembled slightly, but firmed as he went on. “With the lottery, perhaps as many as a fifth have died, including those who threw themselves from the walls.”

Zhi almost snapped an answer at the reminder of that shameful incident, but he knew there had to be more for Xuan to have dared to call him to his presence.

“The dead are not buried, with so many mouths to feed,” the emperor continued. “Instead we must endure the shame of eating our own, or joining them.”

“Why have I been summoned here?” Zhi Zhong said suddenly, tired of the boy’s airs. Ruin Chu gasped at his effrontery in interrupting the emperor. Zhi Zhong cast a lazy glance in the man’s direction, hardly caring.

The boy on the throne leaned forward, summoning his courage. “The Mongol khan has raised a white tent once more on the plain. The spy you sent was successful and we can pay a tribute at last.”

Zhi Zhong clenched his right fist, overwhelmed. It was not the victory he had wanted, but the city would soon be a tomb for all of them. Still, it took an immense effort of will to force a smile onto his face.

“Then His Majesty will survive. I will go to the walls and see this white tent, then send word to the khan. We will talk again.”

He saw scorn on the faces of the ministers and hated them for it. To a man, they saw him as the architect of the disaster that had befallen Yenking. The shame of surrendering would ripple through the city along with the relief. From the high court to the lowest fisherman, they would know the emperor had been forced to pay a tribute. Still, they would live and escape the rat trap that Yenking had become. Once the Mongols had been paid their blood money, the court could travel south and gather strength and allies in the southern cities. Perhaps they would even find support from the Sung empire of the far south, calling on blood to smash the invader. There would be other battles with the Mongol horde, but they would never again allow the emperor to be trapped. Either way, they would live.

The audience room was cold and Zhi Zhong shivered, realizing he had been standing in silence while the emperor and his ministers watched. He had no words that could ease the bitter pain of what he must do, and he tried to shrug off the enormity of it. There was no point in seeing the entire city starve to death, so that the Mongols could climb the walls and find only dead men. In time the Chin would be strong again. The thought of reaching the soft luxury of the south raised his spirits a little. There would be food and an army there.

“It is the right decision, Son of Heaven,” he said, bowing deeply before he left the room.

When he had gone, one of the slaves standing against the wall stood forward. The boy emperor’s eyes flickered to him and now there was malice and anger showing where there had been only nervousness before.

The slave straightened subtly, altering the way he held himself. His head was completely hairless, even to bare brows and eyelids, and it shone with some rich unguent. The man stared after the lord regent as if he could see through the great doors to the chamber.

“Let him live until the tribute has been paid,” Xuan said. “After that, he is to die as painfully as possible. For his failure and for my father.”

The master of the Black Tong of assassins bowed respectfully to the boy who ruled the empire.

“It will be so, Imperial Majesty.”

CHAPTER 32

IT WAS A STRANGE THING to see the gates of Yenking open at last. Genghis stiffened in the saddle as he watched the first heavily laden cart come trundling through. The fact that it was pulled by men and not draught animals showed the state of the city within. It was hard not to dig in his heels and attack, after so many months dreaming of this moment. He told himself that he had made the right decision, glancing at Kokchu across the field, the shaman sitting a pony from the best bloodline in the tribes.

Kokchu could not hold back a smile as his prophecy was confirmed. When he had told Genghis the details of his vision, when the black tent still sat before the city, Genghis had promised him the pick of the tribute if it ever came. Not only had he risen in power and influence in the tribes, he would be wealthier than he had ever dreamed. His conscience was quiet as he watched the treasure of an empire coming out. He had lied to his khan and perhaps deprived him of a bloody victory, but Yenking had fallen and Kokchu was the architect of the Mongol triumph. Thirty thousand warriors cheered the approach of the carts until they were hoarse. They knew they would be wearing green silk before the day was over, and for men who lived for plunder, it was a sight they would describe to their grandchildren. An emperor had been brought to heel for them and the impregnable city could only vomit forth its riches in defeat.

With the gates open, the waiting generals could catch a glimpse of the inner city for the first time, a road that vanished into the distance. Genghis coughed into his fist as the tribute came out like a tongue, with men buzzing around the column in what was almost a military operation. Many were almost skeletal from starvation. They staggered as they worked, and when they tried to rest, Chin officers whipped them savagely until they moved or died.

Hundreds of carts had been brought out to the plain, placed in neat lines while their sweating teams walked back to the city for more. Temuge had warriors making a tally of the total, but it was already chaos and Genghis chuckled to see him trotting around red-faced, calling orders as he walked down new streets of wealth, sprung from nothing on the plain.

“What will you do with the tribute?” Kachiun asked at his side.

Genghis looked up from his thoughts. He shrugged. “How much can a man carry without being too slow to fight?”

Kachiun laughed. “Temuge wants us to build our own capital, did he tell you? He is drawing up plans for a place that has more than a little resemblance to a Chin city.”

Genghis snorted at that, then bent over his saddle in a fit of coughing that left him gasping for air.

Kachiun spoke again as if he had not seen the weakness. “We cannot just bury the gold, brother. We should do something with it.”

When Genghis was able to respond, he had lost the sharp reply he would have made. “You and I have walked down streets of Chin houses, Kachiun. Do you remember the smell? When I think of home, I think of clean streams and valleys soft with sweet grass, not a chance to pretend we are Chin nobles behind walls. Have we not shown that walls make you weak?” He gestured to the train of carts still coming out of Yenking to make his point. More than a thousand had left the city, and still he could see the line stretching back along the gate road inside.

“Then we will have no walls,” Kachiun said. “Our walls will be the warriors you see around you, stronger than any construction of stone and lime paste.”

Genghis looked at him quizzically. “I see Temuge has been persuasive,” he said.

Kachiun looked away, embarrassed. “I do not care for his visions of market squares and bathhouses. But he talks of places of learning, of medicine men trained to heal the wounds of the warriors. He looks to a time when we are not at war. We have never had such things, but that does not mean we never should.”

Both men stared at the lines of carts for a time. Even with every spare horse from the tumans, they would be hard pressed to move such a hoard. It was natural to dream of the possibilities.

“I can barely imagine peace,” Genghis said. “I have never known it. All I want is to return home and recover from this illness that plagues me. To ride all day and grow strong again. Would you have me building cities on my plains?”

Kachiun shook his head. “Not cities. We are horsemen, brother. It will always be so. But perhaps a capital, one single city for the nation we have made. The way Temuge told it, I can imagine great training grounds for our men, a place for our children to live and never know the fear we knew.”

“They would grow soft,” Genghis said. “They would become as weak and useless as the Chin themselves, and one day someone else will come riding, hard and lean and dangerous. Then where will our people be?”

Kachiun looked over the tens of thousands of warriors who walked or rode through the vast camp. He smiled and shook his head. “We are wolves, brother, but even wolves need a place to sleep. I do not want Temuge’s stone streets, but perhaps we can make a city of gers, one that we can move whenever the grazing has gone.”

Genghis listened with more interest. “That is better. I will think about it, Kachiun. There will be time enough on the journey home, and as you say, we can hardly bury all this gold.”

Thousands of slaves had come out with the carts by then, standing miserably in lines. Many were young boys and girls, given as property by the young emperor to the conquering khan.

“They could build it for us,” Kachiun said, indicating them with a jerk of his hand. “And when you and I are old, we would have a quiet place to die.”

“I have said I will think about it, brother. Who knows what lands Tsubodai, Jelme, and Khasar have found to conquer? Perhaps we will ride with them and never need a place to sleep that is not on a horse.”

Kachiun smiled at his brother’s words, knowing not to push him any further. “Look at all this,” he said. “Do you remember when it was just us?” He did not need to add details. There had been a time for both of them when death was just a breath away and every man was an enemy.

“I remember,” Genghis said. Against the images of their childhood, the plain with its carts and swarming warriors was awe inspiring. As he gazed across the scene, Genghis saw the figure of the emperor’s first minister trotting toward him. He sighed to himself at the thought of another strained conversation with the man. The emperor’s representative pretended goodwill, but his distaste for the tribes was evident in every shuddering glance. He was also nervous around horses and made them nervous in turn.

As Genghis watched, the Chin minister bowed deeply to him before unrolling a scroll.

“What is that?” Genghis asked in the Chin language before Ruin Chu could speak. Chakahai had taught him, rewarding his progress in inventive ways. The minister seemed flustered, but he recovered quickly.

“It is the tally of the tribute, my lord khan.”

“Give it to my brother, Temuge. He will know what to do with it.”

The minister flushed and began to roll the scroll into a tight tube. “I thought you would want to check the tribute is accurate, my lord,” he said.

Genghis frowned at him. “I had not considered that anyone would be foolish enough to hold back what was promised, Ruin Chu. Are you saying your people have no honor?”

“No, my lord . . .” Ruin Chu stammered.

Genghis waved a hand to silence him. “Then my brother will look it over.” He thought for a moment, staring over the minister’s head to the line of laden carts.

“I have not yet seen your master to offer formal surrender, Ruin Chu. Where is he?”

Ruin Chu grew even redder in the face as he considered how to answer. General Zhi Zhong had not survived the night, and the portly minister had been called to his apartments at dawn. He shuddered at the memory of the body’s stripes and marks. It had not been an easy death.

“General Zhi Zhong has not survived these difficult times, my lord,” he said at last. Genghis looked blankly at him. “What do I care for another of your soldiers? I have not seen your emperor. Does he think I will take his gold and ride away without ever laying eyes on him?”

Ruin Chu’s mouth worked, though no sound came out.

Genghis stepped closer to him. “Go back to Yenking, Minister, and bring him out. If he is not here by noon, all the riches in the world will not save your city.”

Ruin Chu swallowed, visibly afraid. He had hoped that the Mongol khan would not ask to see a seven-year-old boy. Would little Xuan survive the meeting? Ruin Chu could not be sure. The Mongols were cruel and nothing was beneath them. Yet there was no choice and he bowed even deeper than before.

“Your will, my lord.”

As the sun rose in the sky, the great train of treasures was halted to allow the emperor’s litter out onto the plain. With him came a hundred men in armor, walking at the side of the box borne by matching slaves. They came in grim silence and the Mongols too fell quiet at the sight, beginning to drift in after the group as they made their way to where Genghis waited with his generals. No special tent had been raised for the emperor, yet Genghis could not help a twinge of awe as the ranks marched toward him. It was true that the boy had played no part in the history of the tribes. Yet he was the single symbol of everything they had come together to resist. Genghis dropped his hand to the hilt of one of Arslan’s swords at his waist. When it had been forged, he had been khan of less than fifty men in a camp of snow and ice. He would hardly have dared dream then that the emperor of the Chin would one day come at his command.

The litter shone in the sun as it was lowered with incredible gentleness. The slaves straightened from the poles, staring straight ahead. Genghis watched in fascination as small curtains were lifted aside by Ruin Chu and a small boy stepped onto the grass. He wore a long, jeweled green jacket over leggings of black. A high collar made the boy hold his head up. His eyes were not afraid as they met those of the khan, and Genghis felt a touch of admiration for the child’s courage.

Genghis took a step forward and sensed the hard gaze of the soldiers on him. “Have these men stand back, Ruin Chu,” he said softly.

The minister bowed his head and gave the order. Genghis stood stiffly as the officers glared at him before retreating a grudging distance. The idea that they could protect the little boy in the heart of the Mongol camp was ludicrous, but Genghis could feel the fierce loyalty in them. He did not want them startled into an attack. Once they had moved, he thought no more of their presence and approached the emperor.

“You are welcome in my camp,” he said in the Chin tongue. The little boy stared up at him without a reply and Genghis saw his hands were shaking.

“You have everything you wanted,” Xuan said suddenly, his voice high and brittle.

“I wanted an end to the siege,” Genghis replied. “This is one end.”

The boy raised his head even further, standing like a gleaming mannequin in the sun. “Will you attack us now?”

Genghis shook his head. “I have said my word is iron, little man. I think perhaps if your father stood before me now, I would consider it. There are many among my people who would applaud me for the strategy.” He paused to swallow against his itching throat and could not stop a hacking cough working its way loose. To his irritation, an audible wheeze remained as he continued.

“I have killed wolves. I will not hunt rabbits.”

“I will not always be so young, my lord khan,” the little boy replied. “You may regret leaving me alive.”

Genghis smiled at the show of precocious defiance, even as Ruin Chu winced. With a smooth movement, Genghis drew his sword and rested the tip on the boy’s shoulder, touching his collar.

“All great men have enemies, emperor. Yours will hear that you stood with my sword at your neck and not all the armies and cities of the Chin could remove the blade. In time, you will understand why that gives me more satisfaction than killing you ever could.” Another cough made his throat clench and he wiped his mouth with his free hand.

“I have offered you peace, boy. I cannot say I will not be back, or that my sons and their generals will not stand here in years to come. You have bought peace for a year, perhaps two or three. That is more than your people have ever given mine.” With a sigh, he sheathed the blade.

“There is one last thing, boy, before I go home to the lands of my childhood.”

“What more do you want?” Xuan replied. He had gone a sickly white now that the blade had been removed from his neck, but his eyes were cold.

“Kneel to me, emperor, and I will leave,” Genghis said. To his surprise, the boy’s eyes filled with furious tears.

“I will not!”

Ruin Chu came closer, hovering nervously at the emperor’s shoulder. “Son of Heaven, you must,” he whispered.

Genghis did not speak again, and at last, the boy’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He stared blindly as he knelt before the khan.

Genghis stood in the breeze and enjoyed a long moment of silence before he motioned to Ruin Chu to help the boy to his feet.

“Do not forget this day, emperor, when you are grown,” Genghis said, softly. The boy did not reply as Ruin Chu guided his steps back to the litter and saw him safely inside. The column formed up around it and began the march back to the city.

Genghis watched them go. The tribute was paid and his army waited for his order to move. Nothing more held him to the cursed plain that had brought weakness and frustration from the moment he set foot on it.

“Let us go home,” he said to Kachiun. Horns sounded across the plain and the vast host of his people began to move.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

The sickness in Genghis’s chest worsened in the first weeks of travel. His skin was hot to the touch and he sweated constantly, suffering from rashes at his groin and armpits, wherever there was hair to grow foul. His breath came painfully, so that he wheezed every night and could never clear his throat. He longed for the cool, clean winds of the mountains of home, and against reason, he spent every day in the saddle, looking to the horizon.

A month out from Yenking, the outskirts of the desert realm were in sight and the tribes halted by a river to take on water for the trip. It was there that the last of the scouts Genghis had left behind came riding into camp. Two of them did not join their friends around the campfires and instead rode straight to the khan’s ger on its cart.

Kachiun and Arslan were there with Genghis and all three men came out to hear the final report. They watched as the two scouts dismounted stiffly. Both were caked in dust and dirt and Genghis exchanged a glance with his brother, swallowing against a twitch of his tortured throat.

“My lord khan,” one of the scouts began. He swayed as he stood and Genghis wondered what could have made the man ride himself to exhaustion.

“The emperor has left Yenking, lord, heading south. More than a thousand went with him.”

“He ran?” Genghis demanded in disbelief.

“South, lord. The city was left open, abandoned behind him. I did not stay to see how many people survived inside. The emperor took many more carts and slaves, every one of his ministers.”

No one else spoke as they waited for Genghis to cough into a closed fist, straining for air.

“I gave him peace,” Genghis said at last. “Yet he shouts to the world that my word means nothing to him.”

“What does it matter, brother?” Kachiun began. “Khasar is in the south. No city would dare give sanctuary—”

Genghis silenced him with a furious gesture. “I will not go back to that place, Kachiun. But there is a price for all things. He has broken the peace I offered him to run to his armies in the south. Now you will show him the result.”

“Brother?” Kachiun asked.

“No, Kachiun! I have had enough of games. Take your men back to that plain and burn Yenking to the ground. That is the price I will have from him.”

Under his brother’s fury, Kachiun could only bow his head.

“Your will, my lord,” he said.

HISTORICAL NOTE

Nature has left this tincture in the blood,

That all men would be tyrants if they could.

—DANIEL DEFOE

The birthdate of Genghis can only ever be estimated. Given the nomadic nature of the Mongol tribes, the year and location of his birth were never marked. In addition, small tribes would record the years in terms of local events, making it hard to match to calendars of the day. It is only when Genghis comes into contact with the larger world that the dates are known with any certainty. He invaded the Xi Xia region south of the Gobi in 1206 A.D. and was proclaimed khan of all the tribes in the same year. In the Chinese calendars, that was the year of Fire and of the Tiger, at the end of the Taihe era. He may have been as young as twenty-five or as old as thirty-eight when he united his people. I have not dwelled on the years of war and alliances as he slowly brought the great tribes together under his command. Interesting as that was, his story always had a wider scope. I recommend The Secret History of the Mongols, translated by Arthur Waley, for anyone wishing to know more of that period.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

The Naiman alliance was the last major coalition to resist being swept up into the new nation. The khan of the Naimans did climb Mount Nakhu, moving further and further up the slopes as the army of Genghis advanced. Genghis offered to spare his bondsmen, but they refused and he had them killed to the last man. The rest of the warriors and families were absorbed into his own forces.

Kokchu was a powerful shaman, also known as Teb-Tenggeri. Little is known of exactly how he became influential. Both Hoelun and Borte complained to Genghis about him at various points. His ability to influence Genghis became a great source of concern for those around the khan. Genghis himself believed in a single sky father: deism supported by the spirit world of shamanism. Kokchu remains something of an enigma. One law of the tribes was that it was forbidden to shed royal blood or that of holy men. I have not yet finished telling his story.

As the tribes gathered to Genghis’s call, the khan of the Uighurs wrote a declaration of loyalty almost exactly as I have it here. However, the incident of Khasar being beaten and Temuge forced to kneel involved sons of the Khongkhotan clan rather than the Woyela.

Genghis did flood the plain of the Xi Xia and was forced to retreat before the rising waters. Although it must have been embarrassing, the destruction of the crops brought the king to the negotiating table and eventually won a vassal for the Mongol people. It would not have been Genghis’s first encounter with the idea of paying tribute. Mongol tribes were known to negotiate in this way, though never on this scale. It is interesting to consider what Genghis must have made of the riches of the Xi Xia and, later, the emperor’s own city. He had no use for personal possessions beyond those he could carry on his horse. Tribute would have impressed the tribes and signaled his dominance, but otherwise had very little practical use.

The outcome for the Xi Xia might have been different if Prince Wei of the Chin empire had answered the call for aid. His message (in translation) was: “It is to our advantage when our enemies attack one another. Wherein lies the danger to us?”

When Genghis went round the Great Wall of China, he did so only by accident. His path to Yenking through Xi Xia lands neatly circumvented the wall. However, it is important to understand that the wall was a solid obstacle only in the mountains around Yenking—later known as Peking, then Beijing today. In other places, the wall was broken, or no more than a rampart of earth with an occasional guard post. In later centuries, the wall was joined into one continuous barrier to invasion.

It is worth noting that the Western pronunciation of Chinese place-names is always an approximation, using an alien alphabet to create the same sound. Thus, Xi Xia is sometimes rendered as Tsi-Tsia, or Hsi-Hsia, and Chin is sometimes written as Jin or even Kin. Sung is written as Song in some texts. I have managed to find twenty-one spellings of Genghis, from the exotic Gentchiscan and Tchen-Kis to the more prosaic Jingis, Chinggis, Jengiz, and Gengis. The Mongolian word ordo or ordu means camp or general headquarters. From this we derive the word horde. Some dictionaries give the word shaman as a word of Mongolian origin, and the Gurkhas of Nepal could well derive their name from Gurkhan, or khan of khans.

Genghis had four legitimate sons. As with all Mongol names, there are differences in spelling, much as the word Shakespeare is occasionally written as Shaksper, or Boadicea as Boudicca. Jochi is sometimes seen as Juji, Chagatai as Jagatai, Ogedai as Ogdai. His last son was Tolui, sometimes written as Tule.

As well as the Xi Xia princess, Genghis often accepted wives from his beaten enemies. One of his later decrees made all Mongol children legitimate, though the ruling did not seem to affect the right to inherit among his own sons.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

Walled cities were always a problem for Genghis. At the time of his attack on Yenking, that city was surrounded by fortress villages containing granaries and an arsenal. There were moats around the city walls and the walls themselves were almost fifty feet thick at the base, rising as high. The city had thirteen well-constructed gates and what is still the longest canal in the world, stretching more than a thousand miles south and east to Hangzhou. Most of the world’s capital cities have their beginnings on the shores of a great river. Beijing was built around three great lakes—Beihei to the north, Zhonghai (or Songhai) in the center, and Nanhai to the south. It may well be the oldest continuously occupied human settlement, as evidence of inhabitants has been found from nearly half a million years ago—Peking Man, as he is sometimes known.

At the time of Genghis’s attack through the pass of the Badger’s Mouth, Yenking had undergone a period of growth that resulted in walls five miles in circumference and a population of a quarter of a million households, or approximately a million people. It is possible to imagine as many as half a million more who would not show up on any official count. Even then, the famous “Forbidden City” within the walls and the emperor’s Summer Palace (destroyed by British and French soldiers in 1860) had not yet been built. Today, the city has a population of approximately fifteen million people, and it is possible to drive through the pass that was once host to one of the bloodiest battles in history. That too is a known date: 1211 A.D. Genghis had been leader of his people for five years at that point. He was in the prime of his physical strength and fought with his men. It is unlikely that he was much older than forty, but he may have been as young as thirty, as I have written here.

The battle of Badger’s Mouth pass is regarded as one of Genghis’s greatest victories. Vastly outnumbered and unable to maneuver, he sent men to flank the enemy, climbing mountains the Chin thought were impassable. The Chin cavalry were routed back into their own lines by the Mongol horse, and even ten years later, skeletons littered the ground around that place for thirty miles. With the usual problems of anglicized pronunciation, the pass is known in earlier works as Yuhung, which roughly translates as “Badger.”

Having lost the battle, General Zhi Zhong did indeed return and slay the young emperor, appointing another while he ruled as regent.

The city of Yenking was made to be impregnable and there were almost a thousand guard towers on the walls. Each one was defended by enormous crossbows that could fire a huge arrow two-thirds of a mile. In addition, they had trebuchet catapults capable of firing heavy loads for hundreds of yards over the walls. They had gunpowder and were just beginning to use it in war, though at this time it would have formed part of the defenses. Their catapults could have launched clay pots filled with distilled oil—petrol. Assaulting such a city fortress would have broken the back of the Mongol army, so they chose to devastate the country around it and starve Yenking to surrender.

It took four years and the inhabitants of Yenking were reduced to eating their own dead by the time they opened the gates and surrendered in 1215. Genghis accepted the surrender along with tribute of unimaginable value. He then traveled back to the grasslands of his youth, as he did throughout his life. With the siege ended, the emperor fled south. Though he did not turn back himself, Genghis sent an army to the city to take vengeance. Parts of Yenking burned for a month.

Despite his hatred of the Chin, Genghis would not be the one who would see them occupied and subdued at last. That would fall to his sons and grandson Kubla. At the peak of his success, he left China and went west. It is true that the Islamic rulers refused to recognize his authority, but Genghis was too much of a visionary to react without thought. It is an odd fact, usually glossed over in the histories, that he left China when it was ready to fall at his feet. Perhaps it is simply because he was distracted from his hatred by the challenge of the Shah of Khwarazm, Ala-ud-dun-Mohammed. Genghis was not a man to let any challenge go unanswered. In fact, he seemed to revel in them.

♦                  ♦                  ♦

He understood the idea of nations and laws, slowly developing his own code, called the Yasa.

“If the great, the military leaders and the leaders of the many descendants of the ruler who will be born in the future, should not adhere strictly to the Yasa, then the power of the state will be shattered and come to an end. No matter how they seek Genghis Khan, they will not find him,” he declared.

In this, we see the visionary who could dream nations out of scattered tribes and understand what it entailed to rule across such a vast land.

The system of white tent, red tent, black tent, was used by Genghis as I have described. It was propaganda of a sort, designed to have cities fall quickly from fear. With grazing always an issue for the Mongol herds, prolonged sieges were to be avoided if possible. It suited neither their temperaments nor Genghis’s style of warfare, where speed and mobility were central factors. In a similar way, driving enemies toward a city to strain their resources is ruthless common sense. In some ways, Genghis was the ultimate pragmatist, but one feature of Mongol warfare is worth mentioning: revenge. The line “We have lost many good men” was often used to justify an all-out attack after a setback.

He was also willing to try new techniques and weapons, such as the long lance. The bow would always be the weapon of choice for Mongol cavalry, but they used the lance in exactly the same way as medieval knights, as an immensely successful heavy charge weapon against infantry and other horsemen.

Deception is another key to understanding many of the Mongol victories. Genghis and the men who served under him regarded a straight fight almost as discreditable. Victories won by cunning brought far more honor, and they always looked for a way to fool the enemy they faced, whether it was a false withdrawal, hidden reserves, or even straw dummies on spare horses to give the illusion of reserves they didn’t actually have. It may interest some to consider that Baden-Powell took exactly the same approach in his defense of Mafeking seven centuries later, with dummy minefields, sending the men to lay invisible barbed wire and all manner of tricks and ruses. Some things don’t change.

The incident where Jelme sucked blood from Genghis’s neck is an interesting one. No mention of poison survives, but how else can the action be explained? It is not necessary to suck clotted blood from a neck wound. It does not aid healing, and in fact, the act could burst artery walls already weak from the cut. The historical incident took place earlier than I have it here, but it was so extraordinary that I could not leave it out. It is the sort of incident that tends to be rewritten in history, if perhaps a partially successful assassination attempt was seen as dishonorable.

One event from the histories that I did not use was when a banished and starving tribesman took hold of Genghis’s youngest son, Tolui, and drew a knife. We cannot know what he intended, as he was killed quickly by Jelme and others.

Such events might help to explain why, when the Mongols later came into contact with the original Arab Assassins, they stopped at nothing to destroy them.

Genghis was far from invincible and was wounded many times in his battles. Yet luck was always with him and he survived again and again—perhaps deserving the belief his men had in him, that he was blessed and destined to conquer.

A note on distances traveled: One of the chief advantages of the Mongol army was that it could turn up just about anywhere in a surprise attack. There are well-attested records of covering 600 miles in nine days, at 70 miles per day, or more extreme rides of 140 miles in a day with the rider still able to continue. The greatest rides involved changes of ponies, but Marco Polo records Mongol messengers covering 250 miles between sunrise and dark. In winter, the incredibly hardy ponies are turned loose. They eat enough snow to satisfy their thirst and are adept at digging through it to find sustenance beneath. When the Franciscan monk John de Plano Carpini crossed the plains to visit Kubla Khan, then at Karakorum, the Mongols advised him to change his horses for Mongol ponies or see them starve to death. They had no such worry for the ponies. Western horses have been bred for brute strength in breeds like the Suffolk Punch horse, or for racing speed. They have never been bred for endurance.

The incident of falling petals is true. Up to sixty thousand young girls threw themselves from the walls of Yenking rather than see it fall to the invader.

GENGHIS: BONES OF THE HILLS

A Delacorte Press Book / April 2009

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2009 by Conn Iggulden

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,

and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Iggulden, Conn.

Genghis: bones of the hills / Conn Iggulden.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-440-33832-1

1. Genghis Khan, 1162–1227—Fiction. 2. Mongols—Kings and rulers—Fiction.

3. Mongols—History—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6109.G47G463 2009

823’.92—dc22

2008035407

www.bantamdell.com

v3.0_r1

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Genghis: Bones of the Hills

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Part 1

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part 2

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Part 3

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Epilogue

Historical Note

To my son, Arthur

PROLOGUE

THE FIRE ROARED at the center of the circle. Shadows flickered around it as dark figures leapt and danced with swords. Their robes swirled as they howled over other voices raised in ululating song. Men sat with stringed instruments across their knees, plucking out tunes and rhythms while they stamped their feet.

At the edges of the fire, a line of Mongol warriors knelt bare-chested with their hands bound behind them. As one, they showed the cold face to their triumphant captors. Their officer, Kurkhask, had been beaten savagely in the battle. Blood caked his mouth and his right eye was swollen shut. He had known worse. Kurkhask was proud of the way the others refused to show fear. He watched the dark-skinned desert warriors shouting and chanting to the stars, waving curved blades marked with the blood of men he had known. They were a strange breed, Kurkhask thought, these men who bound their heads in many thicknesses of cloth and wore loose tunics over wide-legged trousers. Most were bearded, so that their mouths were just a red slash in black bristles. As a group, they were taller and more heavily muscled than the largest of the Mongol warriors. They reeked of strange spices and many of the men chewed at dark roots, spitting brown clots on the ground at their feet. Kurkhask hid his distaste for them as they jerked and yelped and danced, building themselves into a frenzy.

The Mongol officer shook his head wearily. He had been too confident, he knew that now. The twenty men Temuge had sent with him were all seasoned warriors, but they were not a raiding party. By trying to protect the carts of gifts and bribes, they had reacted too slowly and been caught. Kurkhask thought back to the months before and knew the peaceful mission had lulled him, made him drop his guard. He and his men had found themselves in a hard land of dizzying mountain passes. They had passed valleys set to straggling crops and traded simple gifts with farmers as poor as any they had ever seen. Yet game was plentiful and his men had roasted fat deer on their fires. Perhaps that had been a mistake. The farmers had pointed to the mountains in warning, but he had not understood. He had no quarrel with the hill tribes, but in the night, a host of warriors had overtaken them, coming out of the darkness with wild cries and curved swords slashing at the sleeping men. Kurkhask closed his eyes briefly. Only eight of his companions had survived the struggle, though he had not seen his oldest son since the first clash of arms. The boy had been scouting the path ahead, and Kurkhask hoped he survived to carry word back to the khan. That thought alone gave him pleasure to set against his vicious resentment.

The carts had been looted of their trinkets, the silver and jade stolen by the tribesmen. As Kurkhask watched from under lowered brows, he saw many of them now dressed in Mongol deels with dark splashes of blood on the cloth.

The chanting intensified until Kurkhask could see white spittle gather at the edges of the men’s mouths. He held his back very straight as the leader of the tribe drew a curved blade and advanced on the line, screaming. Kurkhask exchanged glances with the others.

“After tonight, we will be with the spirits and see the hills of home,” he called to them. “The khan will hear. He will sweep this land clean.” His calm tone seemed to drive the Arab swordsman to an even higher pitch of fury. Shadows flickered across his face as he whirled the blade over a Mongol warrior. Kurkhask watched without expression. When death was inevitable, when he felt its breath on his neck, he had found all fear could be put aside and he could meet it calmly. That at least gave him some satisfaction. He hoped his wives would shed many tears when they heard.

“Be strong, brother,” Kurkhask called. Before the warrior could reply, the sword swept down and took his head. Blood gouted and the Arabs hooted and beat their feet on the ground in appreciation. The swordsman grinned, his teeth very white against dark skin. Again the sword fell and another Mongol toppled sideways on the dusty ground. Kurkhask felt his throat constrict in anger until he could almost choke on it. This was a land of lakes and clear mountain rivers, two thousand miles west of Yenking. The villagers they had met were in awe of their strange faces, yet friendly. That very morning, Kurkhask had been sent on his way with blessings and sticky sweets that gummed his teeth together. He had ridden under a blue sky and never guessed the hill tribes were passing word of his presence. He still did not know why they had been attacked, unless it was simply to steal the gifts and trade goods they carried. He searched the hills for some glimpse of his son, hoping again that his death would be witnessed. He could not die badly if the boy watched. It was the last gift he could give him.

The swordsman needed three blows to take the third head. When it finally came free, he held it up by the hair to his companions, laughing and chanting in their strange language. Kurkhask had begun to learn a few words of the tongue, but the stream of sound was beyond him. He watched in grim silence as the killing continued, until at last he was the only man still alive.

Kurkhask raised his head to stare up without fear. Relief filled him as he caught a movement far beyond the firelight. Something white shifted in the gloom and Kurkhask smiled. His son was out there, signaling. Before the boy gave himself away, Kurkhask dipped his head. The distant flicker vanished, but Kurkhask relaxed, all the tension flowing out of him. The khan would be told.

He looked up at the Arab warrior as he drew back the bloody length of steel.

“My people will see you again,” Kurkhask said.

The Afghan swordsman hesitated, unable to understand. “Dust be in thy mouth, infidel!” he shouted, the words a babble of sound to the Mongol officer.

Kurkhask shrugged wearily. “You have no idea what you have done,” he said.

The sword swept down.

CHAPTER ONE

THE WIND HAD FALLEN on the high ridge. Dark clouds drifted above, making bands of shadow march across the earth. The morning was quiet and the land seemed empty as the two men rode at the head of a narrow column, a jagun of a hundred young warriors. The Mongols could have been alone for a thousand miles, with just creaking leather and snorting ponies to break the stillness. When they halted to listen, it was as if silence rolled back in over the dusty ground.

Tsubodai was a general to the Great Khan, and it showed in the way he held himself. His armor of iron scales over leather was well worn, with holes and rust in many places. His helmet was marked where it had saved his life more than once. All his equipment was battered, but the man himself remained as hard and unforgiving as the winter earth. In three years of raiding the north, he had lost only one minor skirmish and returned the following day to destroy the tribe before word could spread. He had mastered his trade in a land that seemed to grow colder with each mile into the wastes. He had no maps for his journey, just rumors of distant cities built on rivers frozen so solid that oxen could be roasted on the ice.

At his right shoulder rode Jochi, the eldest son of the khan himself. Barely seventeen, he was yet a warrior who might inherit the nation and perhaps command even Tsubodai in war. Jochi wore a similar set of greased leather and iron, as well as the saddle packs and weapons all the warriors carried. Tsubodai knew without asking that Jochi would have his ration of dried blood and milk, needing only water to make a nourishing broth. The land did not forgive those who took survival lightly, and both men had learned the lessons of winter.

Jochi sensed the scrutiny and his dark eyes flickered up, always guarded. He had spent more time with the young general than he ever had with his father, but old habits were hard to break. It was difficult for him to trust, though his respect for Tsubodai knew no limit. The general of the Young Wolves had a feel for war, though he denied it. Tsubodai believed in scouts, training, tactics, and archery above all else, but the men who followed him saw only that he won, no matter what the odds. As others could fashion a sword or a saddle, Tsubodai fashioned armies, and Jochi knew he was privileged to learn at his side. He wondered if his brother Chagatai had fared as well in the east. It was easy to daydream as he rode the hills, imagining his brothers and father struck dumb at the sight of how Jochi had grown and become strong.

“What is the most important item in your packs?” Tsubodai said suddenly.

Jochi raised his eyes to the brooding sky for an instant. Tsubodai delighted in testing him.

“Meat, General. Without meat, I cannot fight.”

“Not your bow?” Tsubodai said. “Without a bow, what are you?”

“Nothing, General, but without meat, I am too weak to use the bow.”

Tsubodai grunted at hearing his own words repeated. “When the meat is all gone, how long can you live off blood and milk?”

“Sixteen days at most, with three remounts to share the wounds.” Jochi did not have to think. He had been drilled in the answers ever since he and Tsubodai had ridden with ten thousand men from the shadow of the Chin emperor’s city.

“How far could you travel in such a time?” Tsubodai said.

Jochi shrugged. “Sixteen hundred miles with fresh remounts. Half again as far if I slept and ate in the saddle.”

Tsubodai saw that the young man was hardly concentrating, and his eyes glinted as he changed tack.

“What is wrong with the ridge ahead?” he snapped.

Jochi raised his head, startled. I…

“Quickly! Men are looking to you for a decision. Lives wait on your word.”

Jochi swallowed, but in Tsubodai he had learned from a master.

“The sun is behind us, so we will be visible for miles as we reach the crest.” Tsubodai began to nod, but Jochi went on. “The ground is dusty. If we cross the high point of the ridge at any speed, we will raise a cloud into the air.”

“That is good, Jochi,” Tsubodai said. As he spoke, he dug in his heels and rode hard at the crest ahead. As Jochi had predicted, the hundred riders released a mist of reddish grit that billowed above their heads. Someone would surely see and report their position.

Tsubodai did not pause as he reached the ridge. Digging in his heels, he sent his mare over, the rear legs skittering on loose stones. Jochi matched him and then took a sharp breath of dust that made him cough into his hand. Tsubodai had come to a halt fifty paces beyond the ridge, where the broken ground began to dip to the valley. Without orders, his men formed a wide double rank around him, like a bow drawn on the ground. They were long familiar with the firebrand of a general who had been placed over them.

Tsubodai stared into the distance, frowning. The surrounding hills enclosed a flat plain through which a river ran, swollen with spring rain. Along its banks, a slow-moving column trotted, bright with flags and banners. In other circumstances, it would have been a sight to take the breath, and even as his stomach clenched, Jochi felt a touch of admiration. Ten, perhaps eleven thousand Russian knights rode together, house colors in gold and red streaming back over their heads. Almost as many followed them in a baggage train of carts and remounts, women, boys, and servants. The sun chose that moment to break through the dark clouds in a great beam that lit the valley. The knights shone.

Their horses were massive, shaggy animals, almost twice the weight of the Mongol ponies. Even the men who rode them were a strange breed to Jochi’s eyes. They sat like they were made of stone, solid and heavy in metal cloth from their cheeks to their knees. Only their blue eyes and hands were unprotected. The armored knights had come prepared for battle, carrying long spears like lances, but tipped in steel. They rode with the weapons upright, the butts held in leather cups close behind the stirrups. Jochi could see axes and swords hanging down from waist belts, and every man rode with a leaf-shaped shield hooked to his saddle. The pennants streamed back over their heads and they looked very fine in the bands of gold and shadow.

“They must see us,” Jochi murmured, glancing at the plume of dust above his head.

The general heard him speak and turned in the saddle. “They are not men of the plains, Jochi. They are half blind over such a distance. Are you afraid? They are so large, these knights. I would be afraid.”

For an instant, Jochi glowered. From his father, it would have been mockery. Yet Tsubodai spoke with a light in his eyes. The general was still in his twenties, young to command so many. Tsubodai was not afraid, though. Jochi knew the general cared nothing for the massive warhorses or the men who rode them. Instead, he placed his faith in the speed and arrows of his Young Wolves.

The jagun was made up of ten arbans, each commanded by an officer. By Tsubodai’s order, only those ten men wore heavy armor. The rest had only leather tunics under padded deels. Jochi knew Genghis preferred the heavy charge to the light, but Tsubodai’s men seemed to survive. They could hit and gallop faster than the ponderous Russian warriors, and there was no fear in their ranks. Like Tsubodai, they looked hungrily down the slope at the column and waited to be seen.

“You know your father sent a rider to bring me home?” Tsubodai said.

Jochi nodded. “All the men know.”

“I had hoped to go further north than this, but I am your father’s man. He speaks and I obey, do you understand?”

Jochi stared at the young general, forgetting for a moment the knights who rode in the valley below.

“Of course,” he said, his face showing nothing.

Tsubodai glanced back at him, amused. “I hope you do, Jochi. He is a man to follow, your father. I wonder how he will respond when he sees how well you have grown.”

For a moment, anger twisted Jochi’s face before he smoothed his features and took a deep breath. Tsubodai had been more like a father than his own in many ways, but he did not forget the man’s true loyalty. At an order from Genghis, Tsubodai would kill him. As he looked at the young general, he thought there would be some regret, but not enough to hold the blow.

“He will need loyal men, Tsubodai,” Jochi said. “My father would not call us back to build or rest. He will have found some new land to tear to pieces. Like the wolf, he is always hungry, even to the point of bursting his own stomach.”

Tsubodai frowned to hear the khan described in such a way. In three years, he had seen no affection when Jochi spoke of his father, though sometimes there was a wistfulness that showed less and less as the seasons passed. Genghis had sent away a boy, but a man would return to him, Tsubodai had made certain of that. For all his bitterness, Jochi was a cool head in battle and the men looked on him with pride. He would do.

“I have another question for you, Jochi,” Tsubodai said.

Jochi smiled for an instant. “You always have, General,” he replied.

“We have drawn these iron knights after us for hundreds of miles, exhausting their horses. We have captured their scouts and put them to the question, though I do not know of this ‘Jerusalem’ they seek, or who this ‘white Christ’ is.” Tsubodai shrugged. “Perhaps I will meet him one day over the length of my sword, but the world is large and I am but one man.”

As he spoke, he watched the armored knights and the trailing baggage lines behind them, waiting to be seen.

“My question, Jochi, is this. These knights are nothing to me. Your father has called me back and I could ride now, while the ponies are fat with summer grass. Why then are we here, waiting for the challenge?”

Jochi’s eyes were cold as he replied.

“My father would say it is what we do, that there is no better way for a man to spend his years than at war with enemies. He might also say you enjoy it, General, and that is all the reason you need.”

Tsubodai’s gaze did not waver.

“Perhaps he would say that, but you hide behind his words. Why are we here, Jochi? We do not want their big horses, even for meat. Why will I risk the lives of warriors to smash the column you see?”

Jochi shrugged irritably. “If it is not that, I do not know.”

“For you, Jochi,” Tsubodai said seriously. “When you return to your father, you will have seen all forms of battle, in all seasons. You and I have captured towns and raided cities, ridden desert and forests so thick we could hardly cut our way through. Genghis will find no weakness in you.” Tsubodai smiled briefly at Jochi’s stony expression. “I will be proud when men say you learned your skill under Tsubodai the Valiant.”

Jochi had to grin at hearing the nickname from Tsubodai himself. There were no secrets in the camps.

“There it is,” Tsubodai muttered, pointing to a distant messenger racing to the head of the Russian column. “We have an enemy who leads from the front, a very brave man.”

Jochi could imagine the sudden dismay among the knights as they looked into the bowl of hills and saw the Mongol warriors. Tsubodai grunted softly as an entire rank peeled off the column and began trotting up the slopes, the long spears ready. He showed his teeth as the gap began to narrow. They were charging uphill, in their arrogance. He longed to teach them their error.

“Do you have your paitze, Jochi? Show it to me.”

Jochi reached behind him to where his bow holder was strapped to the saddle. He lifted a flap in the stiff leather and pulled out a plaque of solid gold, stamped with a wolf’s head in profile. At twenty ounces, it was heavy, but small enough for him to grip in his hand.

Tsubodai ignored the men rising doggedly up the hill to face the eldest son of Genghis.

“You have that and the right to command a thousand by my hand, Jochi. Those who command a jagun have one of mere silver, like this.” Tsubodai held up a larger block of the whitish metal. “The difference is that the silver paitze is given to a man elected by the officers of each arban below him.”

“I know this,” Jochi said.

Tsubodai glanced back at the knights laboring closer. “The officers of this jagun have asked to have you lead them, Jochi. I had no part in it.” He held out the silver paitze and Jochi took it joyfully, passing back the plaque of gold.

Tsubodai was solemn and deliberately formal, but his eyes were bright. “When you return to your father, Jochi, you will have known all ranks and positions.” The general gestured, cutting the air with his hand. “On the right, the left, and the center.” He looked over the heads of the straining knights cantering up the hill, seeing a flicker of movement on a crag in the distance. Tsubodai nodded sharply.

“It is time. You know what you have to do, Jochi. Command is yours.” Without another word, Tsubodai clapped the younger man on the shoulder and rode back over the ridge, leaving the jagun of riders in the care of one suddenly nervous leader.

Jochi could feel the combined stares of the hundred men on his back as he struggled to hide his pleasure. Each arban of ten elected one man to lead them, then those men elected one of their number to lead the hundred in war. To be so chosen was an honor. A voice in his mind whispered that they only honored his father, but he crushed it, refusing to doubt. He had earned the right and confidence swelled in him.

“Bow lines!” Jochi called. He gripped his reins tightly to hide his tension as the men formed a wider line so that every bow could bear. Jochi glanced over his shoulder, but Tsubodai had truly gone, leaving him alone. The men still watched and he forced the cold face, knowing they would remember his calm. As they raised their bows, he held up a clenched fist, waiting while his heart thumped painfully in his chest.

At four hundred paces, Jochi dropped his arm and the first flight of arrows whipped into the air. It was too far and those that reached the knights splintered on their shields, now held high and forward, so that almost the entire man was protected. The long shields showed their purpose as a second flight struck the ranks without a single rider going down.

The powerful horses were not fast, but still the gap closed and Jochi only watched. At two hundred paces, he raised his fist once more and another hundred arrows waited on creaking strings. At such a distance, he did not know if the knights’ armor would save them. Nothing ever had.

“Shoot like you have never owned a bow,” he shouted. The men around him grinned and the arrows snapped out. Jochi winced instinctively at shafts that went clear over the enemy heads, as if loosed by panicking fools. Only a few struck, and of those, still fewer brought a horse or man down. They could hear the thunder of the charge now and saw the front ranks begin to lower their spears in anticipation.

Facing them, Jochi smothered his fear in a sudden bloom of rage. He wanted nothing more than to draw his sword and kick his mount down the slope at the enemy. Shaking with frustration, he gave a different order.

“Retreat over the ridge,” Jochi shouted. He wrenched at his reins and his horse jerked into a run. His jagun shouted incoherently, turning in chaos after their general. Behind him, he heard guttural voices yelling in triumph and acid rose in his throat, though whether it was from fear or anger, he did not know.

Ilya Majaev blinked sweat out of his eyes when he saw the Mongols turn like the filthy cowards they were. As he had a thousand times before, he took a loose grip on his reins and tapped himself on his chest, praying to Saint Sophia to bring enemies of the faith under his hooves. Beneath the chain mail and padded tunic lay a fragment of her finger-bone in a locket of gold, the most precious thing he possessed. The monks at Novgorod had assured him he would not be killed while he wore it, and he felt strong as his knights hammered over the ridge. His men had left the cathedral city two years before, carrying messages east for the prince before they finally turned south and began the long trek that would take them to Jerusalem. Ilya had pledged his life with the others to defend that holy place from the unbelievers who sought to destroy her monuments.

It should have been a journey of prayer and fasting before they brought their skill in arms against godless men. Instead, they had been stung over and over by the Mongol army raiding the area. Ilya ached to have them close enough to kill, and he leaned forward in the saddle as his mount lunged after the fleeing riders.

“Give them unto me, O Lord, and I will break their bones and trample on their false gods,” he whispered to himself. The Mongols were racing wildly down the far slope, but the Russian horses were powerful and the gap closed steadily. Ilya sensed the mood of the men around him as they snarled and called to each other. They had lost companions to flights of arrows in the darkness. Scouts had vanished without a trace, or worse, been found with wounds to make a man vomit. In a year, Ilya had seen more towns burned than he could remember, the plumes of black smoke drawing him in desperate pursuit. The marauding Mongols were always gone by the time he arrived. He urged his mount to gallop, though the weary animal’s sides were already heaving and clots of white saliva flicked up to strike his arms and chest.

“On, brothers!” Ilya shouted to the rest. He knew they would not tire with the tribesmen at last within reach. The Mongols were an affront to everything Ilya valued, from the peaceful streets of Novgorod to the quiet calm and dignity of the cathedral of his blessed saint.

Ahead, the Mongol warriors raced in disarray through a cloud of their own dust. Ilya snapped orders and his men closed into a solid column, fifty ranks of twenty abreast. They tied their reins to the saddle horns and leaned forward over the horses’ necks with shield and spear, urging the animals on with just their knees. Surely there had never been such a force of men and iron in the history of the world! Ilya showed his teeth in anticipation of first blood.

The route of the fleeing Mongols took them past a hill shrouded in ancient beech and elm trees. As Ilya thundered past it, he saw something move in the green gloom. He barely had time to shout a warning before the air was filled with whining shafts. Even then he did not hesitate. He had seen the arrows break on his men’s shields. He bawled an order to hold formation, knowing they could smash their way through.

A horse screamed and thumped into him from his left, crushing his leg and almost unseating him. Ilya cursed in pain, taking a sharp breath as he saw the rider hanging limp. Flight after flight of arrows came from the dark trees, and in horror, he saw his men falling from their saddles. Arrows passed through chain mail as if it were linen, punching out in a spray of blood. Ilya shouted wildly, kicking his exhausted mount on. Ahead, he saw the Mongols wheel in perfect unison, their commander staring straight at him. The Mongols did not stop to bend their bows. Their ponies lunged forward as one, the warriors loosing shafts as they rode.

Ilya felt an arrow pluck at his arm, then the two forces clashed together and he braced himself. His long spear took a warrior in the chest, wrenching it from his grasp so quickly he thought he had broken his fingers. He drew his sword with a hand almost too numb to grip. Red dust was everywhere, and in the midst, the Mongols rode like devils, calmly sending arrows into the packed ranks of his men.

Ilya raised his shield and was knocked backwards as an arrow struck it, the head showing clearly through the wood. His right foot came out of the stirrup and he swayed, all balance lost. Another shaft hit him in the thigh before he could recover, and he cried out in pain, raising his sword as he rode at the archer.

The Mongol watched him come, his face blank of any emotion. He was little more than a beardless boy, Ilya saw. The Russian swung his blade, but the Mongol ducked under the blow and shoved him as he passed. The world spun in silence for a moment and then Ilya crashed to the ground, stunned.

The nosepiece of his helmet had been jammed in with the impact, breaking his front teeth. Ilya rose, blind with tears and spitting blood and fragments. His left leg buckled and he fell clumsily, desperate to find the sword that had fallen from his hand.

He heard hoofbeats behind just as he saw the weapon lying on the dusty ground. He reached for the relic at his chest and murmured a prayer as the Mongol blade came down on his neck, almost severing his head. He did not live to see the rest of his men slaughtered, too heavy and slow to defend against the warriors of Tsubodai, general to Genghis Khan.

Jochi dismounted to examine the dead, once he had ordered a dozen of his men to sweep the area and report the movement of the main column. The Russian chain mail had not saved them. Many of the sprawling bodies were struck through more than once. Only the helmets had held. Jochi could not find a single man brought down with a shaft to the head. He picked up a helmet and rubbed a finger over a bright slash of metal where an arrow had glanced away. It was a good design.

The ambush had gone just as Tsubodai had planned, Jochi thought wryly. The general seemed to read the minds of their enemies. Jochi breathed deeply, making an effort to control the trembling that beset him after each battle. It would not do for the men to see him shake. He did not know they watched him stride with clenched fists and saw only that he was still hungry, a man never satisfied no matter what he had achieved.

Three other jaguns had taken part in the ambush. Jochi saw the officers ride out of the trees where they had lain in wait all night. After years with Tsubodai, he knew each man like a brother, as Genghis had once told him to do. Mekhali and Altan were solid men, loyal but unimaginative. Jochi nodded to them both as they trotted their ponies to the field of the dead. The last of them, Qara, was a short, sinewy warrior with a scarred face from an old wound. Though he was faultlessly formal, Jochi sensed a dislike he could not understand. Perhaps the glowering man resented him for his father. Jochi had met many suspicious of his rise in the ranks. Tsubodai was not subtle in the way he included Jochi in every plan and stratagem, just as Genghis had once done with the young boy from the Uriankhai who had become his general. Tsubodai looked to the future, while men like Qara imagined they saw only a spoiled young prince, promoted beyond his skill.

As Qara rode up and grunted at the sight of the dead knights, Jochi realized he was no longer the man’s superior. He had accepted the silver with a battle looming and still felt the honor of being trusted with a hundred lives. Yet it meant that for a time at least, Qara no longer had to watch himself around the khan’s son. One glance told Jochi the wiry little warrior had already thought it through.

“Why are we waiting here?” Qara said suddenly. “Tsubodai will be attacking as we smell the grass and stand idle.”

Jochi resented the words, but he spoke lightly as if Qara had merely greeted him. If the man had been a true leader, he would already have begun the ride back to Tsubodai. In a flash of insight, Jochi understood that Qara still looked to him to respond, despite his drop in rank. Glancing at Mekhali and Altan, he found they too were watching him.

Perhaps it was just their habit, but he felt an idea begin to form and knew he would not waste the moment.

“Do you see their armor, Qara?” he responded. “The first piece hangs from the helmet, covering their faces except for the eyes. The second cloth of iron rings reaches right to their knees.”

“It did not stop our shafts,” Qara said with a shrug. “When they are unhorsed, they move so slowly it is easy to bring them down. We do not need such poor protection, I think.”

Jochi grinned up at the man, enjoying the confusion it brought.

“We do need it, Qara.”

High in the hills above the valley, Tsubodai waited on foot, his pony snuffling among dead pine needles. Almost five thousand men rested around him, waiting for his decision. He waited on the scouts he had sent out. Two hundred had ridden in all directions, their reports allowing the general to form a picture of the area for many miles around.

He knew Jochi’s ambush had been a success almost before it was over. One thousand fewer of the enemy left only ten, but it was still too many. The column of knights moved slowly through the river valley, waiting for the attack group to return victorious. They had not brought bowmen into the wilderness, a mistake that would cost them dearly. Yet they were large men and so strong that Tsubodai could not risk a simple frontal assault. He had seen knights stuck with arrows who had still fought through to kill two or even three of his. They were warriors of great courage, but he thought it would not be enough. Brave men come forward when they are attacked, and Tsubodai planned accordingly. Any army could be routed in the right conditions, he was certain of it. Not his own, of course, but that of any enemy.

Two of the scouts galloped in to mark the latest position of the Russian force. Tsubodai made them dismount and draw on the ground with sticks so he could be sure there was no misunderstanding.

“How many scouts do they have out?” he asked.

The warrior drawing with a stick replied without hesitation. “Ten in the rear, General, on a wide sweep. Twenty to the front and flanks.”

Tsubodai nodded. He knew enough to move, at last.

“They must be killed, especially the ones behind the knights’ column. Take them when the sun is highest and do not let even one escape. I will attack as soon as you signal by flag that the scouts are down. Repeat your orders.”

The warrior spoke quickly, word perfect as he had been trained to be. Tsubodai allowed no confusion in the field. For all the use of flags to communicate over vast distances, he was still forced to rely on dawn, noon, and sunset as the only markers for time. He looked up through the trees at the thought, seeing that the sun was not far off midday. It would not be long and he felt the familiar flutter in his stomach that came before a battle. He had told Jochi it was to train him, and that was true, but not the whole truth. Tsubodai had held back that the knights traveled with portable forges in their baggage train. Blacksmiths were more valuable than any other artisan they could capture, and Tsubodai had been intrigued by reports of iron carts belching smoke as they rolled.

Tsubodai smiled to himself, enjoying the rising excitement. Like Genghis, he could find no love for the sacking of towns and cities. It was something that had to be done, of course, as a man would pour boiling water on a nest of ants. It was the battles Tsubodai wanted, each one proving or increasing his mastery. He had found no greater joy than out-thinking his enemies, confounding and destroying them. He had heard of the strange quest the knights were on, to a land so distant that no one knew its name. It did not matter. Genghis would not allow armed men to ride his lands—and all lands were his.

Tsubodai scuffed the drawings in the dirt with the toe of his boot. He turned to the second scout, who waited patiently, in awe of the general.

“Ride to Jochi and find what has delayed him,” Tsubodai ordered. “He will sit at my right hand for this attack.”

“Your will, lord,” the scout said, bowing before he scrambled to his horse and went careering through the trees at breakneck speed. Tsubodai squinted through the branches at the sun. He would move very soon.

In the thump and thunder of ten thousand horses, Anatoly Majaev glanced over his shoulder at the ridge little Ilya had disappeared behind. Where had his brother gone? He still thought of him as little Ilya, despite the fact that his brother outweighed him in both muscle and faith. Anatoly shook his head wearily. He had promised their mother he would look after him. Ilya would catch up, he was certain. He had not dared halt the column now that the Mongols had shown they were in the area. Anatoly had sent scouts all around, but they too seemed to have vanished. He looked behind again, straining his eyes for the banners of a thousand men.

Ahead, the valley narrowed in a pass through hills that could have been part of the Garden of Eden. The slopes were green with grass so thick a man could not hack through the roots in half a day. Anatoly loved this land, but his eyes were always on the horizon, and one day he would see Jerusalem. He muttered a prayer to the Virgin under his breath, and at that moment, the pass darkened and he saw the Mongol army riding out against him.

The scouts were dead then, as he had feared. Anatoly cursed and could not help but look back for Ilya once more.

Shouts came from behind and Anatoly turned completely in the saddle, swearing at the sight of another dark mass of riders coming up fast. How had they gone around him without being spotted? It defied belief to have the enemy move like ghosts through the hills.

He knew his men could scatter the Mongols in a charge. Already they had unhooked their shields and raised them, looking to him for orders. As the eldest son of a baron, Anatoly was the most senior officer. Indeed, it had been his family who had financed the entire trip, using some of their vast fortune to earn the goodwill of the monasteries that had become so powerful in Russia.

Anatoly knew he could not charge with the entire baggage train and rear ranks exposed. Nothing unnerved fighting men more than being struck from before and behind at the same time. He began to shout an order for three of his officers to take their centuries and wheel around to charge the rear. As he turned, a movement on the hills caught his eye and he grinned in relief. In the distance, a line of Russian heavy horse came back over the ridge, banners flying lightly in the breeze. Anatoly judged the distances and made his decision. He called a scout over to him.

“Ride to my brother and tell him to hit the force at our rear. He must prevent them from joining the battle.”

The young man raced away, unencumbered by armor or weapons. Anatoly turned to the front, his confidence swelling. With the rear secured, he outnumbered those who were galloping toward him. His orders had taken only moments and he knew he could punch through the Mongols like an armored fist.

Anatoly pointed his long spear over his horse’s ears.

“Charge formation! For the white Christ, onward!”

Anatoly’s scout raced along at full gallop across the dusty ground. Speed was everything with two armies converging on the column. He rode with his body pressed as low as he could go, the horse’s head lunging up and down by his own. He was young and excited and rode almost to Ilya Majaev’s men before pulling up in shock. Only four hundred had come back over the crest and they had been through hell. Brown slicks of blood showed on many men as they approached, and there was something odd about the way they rode.

The scout suddenly understood and wrenched at his reins in panic. He was too late. An arrow took him under a flailing arm and he tumbled over the horse’s ears, making the animal bolt.

Jochi and the other Mongols did not look at the prone figure as they galloped past. It had taken a long time to pull the chain mail off the dead, but the ruse was working. No force rode out to cut them off, and though the Russians didn’t know it, they were being attacked on three sides. As the slope lessened, Jochi dug in his heels and brought the heavy spear out of its leather socket. It was a cumbersome thing and he had to strain to hold it steady as he and his men thundered toward the Russian flank.

Anatoly was at full gallop, more than half a ton of flesh and iron focused on a spear point. He saw the front ranks shudder as the Mongol archers loosed their first shafts. The enemy were fast, but the column could not be held back, or even turned at that speed. The noise of shield impacts and hooves was deafening, but he heard screams behind him and wrenched himself back to clarity. He was in command, and as his mind cleared he shook his head in horror. He watched Ilya strike the main flank, cutting into the very men who had pledged themselves to the Majaev family on the pilgrimage.

As he gaped, Anatoly saw the men were smaller and wore bloody iron. Some had lost their helmets in the first clash to reveal yelling Mongol faces. He blanched then, knowing his brother was dead and the twin attack would crush the rear ranks. He could not turn, and though he bawled frantic orders, no one heard him.

Ahead, the Mongols let them come in, loosing shafts by the thousand into the Russian horsemen. The shields were battered and the column jerked like a wounded animal. Men fell by the hundred. It was as if a scythe had been drawn across the face of the column, cutting through living men.

Behind, the Mongols rolled up the baggage train, killing anyone on the carts who raised a weapon. Anatoly strained to think, to make out details, but he was in among the enemy. His spear ripped along a horse’s neck, opening a great gash that spattered him in warm blood. A sword flashed and Anatoly took the blow on his helmet, almost losing consciousness. Something hit him in the chest and suddenly he could not breathe, even to call for help. He strained for just a cupful of air, just a sip, but it did not come and he collapsed, hitting the ground hard enough to numb his final agony.

At the fires that evening, Tsubodai rode through the camp of his ten thousand. The dead knights had been stripped of anything valuable, and the general had pleased the men by refusing his personal tithe. For those who received no pay for their battles, the collection of bloodstained lockets, rings, and gems was something to covet in the new society Genghis was creating. A man could become wealthy in the army of the tribes, though they thought always in terms of the horses they could buy with their riches. The knights’ forges were of more interest to Tsubodai, as were the spoked cart wheels themselves, ringed in iron and easier to repair than the solid discs the Mongols used. Tsubodai had already instructed the captured armorers to demonstrate the skill to his carpenters.

Jochi was examining the forehoof of his favorite pony when Tsubodai trotted up to him. Before the younger man could bow, Tsubodai inclined his head, giving him honor. The jagun Jochi had commanded stood with pride.

Tsubodai lifted his hand to show Jochi the gold paitze he had taken from him before noon.

“You had me wondering how Russians could come back from the dead,” Tsubodai said. “It was a bold stroke. Take this back, Jochi. You are worth more than silver, no matter what jagun wants you to lead them.”

He tossed the gold plaque through the air and Jochi caught it, struggling to keep his composure. Only the praise of Genghis himself would have meant more at that moment.

“We will ride home tomorrow,” Tsubodai said, as much for the men as Jochi. “Be ready at dawn.”

CHAPTER TWO

CHAGATAI FELT AN ITCH in his left armpit, where sweat dribbled under his best armor. Though he was the second son of the khan, he sensed it would not be right to give the spot a good scratch while he waited for the king of Koryo.

He risked a quick glance at the man who had brought him to the distant, walled city of Songdo. The hall of kings was stifling in the midday heat, but Jelme showed no discomfort in his lacquered armor. Like the courtiers and the royal guards, the Mongol general could have been carved out of wood.

Chagatai could hear water running in the far distance, the gentle sound somehow magnified in the oppressive heat and silence. The itch became maddening and he struggled to think of something else. As his gaze rested on a high ceiling of white plaster and ancient pine beams, he reminded himself that he had no reason to feel intimidated. For all their dignity, the Wang dynasty had not been able to crush the Khara-Kitai when those people came into their land from Chin territory and built fortresses. If Jelme had not volunteered his army to burn them out, the Koryon king would still be a near prisoner in his own palace. At fifteen years old, Chagatai felt a vague smugness at the thought. He had all the pride and arrogance of a young warrior, yet in this case, he knew it was justified. Jelme and his warriors had come into the east to see what armies might stand against them and to view the ocean for the first time. They had found enemies in the Khara-Kitai and driven them out of Koryo like whipped dogs. Chagatai knew it was only just that the king pay a tribute, whether he had asked for help or not.

Sweating in the heavy air, Chagatai tortured himself with memory of the breeze off the sea in the south. The cool wind had been the only good thing about that blue vastness, in his opinion. Jelme had been fascinated by the Koryon ships, but the thought of wanting to travel on water baffled Chagatai. If it could not be ridden, he had no use for it. Even the memory of the royal barge swaying at anchor made his stomach clench.

A bell sounded out in the courtyard, the tone echoing through gardens where bees buzzed in hives around acacia blossoms. Chagatai pictured the Buddhist monks heaving on the log that struck the great bell, and he straightened, once more aware of how he stood. The king would be on his way and his torment would come to an end. He could stand an itch a little longer: just the thought of relief made it seem bearable.

The bell boomed again and servants slid back screens, opening the hall to the scent of pines from the surrounding hills. Despite himself, Chagatai let out a sigh as the intense heat began to lessen. The crowd moved subtly as they strained to see the king, and Chagatai used the distraction to dig two fingers into his armpit and scratch vigorously. He sensed Jelme’s gaze flicker to him and resumed his impassive expression as the king of the Koryon people entered at last.

None of them were tall, Chagatai thought, as he saw the diminutive monarch waft through a carved doorway. He supposed the man’s name was Wang, after his family, but who knew or cared how these wiry little people named each other? Chagatai looked instead at a pair of serving girls in the king’s retinue. With their delicate golden skin, they were far more interesting than the man they served. The young warrior stared as the women fussed around their master, arranging his robes as he seated himself.

The king did not seem aware of the watching Mongols as he waited for his attendants to finish. His eyes were almost the same dark yellow as Genghis’s, though they lacked his father’s ability to inspire terror. Compared to the khan, the Koryon king was just a lamb.

The servants finished their tasks at last and the king’s gaze finally focused on the arban of ten warriors Jelme had brought. Chagatai wondered how the man could bear such thick cloth on a summer’s day.

When the king spoke, Chagatai could not understand a word. Like Jelme, he had to wait for the translation into the Chin language he had struggled to master. Even then he could hardly catch the meaning and listened in growing frustration. He disliked foreign languages. Once a man knew the word for a horse, why use another? Obviously Chagatai understood that men from far lands might not know the right way of speaking, but he felt they owed it to themselves to learn and not continue their gibberish, as if all tongues were of equal value.

“You have kept your promises,” the translator said solemnly, interrupting Chagatai’s thoughts. “The Khara-Kitai fortresses have burned for many days, and that foul people have gone from the high and beautiful land.”

Silence fell again and Chagatai shifted uncomfortably. The court of the Koryo seemed to delight in slowness. He recalled his experience of the drink they called nok cha. Jelme had frowned at the way Chagatai emptied his cup in a gulp and held it out for another. Apparently, the pale green liquid was too valuable to be drunk like water. As if one warrior should care how another ate or drank! Chagatai ate when he was hungry and often forgot to attend the elaborate meals of the court. He could not understand Jelme’s interest in pointless rituals, but he had not spoken his thoughts aloud. When he ruled the Mongol nation, he would not allow pretension, he vowed to himself. Food was not something to linger over, or prepare in a thousand flavors. It was no wonder that the Koryon people had come so close to being conquered. They would be required to speak one language and eat perhaps no more than two or three different dishes, prepared quickly and without fuss. It would leave more time for training with weapons and exercise to make the body strong.

Chagatai’s wandering thoughts stilled as Jelme spoke at last, apparently having weighed every word.

“It is fortunate that the Khara-Kitai chose to attack my scouts. Our needs met in their destruction. I speak now for the Great Khan, whose warriors have saved your country from a terrible enemy. Where is the tribute promised by your ministers?”

As the translation droned, the king stiffened slightly in his seat. Chagatai wondered if the fool took some insult from the words. Perhaps he had forgotten the army camped outside the city. At a single command from Jelme, they would burn the polished beams around the king’s head. It was still a mystery to Chagatai why they had not. Surely Genghis had sent them out to hone their skills? Chagatai appreciated distantly that there was an art in negotiating that he had yet to learn. Jelme had tried to explain the need to deal with foreign powers, but Chagatai could not see it. A man was either an enemy or a friend. If he was an enemy, everything he owned could be taken. Chagatai smiled as he completed the thought. A khan needed no friends, only servants.

Once more he daydreamed about ruling his people. The tribes would never accept his brother Jochi, if he was even the khan’s son at all. Chagatai had done his part in spreading the rumor that Jochi was the result of a rape, many years before. Genghis had allowed the whispers to grow deep roots by his distant manner toward the boy. Chagatai smiled to himself at the memories, allowing his hand to drift past the hilt of his sword. His father had passed it into his hands over Jochi, a blade that had seen the birth of a nation. In his most private heart, Chagatai knew he would never take an oath to Jochi.

One of the king’s ministers leaned close to the throne to exchange whispered words. It went on long enough for the ranks of courtiers to wilt visibly in their robes and jewels, but at last the minister retreated. Once more the king spoke, his words translated smoothly.

“Honored allies may accept gifts in token of a new friendship, as has been discussed,” the king said. “One hundred thousand sheets of oiled paper have been prepared for you, the labor of many moons.” The assembled crowd of Koryon nobles murmured at the words, though Chagatai could not imagine why paper would be seen as valuable. “Ten thousand silk vests have been sewn and the same weight added in jade and silver. Two hundred thousand kwan of iron and the same in bronze have come from the mines and the guild of metalworkers. From my own stores, sixty tiger skins have been wrapped in silk and made ready to travel with you. Finally, eight hundred cartloads of oak and beech are the gift of the Wang dynasty, in thanks for the victory you have brought to the Koryon people. Go now in peace and honor and count us always as allies.”

Jelme nodded stiffly as the translator finished.

“I accept your tribute, Majesty.” A slight flush had appeared on his neck. Chagatai wondered if the general would ignore the king’s attempt to save face. Tribute was given to conquerors and Jelme stood in silence for a long time as he considered the king’s words. When he spoke again, his voice was firm.

“I ask only that six hundred young men between the ages of twelve and sixteen be added to it. I will train them in the skills of my people, and they will know many battles and great honor.”

Chagatai struggled not to show his approval. Let them choke on that, with their talk of gifts and honored allies. Jelme’s demand had revealed the true balance of power in the room, and the courtiers were visibly distressed. The silence stretched in the hall and Chagatai watched with interest as the king’s minister bowed close once more. He saw the king’s knuckles whiten as his grip on the armrest tightened. Chagatai was tired of their posturing. Even the smooth-limbed women at the king’s feet had lost their allure. He wanted to get out into the cool air and perhaps bathe in the river before the sun lost its heat.

Yet Jelme did not move a muscle and his glare seemed to make the men around the king nervous. Their darting glances were wasted on the silent warriors as they stood and waited for a certain outcome. The city of Songdo had less than sixty thousand inhabitants and an army of no more than three thousand. The king could assume whatever airs he wanted, but Chagatai knew the truth of the situation. When the answer came at last, it was no surprise.

“We are honored that you would accept so many young men into your service, General,” the king said. His expression was sour, but Jelme responded to the interpreter, mouthing further expressions of goodwill that Chagatai drowned out. His father had called Jelme home after three years of scouting the east. It would be good to see the mountains again and Chagatai could barely restrain his impatience at the thought. Jelme seemed to think this paper would be important, though Chagatai doubted Genghis would value it. In that at least, his father was predictable. It was a good thing Jelme had demanded silk and hard woods as well. Those things were worth having.

Without an obvious signal, the bell sounded again in the courtyard outside, ending the audience. Chagatai watched the servant girls as they readied their master to stand and fell in behind him. He sighed as the room relaxed subtly around him, taking pleasure in scratching his armpit once more. Home. Jochi would be coming back as well, with Tsubodai. Chagatai wondered how his brother would have changed in three years. At seventeen, he would be fully grown, and no doubt Tsubodai had trained him well. Chagatai cracked his neck with his hands, relishing the challenges to come.

In the southern half of Chin lands, warriors of the third army of Genghis were drinking themselves senseless. At their backs, the citizens of Kaifeng waited behind high walls and gates, already despairing. Some of the Chin had accompanied the emperor himself as he had come south from Yenking three years before. They had seen the smoke in the northern sky as that city burned. For a time, they thought the Mongols had passed them by, but then the army of Khasar came after them, drawing lines of destruction across the ground like a hot iron across flesh.

The streets of Kaifeng were almost empty and would have been eerily silent if not for the distant cheering of the Mongol host. Those who had armed guards could climb to the walls and look down on the besieging army. What they saw brought no comfort or hope. To the Chin, even the casual nature of Khasar’s siege was an insult.

On this day, the Great Khan’s brother was amusing himself with a wrestling competition amongst his men. Khasar’s host of gers lacked a clear pattern, and his vast herds of animals wandered aimlessly over the land, only rarely disturbed by the long whips of herdsmen. The Mongols had not so much surrounded Kaifeng as made camp there. To the Chin who hated and feared them, it was galling to see the enemy enjoying games and sports while Kaifeng began to go hungry. Though the Chin were no strangers to cruelty, the Mongols were more callous than they could comprehend. Khasar’s army cared nothing at all for the suffering inhabitants of Kaifeng and only resented them for delaying the fall of the city. They had been there for three months and they showed a terrible, limitless patience.

The emperor’s city of Yenking had fallen to these primitive horsemen. Its great armies had not held them. With that example, no one in Kaifeng had real hope. The streets had become lawless and only the strong dared go out at all. Food was distributed from a central store, but some days they had nothing. No one could know if the food was running out, or if it had been stolen on the way.

In the camp, Khasar rose to his feet, roaring in excitement with Ho Sa as the wrestler known as Baabgai, the Bear, heaved his opponent up over his head. The vanquished man struggled at first, but Baabgai stood unmoving, beaming like a stupid child at his general. The bets dwindled to a trickle and then nothing. The man he held was so battered and exhausted that he only tugged feebly at Baabgai’s square fingertips.

Khasar had found the wrestler among his Chin recruits, marking him apart immediately for his size and strength. He looked forward to having the massive idiot challenge one of the champions at home. If he judged the wagers well, he could beggar a few men in one match, his brother Temuge among them.

Baabgai waited impassively with his squirming burden, waiting for Khasar’s order. Few others could have supported a grown warrior for so long, and Baabgai’s face was pink and shiny with sweat.

Khasar stared through the big wrestler, his thoughts returning to the message from Genghis. The scout his brother had sent still stood where Khasar had placed him hours before. Flies were sucking at the salt on the scout’s skin, but the young man dared not move.

Khasar’s good mood vanished and he gestured irritably to his wrestling champion.

“Break him,” he snapped. The crowd took a sharp breath as Baabgai dropped suddenly to one knee, bringing his opponent down on the outstretched thigh. The crack of a broken spine sounded across the clearing, and all the men roared and exchanged betting tokens. Baabgai beamed toothlessly at them. Khasar looked away as the crippled man’s throat was cut. It was a kindness not to leave him alive for dogs and rats.

Sensing his thoughts turning darker, Khasar signaled for the next bout and a skin of black airag: anything to distract him from his gloom. If he’d known Genghis would be recalling the armies, he’d have made better time heading into Chin lands. With Ho Sa and Genghis’s son Ogedai, he’d spent leisurely years burning cities and executing their populations, all the time moving closer to where the boy emperor had taken refuge. It had been a very happy time for him.

He was not a man given to thinking too hard about himself, but Khasar had come to enjoy being in command. For men like Genghis, it came naturally. Khasar could not imagine Genghis allowing anyone to lead him to a toilet pit, never mind a battle. For Khasar, it had come slowly, the need growing like moss. For three years, he had not spoken to any of his brothers, Genghis, Kachiun, or Temuge. His warriors had expected him to know where to ride and what to do once they arrived. Khasar had found it exhausting at first, just as a lead dog will last only so long at the head of a pack. He knew that well, but he discovered another truth, that leading was as exciting as it was exhausting. His mistakes were his own, but his triumphs were also his own. As the seasons passed, Khasar had changed subtly, and he did not want to go home. Waiting for Kaifeng to fall, he was father to ten thousand sons.

He looked around at the men he had brought so far from home. His second in command, Samuka, was sober as always, watching the wrestling with detached amusement. Ogedai was yelling and sweating with drink, looking small at the shoulder of warriors. Khasar let his gaze drift over the boy, wondering how he would take the news of their return. At Ogedai’s age, everything was new and exciting, and Khasar thought he would be pleased. His mood soured further as he studied his men. Every one of them had proved his worth. They had taken women by the thousand, horses, coins, and weapons, too much to spend a lifetime cataloging. Khasar let out a long sigh. Yet Genghis was the Great Khan and Khasar could no more imagine rebelling against his older brother than he could sprout wings and fly across the walls of Kaifeng.

Ho Sa seemed to sense the general’s mood and raised a skin of black airag to him, the noise of the wrestling bout swelling around them both. Khasar smiled tightly, without pleasure. With Samuka, Ho Sa had heard the scout’s message. The day had been ruined and both men knew it.

The Xi Xia officer would once have shuddered at the thought of drinking with lice-ridden tribesmen. Before the Mongols had come, Ho Sa had lived a life of simple austerity, proud of his place in his king’s army. He had woken each dawn for an hour of exercise before bathing, then begun the day with black tea and bread dipped in honey. Ho Sa’s life had been almost perfect and he sometimes longed for it, while dreading its dullness at the same time.

On very dark nights, when all the pretenses of men are laid bare, Ho Sa knew he had found a place and a life he would never have enjoyed in the Xi Xia. He had risen to third in command of a Mongol army, and men like Khasar trusted him with their lives. The bites of fleas and lice were a small price to pay in return. Following Khasar’s black gaze, Ho Sa too glowered drunkenly at Kaifeng. If all an emperor could do was cower behind high walls, he was no emperor as far as Ho Sa could see. He took another gulp of the clear airag and winced as it stung a cut on his gums.

Ho Sa did sometimes miss the peace and routines of his old life, but somewhere, he knew, they continued. That thought brought him comfort when he was tired or wounded. It also helped that he had a fortune in gold and silver. If he ever did return home, he would have wives, slaves, and wealth.

The second match finished with a broken arm and both men bowed to Khasar before he gave them leave to have their wounds treated. The day’s events would cost him perhaps a dozen injured and a few killed, but it was worth it to inspire the others. They were not delicate young girls, after all.

Khasar glared at the scout. It had been Khasar himself who had taken the lonely forts the Mongols now used as way stations for their messengers. They stretched in an unbroken line all the way back to the charred remains of Yenking in the north. If Khasar had realized the new trade road would enable Genghis to send a recall order only eighteen days before, he might not have done it. Would his brother understand if he waited another year for the fortress city to fall? Khasar kicked at a stone, startling the scout as he stood there. He knew the answer. Genghis would expect him to drop everything and return, bringing the khan’s son Ogedai with him. It was galling and Khasar stared at Kaifeng as if he could bring the walls down with anger alone. He hardly saw the third bout of wrestling, though the hard-drinking crowd appreciated it.

“Recite the orders again,” Khasar said suddenly. Over the yelling warriors, he had to repeat himself twice to be heard. The scout bowed his head, at a loss to understand the mood his message had created.

“ ‘Come home and drink black airag with our people, my brother. In the spring, we will drink milk and blood.’ ”

“That is all?” Khasar snapped. “Tell me how he looked when he sent you out.”

The scout shifted uncomfortably. “The Great Khan was discussing plans, lord, with his senior men. They had maps weighted with stones of lead, but I did not hear what they said before I was summoned.”

Ho Sa raised his head at that, his eyes glassy with drink. “ ‘Milk and blood’ will mean he plans a new war,” he called. The noise of the crowd dropped suddenly at his words. Ogedai had frozen to listen. Even the wrestlers paused, unsure whether they should go on. Khasar blinked and then shrugged. He didn’t care who heard.

“If my brother had his precious maps out, that must be it.” He sighed to himself. If Genghis knew he stood before the walls of Kaifeng, surely he would wait. The boy emperor had escaped them at Yenking. The thought of the Imperial Chin court watching the Mongols leave was almost unbearable.

“Has my brother summoned Tsubodai and Jelme?” Khasar said.

The messenger swallowed nervously under the eyes of so many. “I did not carry the messages, lord.”

“You know though. Scouts always know. Tell me, or I will have your tongue.”

The young messenger swallowed his doubts and spoke quickly. “Two other men rode out to bring the generals back to the khan, lord. This I heard.”

“And the armies at home? Are they drilling and making ready, or just waiting?”

“They are under orders to train the winter fat off them, lord.”

Khasar saw Samuka grin and he cursed under his breath.

“Then it is war. Go back along the path I made and tell my brother ‘I am coming.’ It is enough.”

“Shall I say you will be there before the end of summer, lord?” the scout asked.

“Yes,” Khasar replied. He spat on the ground as the scout raced away. He had taken every city for a hundred miles around Kaifeng, surrounding the emperor with destruction and cutting his supplies. Yet he would leave, just when victory was assured. He saw Ogedai’s eyes were wide with excitement and Khasar looked away.

It would be good to see his brothers again, he realized. He wondered idly if Jelme or Tsubodai could match the wealth he had taken from the Chin cities. Whole forests had been cut to provide carts enough to carry it all. He had even recruited from among the Chin, so that he returned with two thousand more men than he had taken with him. He sighed to himself. What he had wanted was to bring Genghis the bones of an emperor. He cared nothing for the other spoils of war.

CHAPTER THREE

GENGHIS LET HIS MARE have her head on the open plain, hitting full gallop so that the warm air rushed by him and sent his long black hair streaming in the wind. He wore only a light tunic that left his arms bare, revealing a dense web of white scars. The trousers that gripped the mare’s flanks were old and dark with mutton fat, as were the soft boots in the stirrups. He carried no sword, though a leather bowcase rested behind his thigh and a small hunting quiver bounced on his shoulders, its leather strap running across his chest.

The air was black with birds overhead, the noise of their wings clattering as hawks tore through them, bringing prey back to their masters. In the distance, three thousand warriors had formed an unbroken ring that dawn, riding slowly and driving every living thing before them. It would not be long before the center was filled with marmots, deer, foxes, rats, wild dogs, and a thousand other small animals. Genghis could see the ground was dark with them, and he grinned in anticipation of the killing ahead. A deer ran bucking and snorting in panic through the circle, and Genghis took it easily, sending a shaft into its chest behind the foreleg. The buck collapsed, kicking, and he turned to see if his brother Kachiun had witnessed the shot.

There was little true sport in the circle hunt, though it helped to feed the tribes when meat was running low. Nevertheless, Genghis enjoyed it and awarded places at the center to men he wished to honor. As well as Kachiun, Arslan was there, the first man to take an oath to him. The old swordsman was sixty years of age and knife thin. He rode well, if stiffly, and Genghis saw him take a pigeon from the air as the bird flew overhead.

The wrestler Tolui galloped across his vision, leaning low on the saddle to drop a fat marmot as it streaked across the grass in panic. A wolf came from a patch of long grass and made Tolui’s pony shy, almost unseating him. Genghis laughed as the massive warrior struggled upright. It was a good day and the circle was almost upon them. A hundred of his most valued officers raced here and there as the ground darkened into a solid stream of animals. They swarmed so thickly that more were crushed by hooves than spitted on killing shafts. The circle of riders closed until they stood shoulder to shoulder and the men in the middle emptied their quivers, enjoying themselves.

Genghis spotted a mountain cat in the press and kicked his heels in after it. He saw Kachiun on the same run and was pleased when his brother wheeled away to leave him the shot. Both men were in their late thirties, strong and supremely fit. With the armies returning, they would take the nation into new lands, and Genghis was glad of it.

He had come back from the Chin capital worn out and racked by illness. It had taken almost a year for him to regain his health, but the weakness was now only a memory. As the end of summer approached, he felt his old strength and with it the desire to crush those who had dared to kill his men. He wanted his enemies proud and strong, so that he could cast them further down in his vengeance.

Genghis reached for another arrow and his fingers closed on nothing, making him sigh. The boys and girls of the camps would now run in with hammers and knives to finish the slaughter and begin preparing the carcasses for a great feast.

The scouts for the khan had reported that the armies of Khasar and Tsubodai were only a few days’ ride away. His generals would be honored with rice wine and black airag when they returned. Genghis wondered how his sons would have grown in the years apart. It was exciting to think of riding to war with Chagatai and Ogedai, taking new lands so that they too could be khans. He knew that Jochi was returning, but that was an old wound and he did not dwell on it. He was done with peaceful years with his wives and the young children. If the sky father had a purpose for him, it was not to spend his time quietly while the world slept.

Genghis rode to Kachiun as his brother clapped Arslan on the shoulders. Between them, the ground was red with blood and fur, and boys darted almost under the hooves as they yelled and called to each other in excitement.

“Did you see the great cat I brought down?” Genghis said to the two men. “It took two arrows just to slow it.”

“It was a fine kill,” Kachiun shouted, his face glowing with sweat. One scrawny boy came too close to Kachiun’s stirrups as he spoke, and he reached down to cuff the lad, knocking him sprawling to the amusement of his companions.

Arslan smiled as the little boy picked himself up and glared at the khan’s brother before racing off.

“They are so young, this new generation,” he said. “I can hardly remember being so small.”

Genghis nodded. The children of the tribes would never know the fear of being hunted as he and his brothers had. Listening to their laughter and high-pitched voices, he could only wonder at what he had achieved. Just a few herdsmen roamed the valleys and mountains of his homeland now. He had gathered the rest and made them a nation under one man and the sky father. Perhaps that was why he yearned to answer the challenge from the desert tribes. A man without enemies grew quickly soft and fat. A nation would fare badly without someone peering into their camps. He smiled at the thought. There was no shortage of enemies in the world, and he thanked the spirits that they teemed in their millions. He could not imagine a better way of spending a life, and he had good years ahead.

Arslan spoke again and the lightness had gone from his voice.

“I have thought for many months, lord, that it is time I gave up my position as general. I am getting too old to stand a campaign in winter and perhaps too cautious. The men need someone younger who can risk it all on a single throw of the bones.”

“You have years in you yet,” Kachiun replied as seriously.

Arslan shook his head, looking to see how Genghis reacted to his words. “It is time. I will wait for my son Jelme to return, but I do not wish to leave my homeland again. My oath is to you, Genghis, and I will not see it broken. If you say ride, I will ride until I fall.” He spoke of death. No warrior could fall from a saddle while he still lived. Arslan paused to see the khan understood his loyalty before going on.

“No man can ride forever. My hips and shoulders ache and my hands are stiff at the first touch of cold. Perhaps it is all the years of beating metal, I do not know.”

Genghis pursed his mouth, edging his mount closer so that he could grip his general’s shoulder.

“You have been with me from the first days,” he said softly. “No one has served with more honor. If you want to see your final years out in peace, I will release you from your oath.”

Arslan bowed his head, visibly relieved. “Thank you, my lord khan.” When he looked up, his face was flushed with emotion. “I knew you when you were alone and hunted. I saw greatness in you then when I pledged my life. I have known this day would come and prepared my second for command of my tuman. It is your decision, but I recommend Zurgadai to replace me.”

“No one could replace you,” Genghis said immediately. “But I will honor your choice and your wisdom this last time. I know this Zurgadai, the one they call ‘Jebe,’ the Arrow.”

Arslan grimaced slightly. “As you say. You met him first when we rode against the Besud clan years ago. He killed your horse.”

Genghis let out a surprised exclamation. “I thought I knew the name! By the spirits, he could shoot a bow. Was it three hundred paces? I remember I almost broke my head open.”

“He has mellowed a little, lord, but not too much. He has been loyal to you ever since you spared him that day.”

Genghis nodded. “Then pass your gold paitze to him and invite him to my council tent. We will make the feast a celebration of your life. The storytellers will sing your praises to the sky father, and all the young warriors will know a great man is gone from the ranks.” He thought for a moment as Arslan colored in pride.

“You will have a thousand horses from my own herd and a dozen women as servants for your wife. I will send three young men to guard you in your old age. You will not be lonely in your retirement, General. You will have sheep and goats enough to make you fat for a hundred years.”

Arslan dismounted and touched his head to Genghis’s foot in the stirrup.

“You honor me, lord, but I need very little. With your permission, I will take my wife and just a small herd of breeding goats and horses. Together, we will find a quiet place by a stream and there remain. There are no thieves in the hills any longer, and if by chance there are, my bow and sword still speak for me.” He smiled at the man he had seen grow from a boy to a conqueror of nations. “Perhaps I will build a small forge and make one last sword to be buried with me. I hear the sounds of the hammer in my mind even now and I am at peace.”

Genghis found tears in his eyes as he viewed the man who had been like a second father to him. He too dismounted and embraced Arslan briefly, causing the shouting children around them to fall silent and staring.

“It is a good dream, old man, but first we wait on your son Jelme and feast a good life.”

The lands around the Orkhon River were a deeper green than could be found anywhere else. The river itself was wide and clear. It had to be to support two hundred thousand men and women, with twice that number of horses when Khasar and Tsubodai arrived within a day of each other. Under the khan’s ruling hand, the nation had grown and there were always children squalling somewhere. Since his return from the Chin capital, Genghis had made a near permanent camp at the river, rejecting the plain of Avraga. It was true that Avraga would always be sacred as the place he had forged a nation, but it was a dry, flat land. In comparison, a nearby waterfall beat the waters of the Orkhon into white spray, and the horses and sheep could drink their fill. Genghis had swum many times in its deep pools, regaining his strength.

Khasar had come in first and embraced his brothers: Genghis, Kachiun, even Temuge, who was no warrior, but ran the camps and settled disputes between families. Khasar brought Ogedai with him. The boy was barely thirteen years old, but stood muscular and long-limbed, with the promise of his father’s height. In the sharp planes of Ogedai’s face, the brothers could see an echo of the boy who had once kept them alive when they were banished and alone, just a few scraps of food away from starvation and death. Khasar gripped the back of Ogedai’s neck as he sent him forward to see his father, showing his pride.

“He is a good hand with a bow and sword, brother,” Khasar said, tilting a skin of black airag and directing a line of the spirit down his throat.

Genghis heard the delighted cry of his wife Borte from the family ger and knew his son would be surrounded by women in just a few moments.

“You have grown, Ogedai,” he said awkwardly. “I will want to hear all about your travels tonight.” He watched as Ogedai bowed formally, the boy’s face hiding any emotion. Three years was a long time to be away, but Genghis was pleased with the stripling warrior who had returned to him. Ogedai had the same yellow eyes and Genghis approved his stillness and calm. He did not test it by embracing him, not with so many warriors watching who would perhaps follow Ogedai in a charge one day.

“Are you old enough to drink, boy?” Genghis asked, hefting a skin in his hands. When his son nodded, he tossed it over and Ogedai took it cleanly, overwhelmed with the sights and sounds of his people all around. As his mother came forward and embraced him, he remained stiff, trying to show his father that he was not a little boy to melt into her arms. Borte hardly seemed to notice and held his face in both hands, weeping at his safe return.

“Let him stand, Borte,” Genghis muttered at her shoulder. “He is old enough to fight and ride with me.” His wife ignored him and Genghis sighed to himself, his mood mellow.

Genghis felt his chest tighten as he saw Tsubodai trotting through the crowded plain toward him, Jochi at his side. Both men dismounted and Genghis saw Jochi walked with the springy step of a natural warrior. He had grown an inch taller than the khan, though his dark eyes still reminded Genghis that some other man may have fathered him. He had not known how he would react to Jochi, but on instinct, Genghis spoke directly to Tsubodai, ignoring him.

“Have you carried them all before you, General?” he said.

Tsubodai responded with a chuckle. “I have seen many strange things, my lord khan. I would have gone further if you had not called us back. Is it war then?”

A shadow crossed Genghis’s face, but he shook his head.

“Later, Tsubodai, later. I’ll have dogs for you to whip, but Arslan is stepping down as my general, and when Jelme comes in, we will feast his life.”

Tsubodai showed sadness as he heard the news. “I owe him a great deal, lord. My poet is a fine man. May I offer his service?”

Genghis grinned. “For the swordsmith general, I have a dozen poets and storytellers fighting like cats for the honor, but your man may as well join them.”

Genghis could feel Jochi’s mother watching him as he spoke. Borte would be looking for some public acceptance of her firstborn son before she too welcomed him home. As silence fell, Genghis turned at last to Jochi. It was hard not to bristle under that flat, black stare. It had been a long time in the camps since any man dared to meet the eyes of the khan in such a way, and Genghis felt his heart thump faster, as if he faced an enemy.

“I am pleased to see you well and strong, Father,” Jochi said, his voice deeper than Genghis had expected. “When I left, you were still weak from the assassin’s poison.”

Genghis saw Tsubodai’s hand twitch, as if he wanted to raise it to Jochi in warning. The general had sharper wits than Jochi, it seemed. The young warrior stood proudly before him as if he were not a rape-born whelp, barely welcome in the gers of his family.

Genghis struggled with his temper, very aware of the silent presence of his wife.

“It seems I am a difficult man to kill,” he said softly. “You are welcome in my camp, Jochi.”

His son remained still, though for Genghis to grant him guest rights like any common warrior was a subtle barb. He had not said the words to Tsubodai or Khasar; they were not needed between friends.

“You honor me, my lord khan,” Jochi said, bowing his head so that his father could not see his furious eyes. Genghis nodded, weighing the young man as Jochi took his mother’s hands gently in his own and bowed, his face pale and strained.

Borte’s eyes filled with tears of joy, but there was more restraint between mother and son than there had been with Ogedai. In such an atmosphere, she could not embrace the tall young warrior. Before Genghis could speak again, Jochi turned to his younger brother, and all the stiffness left him in a rush.

“I see you, little man,” Jochi said. Ogedai grinned and came forward to punch Jochi on the shoulder, prompting a brief wrestling match that ended with his head jammed into Jochi’s armpit. Genghis watched irritably, wanting to say something else that would prick Jochi’s easy manner. Instead, Jochi walked Ogedai away over his muffled protests at having his head rubbed. The khan had not actually dismissed his son, and Genghis opened his mouth to have him brought back.

“Your son has learned well, lord,” Tsubodai said before he could speak. “He has commanded a thousand in battles against the warriors of Russia, and the men respect him.”

Genghis scowled, knowing the moment had somehow escaped him.

“You have not raised him too fast?” he said.

A weaker man might have agreed under those yellow eyes, but Tsubodai shook his head immediately, loyal to the young man he had fostered for three years. “He learned quickly what it means to command, lord, to have every man look to you alone for strength. My poet has many verses about Jochi and the men speak well of the khan’s son. He can lead. I have no greater praise.”

Genghis glanced over to where Jochi was laughing with Ogedai. Together, they looked younger, more like the boys who had grown in his ger. He nodded grudgingly, but when he spoke again, Tsubodai’s hopes fell.

“Bad blood may come to the surface at any time, General. In a charge, or a battle, he could turn. Be careful not to risk your life on that one.”

Tsubodai could not contradict the khan without giving insult, though he burned to speak against the unfairness. In the end, his struggle remained internal and he bowed his head.

“Jelme and Chagatai are only three days away,” Genghis said, his expression lightening. “You will see a son of mine then, Tsubodai, and know why I am proud of him. We will light the land with lamps and eat and drink enough so that men will talk of it for years.”

“As you say, lord,” Tsubodai replied, hiding his distress. Over three years, he had seen Jochi grow into a fine man, one capable of leading armies. Tsubodai had seen no weaknesses in him and he knew he was a good judge of men. As he followed the khan’s gaze to his oldest son, Tsubodai grieved for the hurt Jochi must feel. No man should ever be rejected by his father. If Jochi had every other general at his feet and the scorn of Genghis, he would feel only the scorn. As Genghis turned away with Khasar and Kachiun, Tsubodai shook his head slightly before he reasserted the cold face and joined the other men in preparing for the feast. Jelme and Chagatai were coming and Tsubodai did not look forward to seeing Genghis praise his second son over the first.

CHAPTER FOUR

SOMETHING WRENCHED JELME from a deep sleep. In complete darkness, he sat up, listening intently. The smoke hole in his ger was covered and his eyes could not adjust to the lack of light. At his side, a Chin woman stirred and he reached out to touch her face.

“Be quiet,” he whispered. He knew the sounds of the camp: the whickering of ponies, the laughter or weeping in the night that eased him into sleep. He knew the sounds of his people and the slightest change in them. Like a wild dog, some part of him never fully slept. He was too much an old hand to dismiss the prickling sense of danger as a bad dream. In silence, he threw back his furs and stood bare-chested, wearing just an old pair of leggings.

It was low and distant, but the sound of a scout’s horn was unmistakable. As the note died away, Jelme grabbed for a sword hanging from the central pole. He pulled on soft boots, threw a heavy coat over his shoulders, and ducked out into the night.

The camp was already waking around him, warriors mounting with murmurs and clicks to their animals. They were barely a day’s ride from Genghis, and Jelme had no idea who could be mad enough to risk the legs of precious horses in the dark. One marmot hole in the wrong place and a foreleg could snap. Jelme could not imagine an enemy on the empty plains, not one who would dare to attack him. Still, he would make ready. He would not be surprised in his own camp.

Chagatai came running across the black grass, his stumbling gait showing the quantity of airag he had put away that evening. The young man winced as lamps were lit around Jelme’s ger, but the general had no sympathy. A warrior should always be ready to ride, and he ignored the sallow features of Genghis’s son.

“Take a hundred men, Chagatai,” he snapped, his strain showing. “Scout around for an enemy, anything. Someone is out tonight.”

The young prince moved away quickly, already whistling for his sub-officers. Jelme drew men in, organizing them without hesitation. The scouts had given him time and he did not waste it. Ranks coalesced in the blackness and the night was suddenly noisy as every man, woman, and child prepared weapons or stowed supplies and bound up carts. Heavily armed guards ran in pairs through the camp, looking for assassins or thieves.

Jelme sat at the center of the storm, sensing the swirl of movement all around him. There were no cries of alarm, not yet, though he heard the distant scout’s horn sound once more. In the flickering, hissing light of mutton fat lamps, his servants brought his favorite gelding and he took the full quiver handed up to him.

By the time Jelme trotted out into the darkness, his army was alert and ready. The first five thousand warriors rode with him, a force of blooded men, well practiced in battle. No one liked to fight in the dark, and if they had to charge, men and horses would be killed. Jelme clenched his jaw against the cold, feeling it for the first time since he had woken.

Genghis galloped in the darkness, blind drunk and so light he felt the stirrups served a purpose in preventing him from floating away. As tradition demanded, he had begun each skin of airag by flicking a few drops for the spirits that guarded his people. He had spat more over the feast fires, so that the flash sent him reeling in sweet smoke. Despite all that, a fair amount had reached his throat and he had lost count of the skins he had thrown down.

The feast had begun two days before. Genghis had welcomed his returning sons and generals formally, honoring them all before the people. Even Jochi’s constant glower had softened as great platters of meat from the hunt were served. Khasar and Ogedai too had fallen on the best cuts with a cry of pleasure. They had eaten many strange things in the years away, but no one in Koryo or Chin lands could have brought a platter of green earth mutton to the groaning tables. That meat had been buried the previous winter and brought out whole for the return of the generals. Khasar’s eyes had filled with tears, though he claimed it was the bitterness of the rotted meat rather than nostalgia for the rare delicacy. No one believed him, but it did not matter.

The feast had built to a climax of noise and debauchery. The strongest warriors prowled through the gers, looking for women. Those of the people were safe, but Chin slaves or captured Russian women were fair game. Their cries were loud in the night, almost drowned by the drums and horns around the fires.

Poems had begun that would take a full day to finish. Some were sung in the ancient style of two tones from the same throat. Others were spoken aloud, competing in the chaos for any who would listen. The fires around Genghis grew more crowded as the first night wore into dawn.

Khasar had not slept even then, Genghis thought, looking for his brother’s shadow in the dark. As the second day came to an end, Genghis had seen how the poets kept back their ballads for Arslan, waiting on the general’s son. It had been then that Genghis refilled Arslan’s cup with his own hand.

“Chagatai and Jelme are just a short ride from here, Arslan,” he had said over the twang and screech of wind and string. “Will you come with me to meet our sons?”

Arslan had smiled drunkenly, nodding.

“I will take the poets to them to hear the tales of you, old man.” Genghis told him, slurring his words. It was a grand idea, and with a warm feeling, he summoned his council of generals to him. Tsubodai and Jochi called for horses as Khasar and Ogedai came staggering up. Ogedai had looked a little green and Genghis had ignored the sour smell of vomit around his son.

It was Kachiun who had brought the khan’s gray mare, a fine animal.

“This is madness, brother!” Kachiun called to him cheerfully. “Who rides fast at night? Someone will go down.”

Genghis gestured at the darkness and then his companions. “We are not afraid!” he had declared, the drunken men around him cheering the sentiment. “I have my family and my generals. I have the swordsmith Arslan and Tsubodai the Valiant. Let the ground fear us if we fall. We will crack it open with our hard heads! Are you ready?”

“I will match you, brother,” Kachiun had replied, catching the wild mood. Both men trotted to the head of their small column. It grew by the moment as others joined them. The shaman Kokchu was there, one of the few who seemed sober. Genghis had looked for his last brother, Temuge, and saw him on foot, shaking his round head in disapproval. It did not matter, Genghis thought. The useless bastard never could ride.

He had looked around him, at his family, checking to see they all had full skins of airag and rice wine. It would not do to run short. A dozen poets had joined them, their faces bright with excitement. One had already begun declaiming lines and Genghis was tempted to kick him off his pony and leave him behind.

There was a little starlight and he could see his sons, brothers, and generals. He chuckled for an instant at the idea of some poor thief stepping out in front of this group of cutthroats.

“I will give a white mare to any man who beats me into the camp of Jelme and my son Chagatai.” He had paused a heartbeat to let this sink in and catch the wild grins of the men.

“Ride hard, if you have the heart!” He had roared then, thumping in his heels and jerking his mare into a gallop through the camp. The others were almost as quick, yelling as they raced in pursuit. Perhaps two thousand had followed the khan into the deep darkness, all those who had been within reach of their horses as the khan leapt up. Not one faltered, though the ground was hard and to fall was to throw a life and not know if it would come down.

Riding at full speed over rushing black ground helped to clear Genghis’s head a little, though an ache had come to throb behind his left eye. There was a river somewhere near, he recalled. The thought of dipping his head into the freezing water was very tempting.

His light mood tore into shreds as he sensed a flanking movement in the darkness. For a single heartbeat, he wondered if he had risked his life, without banners, drums, or anything else that marked him out as khan. Then he kicked his mount forward and yelled madly. It had to be Jelme’s men forming horns on either side of him. He rode like a maniac toward the center of the line, where he knew he would find his general.

Khasar and Kachiun were close behind and then Genghis saw Jochi come past, riding flat on the saddle and yipping to his mount as he went, urging the animal on.

Together the spear point of the ragged column plunged toward Jelme’s lines, taking their lead from the khan. Two fell as their horses struck unseen obstacles. More crashed into the sprawling men and ponies in the darkness, unable to stop. Another three broke legs and were thrown. Some of the men bounced to their feet laughing and unhurt, while others would not rise again. Genghis knew none of it, so intent was he on the menace of Jelme’s men and catching his own errant son.

Jochi did not call out a warning to Jelme’s lines, so Genghis could not. If his son chose to ride right down the throats of nervous men with drawn bows, Genghis could only swallow the sudden chill tugging at his drunkenness. He could only ride.

Jelme squinted into the blackness, his men ready. The warriors who rode like madmen in the dark were almost upon him. He had extended the wings around their column, so that they rode into a deepening cup. Though he could hardly see more than a black mass in the starlight, he could fill the air with shafts in a heartbeat.

He hesitated. It had to be Genghis, riding at the front. Who else could be so reckless? Yet no warning had been called. Jelme knew he would not let an enemy crash straight into his best men. He would send a storm of arrows first.

He squinted, turning his head left and right to make the moving shadows clear. Could it be the khan? He could have sworn he heard someone singing in the column that was charging right at him. In the dark, he alone stood in the light of a torch, to be seen. He raised his arm, and all along the lines, thousands of bows bent as one.

“On my order!” Jelme bellowed, as loud as he could. He could feel sweat chilling in the wind on his face, but he was not afraid. There was no one to ask, no one to tell him what to do. It was his decision alone. Jelme took one last look at the black riders coming and he smiled tightly, shaking his head like a nervous twitch. He could not know.

“Stand down!” he roared suddenly. “Let them come in! Wide formation!”

His officers repeated the orders down the line to those that could not hear him. Jelme could only wait to see whether the riders would stop, or hit his lines and begin the killing. He watched the blur of shadows come to a hundred paces, deep in the cup made by the wings. Fifty paces and still they followed the man who led them, into the mouth of their destruction.

Jelme saw some of them slow and men in the wings began calling out as they heard the voices of friends and family. Jelme relaxed, thanking the sky father that his instinct had been correct. He turned back to the front and his jaw dropped open as the tight-knit front rank punched into his own men with a crash loud enough to hurt the ears. Horses and warriors went down and suddenly every hand held a sword or a drawn bow once again.

“Torches! Bring torches there!” Jelme snapped. Slaves ran up through the ranks to light the scene of groaning men and kicking, sprawling horses.

Jelme recognized Genghis in the heart of it and he paled slightly, wondering if the khan would demand his head. Should he have fallen back or opened a path for them through the host? He let out a slow breath as Genghis opened his eyes and swore, sitting up with an effort. Jelme gestured for two warriors to help the khan to his feet, though he batted away their arms.

“Where are you, General?” Genghis called, shaking his head. Jelme stood forward, swallowing nervously as he saw Genghis touch his jaw and come away with a smear of blood.

“I am here, my lord khan,” he said, standing painfully straight. He dared not look at the other men lying around and groaning, though he recognized Khasar’s angry voice as he tried to get someone unconscious off him. Genghis turned to Jelme and his eyes focused at last.

“You will note, General, that no other man reached your lines before me?”

Jelme blinked. “I believe so, my lord khan,” he said.

Genghis nodded blearily to those behind him, satisfied. “The night is barely begun and already I have a sore head.” Genghis grinned and Jelme saw he had broken a tooth on the right side of his face in the impact. He watched as Genghis spat blood onto the grass, glaring at a nearby warrior who shrank back visibly.

“Light fires, Jelme. Your father is somewhere around, though he was not as quick as me, not even close. If Arslan is still alive, we will toast his life in rice wine and airag and whatever food you have.”

“You are welcome in my camp, my lord khan,” Jelme said formally. As he caught the riotous mood of the men who had ridden in, he began to grin. Even his father was chuckling in disbelief as he pulled himself upright and leaned on a stoic young warrior for support.

“You didn’t stop, then?” Jelme murmured wryly to his father. Arslan shrugged and shook his head, his eyes shining at the memory. “Who could stop? He pulls us all in.”

Jelme’s ten thousand continued the feast in the wilderness. Even the youngest children were woken and brought to see the Great Khan as he strode through the camp. Genghis made a point of laying his hand on the heads of young ones, but he was distracted and impatient. He had heard horns sound the recall to the flanking riders and knew Chagatai was coming in. He could not fault Jelme for his preparations, but he wanted to see his son.

Jelme’s servants brought wine and cold food to the newcomers as huge fires of fine Koryon lumber were built and lit, casting pools of gold and darkness. The damp grass was covered in heavy sheets of felt and linen. When he took his place of honor, Genghis sat cross-legged with Arslan on his right hand. Kachiun, Khasar, and Tsubodai joined him in front of the roaring flames, passing a skin of rice wine from one to the other. As the places in the circle filled, Jochi secured a place on Khasar’s right, so that Ogedai was further down the line. The senior men did not seem to notice the way the circle filled, though Jochi thought Kachiun saw everything. The shaman Kokchu gave thanks to the sky father for the conquests Jelme had made and the riches he had brought back. Jochi watched the shaman spin and shriek, throwing drops of airag to the winds and spirits. Jochi felt one droplet touch his face and trickle down his chin.

As Kokchu sank back to his place, musicians cracked out rhythms across the camp, as if released. The thump of sticks blurred and wailing notes mingled and turned around each other, calling back and forth across the flames. Men and women pounded out songs and poems in the firelight, dancing until sweat spattered off them. Those who had come in with Jelme were pleased to honor the Great Khan.

The fire’s heat was strong on Jochi’s face, licking out from a heart of orange embers and strange paths to the core. As he sat, Jochi stared at his father’s generals and met Kachiun’s eyes for an instant before sliding away. Even in that brief contact, there had been some communication. Jochi did not look back, knowing that Kachiun would be watching him with sharp interest. The eyes showed the soul and they were always hardest to mask.

When Chagatai rode in, it was to the yelling accompaniment of his jagun of warriors. Jelme was pleased to see the waxy look to Chagatai’s skin had vanished with a bit of fast riding. Genghis’s second son looked vital and strong as he jumped down over the horse’s shoulder.

Genghis rose to greet him and the warriors shouted in appreciation as the father took his son’s arm and pounded him on the back.

“You have grown tall, boy,” Genghis said. His eyes were glassy from drink and his face was mottled and puffy. Chagatai bowed deeply to his father, the model of a perfect son.

Chagatai maintained a cool manner as he gripped hands and clapped shoulders with his father’s men. To Jochi’s slow-burning irritation, his brother walked well, his back straight and white teeth flashing as he laughed and smiled. At fifteen, his skin was barely scarred beyond the wrists and forearms and unmarked by disease. Genghis looked upon him with visible pride. When Jochi saw Chagatai welcomed to a seat close to Genghis, he was glad that the great fire hid his flush of anger. Chagatai had glanced at Jochi for an instant of cold recognition. He had not bothered to find words for his older brother, even after three years. Jochi’s face remained calm, but it was astonishing how anger sprang in him from just that glance. For a few heartbeats, he wanted nothing more than to stride through the drunken fools and strike Chagatai to the ground. He could feel his own strength swell in his shoulders as he imagined the blow. Yet he had learned patience with Tsubodai. As Genghis filled Chagatai’s cup, Jochi sat and dreamed of murder, smiling with all the rest.

CHAPTER FIVE

AS DAWN CAME, Tsubodai’s poet was in the middle of telling the tale of the Badger’s Mouth, where Arslan had fought the largest army ever seen by any of the people. With Genghis and the generals watching, the poet was more honest than usual as he told Arslan’s exploits. They had all done well in that mountain pass before Yenking. Each man recalled those bloody days with pride and awe mingling with the wine in their blood. No one else would ever understand what it had meant to stand together there against the Chin empire—and see it humbled. The Badger’s Mouth had been the womb that shoved them out into a new world, stronger and more dangerous. They had gone east and Yenking had burned.

The rising sun brought sight of thousands of riders streaming across the land from the camp by the Orkhon River, many with women and children on the saddles. Genghis was the khan and could ride where he wished, but they all wanted to hear the stories of Arslan. As the morning sun rose in the sky, poems and tales were declaimed from a hundred throats, over and over until the poets and shamans were hoarse.

Even Genghis had not realized so many would want to hear of the early days, but his people sat rapt for the performances, including those who were drinking heavily and stuffing their faces with greasy mutton and goat meat. He heard again how Arslan had rescued him from a pit, and he blinked in painful memory at names he had not recalled for years. Arslan had been the first man to take oath to him, to promise horses, gers, salt, and blood. That, when Genghis had nothing but his mother and sister, a few wild brothers, and starvation as his companions. It had been an immense act of trust, and Genghis found himself reminded and moved once more by the changes Arslan had wrought and witnessed. That was the purpose of the truth-telling of a man’s life, that all those who heard would remember what he had meant to them and what he had accomplished as he flung the years.

The recitals broke off for the storytellers to rest their throats in preparation for the evening performances. By then it was clear that the entire Mongol nation would drift into that place.

It was not where Genghis had intended to honor his first general. The river was too far away, the grazing was sparse, and the ground itself was rocky and dry. Yet it was that lack of permanence that made him grunt in satisfaction as he peed into the earth. His people should not become used to comfort, he told himself blearily. Their hard lives kept them stronger than those who lived in cities.

As Genghis tucked himself away, his thoughts were interrupted by shouts and cheers nearby. Warriors seemed to be clustering around one spot like a swarm of bees. As Genghis blinked, he saw Chagatai climb a cart to address them. Genghis frowned as another sound stilled the crowd, a yowling, coughing roar that made the hairs on his neck bristle. Genghis dropped his hand to his sword hilt as he strode through his people, letting them fall back before him rather than touch the khan and lose a hand or a head.

His generals had gathered around an iron cage on the cart, but Genghis did not look at them, nor at Chagatai, who stood like a proud owner. The animal behind the bars was larger than any great cat he had ever seen. Genghis could only shake his head in amazement, closing one eye against the ache from his broken tooth and a throbbing headache. To numb the pain, he gestured for more airag and scored his throat with a line of it. Even then, his eyes did not leave the beast that prowled back and forth, showing its curved white teeth in a display of anger. He had heard of the orange-and-black-striped tiger, but to see its jaws and hear the thump of its tail as it padded back and forth in the cage set his own heart beating quickly. There was a challenge in its yellow eyes that raked the awed crowd.

“Is it not a gift for a khan?” Chagatai said. Genghis merely glanced at him, but Chagatai lost some of his cockiness in that warning. The crowd around them had fallen silent as they waited for the khan’s reaction. Jelme was visibly uncomfortable and Genghis nodded to him in appreciation.

“I have never seen such an animal, General. How did you capture him?”

“The tiger is a gift to you, lord, from the king of Koryo. It was raised from a cub, but they cannot be tamed. I am told it will run down even a man on a horse and kill both the mount and the rider.”

Genghis stood very close to the bars, staring into the tiger’s eyes. As they met his, the animal moved without warning, its weight rocking the cage as it hit the bars. Genghis was too drunk to dodge and felt a tearing impact on his arm as a paw lunged at him. He looked in dim surprise at the blood on his torn sleeve. A single claw had caught him and gashed his flesh deeply.

“So fast…,” he said in wonder. “I have seen slower snakes. And at such a size! I can believe the tale of it killing a man and his horse. Those jaws could break a skull.” He swayed slightly as he spoke, but no one there mentioned the wound in case it shamed the khan.

“In Koryo, there are warriors who hunt the tigers,” Chagatai said more humbly, “though they work in groups and use bows, spears, and nets.” Chagatai’s gaze fell on Jochi as he spoke, and his expression became thoughtful. His older brother was as fascinated by the beast as Genghis himself and stood too close to the bars.

“Be careful, Jochi,” Chagatai warned him loudly. “He will strike you too.”

Jochi glared. He wanted to contradict him, but he could not boast of his speed while his father stood and bled.

“Have you hunted one of these tigers, in Koryon land?” Jochi asked.

Chagatai shrugged. “They are not common around the king’s palaces.” Under Jochi’s flat stare, he could not help going on. “I would have taken part, if one had been found.”

“Perhaps,” Jochi said, frowning. “Though I doubt Jelme would have risked the life of a young boy against such a monster.”

Chagatai’s whole face flushed as some of the men chuckled. Moments before, he had been the master of the crowd. Somehow, his father and Jochi had stolen his moment from him, so that he had to defend his pride. At fifteen years old, he had only spite, and he lashed out without a thought at the only one he dared challenge.

“You think you could face a tiger, Jochi? I would wager a fortune to see that.”

Jelme opened his mouth, but Jochi’s anger leapt and he spoke rashly.

“Name your terms, brother,” he said. “I will consider teaching your cat a little respect. He has shed my father’s blood, after all.”

“This is drunken foolishness,” Jelme snapped.

“No, let him try,” Chagatai replied as fast. “I will wager a hundred cartloads of my share of the Koryon tribute. Ivory, metal, gold, and lumber.” He waved a hand as if it mattered nothing. “If you kill the tiger, it will be yours.”

“And you will kneel to me, in front of all the tribes,” Jochi said. Anger consumed him, making him reckless. His eyes glittered as he stared up at Chagatai, but the younger man still sneered.

“For that, you will have to do more than kill a tiger, brother. For that you will have to be khan. Perhaps not even that will be enough.”

Jochi’s hand dropped to his sword hilt and he would have drawn if Jelme had not laid a hand on his wrist.

“Will you fight like children in front of the camp? On the night my father is honored? The tiger is a king’s gift to the khan. No one else may decide what is to be done with him.” His eyes were furious and Chagatai dipped his gaze, instantly meek. During his training, he had endured harsh punishments and scathing lectures from the general. The habit of obedience ran deep.

Genghis spoke at last, having watched the entire exchange.

“I accept the gift,” he said. His yellow eyes seemed the same color as those of the big cat yowling at their backs. Jochi and Chagatai bowed their heads low rather than have the khan’s temper erupt. When he was drunk, Genghis was likely to knock a man down for staring.

“We could pack a circle with armed warriors,” Genghis said thoughtfully, “pointing swords and lances to the center. One man could face the beast then, if he wanted.”

“These animals are more dangerous than anything else I have seen,” Jelme said, his voice strained. “With women and children all around…” He was caught between the need to obey his khan and the madness of what Genghis seemed to be considering.

“Move the women and children back, General,” Genghis replied with a shrug.

Jelme’s training was too ingrained to argue and he bowed his head to the inevitable. Chagatai did not dare look at him.

“Very well, lord. I could have my men tie heavy planks together all the way around. We could use the catapults to form the structure.”

Genghis nodded, not caring how the problems were solved. He turned to Jochi as the young man stood stunned at where his bickering and pride had led. Even Chagatai seemed awed, but Genghis was making all the decisions and they could only look on.

“Kill this beast and perhaps your brother will bend a knee to you,” Genghis said softly. “The tribes will be watching, boy. Will they see a khan in you?”

“Or a corpse, or both,” Jochi said without hesitation. He could not back down, not with his father and Chagatai waiting for it. He looked up at the tiger in its cage and knew it would kill him, but somehow he could not care. He had ridden with death before, in Tsubodai’s charges. At seventeen, he could gamble with his life and think nothing of it. He took a deep breath and shrugged.

“I am ready,” Jochi said.

“Then form the circle, and place the cage within it,” Genghis said.

As Jelme began to send his men for wood and ropes, Jochi beckoned to Chagatai. Still stunned, the younger brother leapt lightly down, rocking the cart and bringing a snarl from the tiger that scraped along the nerves.

“I will need a good sword if I am to face that animal,” Jochi said. “Yours.”

Chagatai narrowed his eyes, fighting to hide his triumph. Jochi could not survive against a tiger. He knew the Koryons would not hunt one without at least eight men, and those well trained. He was staring into the eyes of a dead man, and he could not believe his luck. On a sudden impulse, he unstrapped the sword Genghis had given him three years before. He felt the loss as its weight left him, but still his heart was full.

“I will have it back when that beast has torn your head off,” he murmured. No one else could hear.

“Perhaps,” Jochi said. He could not resist a glance at the animal in the cage.

Chagatai saw the look and chuckled aloud. “It is only fitting, Jochi. I could never have accepted a rape-born bastard as khan.” He walked away, leaving Jochi staring at his back in rage.

As the sun set, the circle took shape on the plains grass. Under Jelme’s watchful eye, it was a solid construction of oak and beech brought from Koryo, bound with heavy ropes and buttressed at all points by catapult platforms. Forty paces across, there was no entrance and no escape from the ring. Jochi would have to climb over the barricades and open the cage himself.

As Jelme ordered torches lit all round the circle, the entire nation pressed as close as they could. At first it looked as if only those who could climb the walls would have a view, but Genghis wanted the people to see, so Jelme had used carts as platforms in an outer ring, raising men on pyramids of pine ladders, nailed roughly together. They swarmed over the towers like ants and more than one drunken fool fell onto the heads of those below, packed so tightly that the ground was hidden from sight.

Genghis and his generals had the best places on the ring, and the khan had led them in drinking themselves almost blind as the third day wore on. Arslan had been toasted and honored, but by then, the whole camp knew a khan’s son would fight a foreign beast and they were excited at the closeness of death. Temuge had come with the last of the carts from the camp by the Orkhon River. He took most of the bets from the warriors, though only on the length of the fight to come. No one gambled on Jochi to win against the striped horror that lashed its tail and padded back and forth, staring out at them.

As night fell, the only light on the plains was that circle, a golden eye surrounded by the heaving mass of the Mongol nation. Without being asked, the drummer boys had begun to beat the rhythms of war. Jochi had retired to Jelme’s own ger to rest that afternoon, and they waited on him, eyes turning constantly to catch the first glimpse of the khan’s son coming out.

Jelme stood and looked down on the young man seated on a low bed, his father’s sword across his knees. Jochi wore the heavy armor Tsubodai had given him, layered in finger-width scales of iron over thick cloth, from his neck to his knees. The smell of sour sweat was strong in the ger.

“They’re calling for you,” Jelme said.

“I hear,” Jochi replied, his mouth tightening.

“I can’t say you don’t have to go. You do.” Jelme began to reach out with his hand, intending to place it on the younger man’s shoulder. Instead, he let it fall and sighed.

“I can say that this is a stupid thing to be doing. If I’d known how it would turn out, I’d have turned the cat loose in the Koryon forests.”

“It’s done,” Jochi murmured. He looked up at his father’s general with a bitter twist to his mouth. “I’ll just have to kill that great cat now, won’t I?”

Jelme smiled tightly. Outside, the noise of the crowd had grown in volume, and now he could hear Jochi’s name being chanted. It would be a glorious moment, but Jelme knew the boy could not survive it. As the circle was being constructed and the cage lifted down from the cart, he had studied the animal and seen the smooth power of its muscles. Faster than a man and four times as heavy, it would be impossible to stop. He was silent with foreboding as Jochi came to his feet and flexed his shoulders. The khan’s first son had inherited his father’s blinding speed, but it would not be enough. The general saw sweat dripping down Jochi’s face in a fat bead. Genghis had not allowed him room to interpret his orders, but he still struggled against ingrained obedience. Jelme had brought the tiger to the khan. He could not simply send a boy to his death. When he spoke at last, his voice was barely a murmur.

“I will be on the walls with a good bow. If you fall, try to hang on and I’ll kill it.” He saw a flicker of hope in the young man’s eyes at that. Jelme recalled the only hunt he had seen in Koryo, when a tiger had taken a shaft in the heart and still disemboweled an experienced net man.

“You cannot show fear,” Jelme said softly. “No matter what happens. If you are to die tonight, die well. For your father’s honor.”

In response, Jochi turned a furious gaze on the general.

“If he depends on me for his honor, he is weaker than I realized,” Jochi snapped.

“Nevertheless, all men die,” Jelme went on, ignoring the outburst. “It could be tonight, next year, or in forty years, when you are toothless and weak. All you can do is choose how you stand when it comes.”

For an instant, Jochi’s face cracked into a smile. “You are not building my confidence, General. I would value those forty years.”

Jelme shrugged, touched at the way Jochi showed courage. “Then I should say this: kill it and your brother will kneel to you in front of the tribes. Your name will be known, and when you wear its skin, all men will look on you with awe. Is that better?”

“Yes, it is,” Jochi replied. “If I am killed, be ready with your bow. I do not want to be eaten.” With a deep breath, he showed his teeth for an instant, then ducked under the low doorway and out into the night. His people roared to see him, the sound filling the plains and drowning the growls of the waiting tiger.

The crowd parted to let him through and Jochi did not see their staring, cheering faces as he approached the walls of the ring. The light from torches fluttered and spat as he climbed lithely to the top, then leapt to the grass below. The tiger watched him with a terrifying focus, and he did not want to open the cage. Jochi looked up at the faces of his people. His mother was the only woman he could see, and he could barely meet her eyes in case it unmanned him. As his gaze drifted over her, he saw Borte’s hands twitch on the wood, as if she wanted to reach out to her firstborn son.

His father’s face was set and unreadable, but his uncle Kachiun nodded to him as their eyes met. Tsubodai wore the cold face and, in doing so, hid the pain Jochi knew he would be feeling. The general could do nothing to thwart the khan’s will, but Jochi knew he at least would not relish the fight. On instinct, Jochi bowed his head to the general, and Tsubodai returned the gesture. The tiger roared and opened his great mouth to gnaw at a bar in frustration, angered by the ring of baying men. The animal was a young male, Jochi saw, unscarred and inexperienced. He felt his hands shake and the familiar dry mouth before battle. His bladder made itself felt and he took a strong grip on the wolf’s-head sword of his father. It was a fine blade and he had wanted it for a long time. He had not known his grandfather Yesugei and only hoped the old man’s spirit would give him strength. He stood tall and another deep breath brought calm.

Chagatai watched him with eyes that shone in the torchlight. Jochi held his gaze for a time, showing the boy his contempt before he turned to the cage. The noise of the warriors swelled as he approached the bars and raised his hand to the iron pin that held the door shut. The tiger seemed to sense his intention and stood waiting. Their eyes met and Jochi murmured a greeting to the big cat.

“You are strong and fast,” he said under his breath, “and so am I. If I kill you, I will carry your skin in pride to the end of my days.” He yanked on the pin and threw back the cage door, moving quickly away. The crowd fell silent, every warrior staring at the striped shape that came sliding out like oil.

Jochi backed for six long strides and stood with his sword held forward and down, ready to lunge. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt heavy-footed and clumsy in comparison with this beast he had come to kill.

At first the tiger ignored him. It padded around the walls, looking for a way out. Its tail twitched in irritation and discomfort as the crowd resumed their roaring. Jochi looked on as the animal stretched to its full length against a wall, its clawed feet digging furrows in the hard wood. In the cage, its strength and grace had been less obvious. Moving, it was simply deadly, and Jochi swallowed nervously, waiting to be attacked.

It was aware of him. He saw its golden eyes pass over his and then fasten as it sank into a crouch, its head up. Its tail lashed on the grass and once more the crowd fell silent.

Jochi offered up his soul to the sky father. No man could stand against such a monster, he was certain. The shaking in his hands died away and he stood waiting.

The tiger attacked. When it came, it was with such an explosion of speed that Jochi was almost caught motionless. In three steps, it went from a statue to a blur and leapt straight at him.

Jochi did not try to use the sword. He threw himself to one side and was still too slow. The shoulder of the beast caught him and sent him rolling on the grass, desperate to regain his feet. He caught a glimpse of the animal landing and turning at impossible speed before it was on him once more. A jaw larger than his head clamped on his armored left arm, and he cried out in pain and shock as the pressure came on. He brought his right arm forward, thrusting the blade into the tawny chest as he went over backwards. They rolled together and the crowd went berserk, bellowing encouragement to the brave man fighting below.

Jochi felt pummeling blows as the cat’s rear paws raked him. His armor protected his belly, though the iron scales went flying as they caught in claws as long as his fingers. He felt the bones in his arm grind and the lower limbs of the tiger kept up their strikes, thumping and battering him on the grass. The animal’s breath was hot on his face as he shoved his sword in again and again, stronger in his terror than he had ever been. He could not rise with its weight on him, and when the tiger tried to release his arm to bite again, he jammed the armored sleeve deeper into its throat despite the pain.

The tiger coughed around the obstruction, wrenching its head from side to side to free its teeth. Jochi hung on as tendons tore, tears of agony filling his eyes. Had he hurt it? He did not know. The steel blade stabbed and stabbed, lost in the thick fur. He felt new pain in his legs as the beast clawed his armor to tatters. His sword was knocked from his hand and he drew a knife, plunging it into the matted neck as his left arm gave way.

Jochi screamed as stinking blood fountained over his face, blinding him. He could see nothing and the watching warriors were far away, their voices like the whispering of leaves. He felt death coming in a great wind, but he still worked the knife in deeper, sawing back and forth.

The tiger slumped suddenly, its weight pinning him. Jochi was lost in a world of pain and he did not see Tsubodai and Jelme leap down into the circle, bows drawn. He heard his father’s voice, but he could not make out the words over the rasping breath of the tiger so close to his face. It still lived, but the blows to his belly and legs had stopped. Its panting filled the world and he worked his blade mindlessly even then.

As Jelme covered him with a bow, Tsubodai used his foot to shove the tiger off the broken warrior. The great head lolled as it fell on its side, but the chest still rose and fell and the eyes sparkled with rage and hatred. Blood gouted from its throat and the white chest was slick and foul with it. All those around the ring watched as the animal struggled to regain its feet, then collapsed, falling still at last.

Tsubodai reached down to Jochi, knocking away the hand that came blindly at him with a knife. The young man’s left arm hung limp and his legs were gouged and dribbling blood from gashes right to his calves and feet. Not an inch of skin showed under the mask of blood that had almost drowned him. Tsubodai took away Jochi’s knife and cleared his eyes with his thumbs, so that Jochi could see. Even then, the young man was dazed, unaware that he had survived.

“Can you stand? Can you hear me?” Tsubodai shouted to him. Jochi flailed, leaving a bloody print on the general’s deel robe. Tsubodai took his wrist and lifted him to his feet. Jochi could not stand on his own and he was a dead weight on the general until Jelme dropped his bow and took him under an armpit. The two generals supported the khan’s son between them and turned him to face his father.

“He lives, my lord khan!” Tsubodai declared in triumph. There was awe in the faces around the circle, as Jelme had predicted. Only Chagatai struggled to hide his fury. Jelme saw the bitterness in the young man he had trained for three years, and his mouth became hard. Jochi deserved much honor for his courage and Jelme conferred briefly with Tsubodai, letting him take the full weight as he stepped away. The general reached down to the bloody sword that lay on the grass, taking it in his hand.

“He has earned this blade, my lord, has he not?” he said, holding it up so that the wolf’s-head hilt was visible to all. The warriors bellowed their approval, thumping the sides of the ring. Genghis showed them nothing, his face a mask.

Jelme stood waiting as the khan’s son bled. The khan’s thoughts swirled, pride and bloodlust mingling with irritation. He too had expected Jochi to die and he had not planned for this outcome. His headache returned as he stared down into the circle, and his mouth tasted sour. At last he nodded and Jelme bowed to his will.

Unheard by those around the ring, Jelme spoke to Jochi as he pressed the blade into unfeeling fingers.

“They will remember this, boy,” he said into Jochi’s ear. The young man gave no sign that he heard, and Jelme realized he was unconscious.

“His wounds may kill him yet,” Tsubodai said to Jelme.

The general shrugged. “That is in the hands of the sky father. What matters is that he stood face to face with that beast. No one who saw it will forget.”

As he spoke, Jelme looked up once more to Chagatai. The bitter face had vanished and he sighed. He was shifting his grip on Jochi’s limp form when voices were raised outside the rim. Genghis had snapped an order into the darkness, and the crowd swirled around a point hidden from sight to those who stood in the ring. As Jelme looked to Genghis, the khan raised a hand, keeping him there with Tsubodai and his burden.

Chagatai appeared once more at his father’s side, staggering as warriors pressed him forward. They had all heard his terms and it seemed Genghis would not let him vanish into the darkness. The khan didn’t look at him, but a muttered order made Chagatai flush and climb over the wooden barrier. Jelme and Tsubodai watched in silence as Chagatai leapt down and approached them. An older man could have done it with a flourish, giving and receiving honor in a grand gesture. Chagatai lacked the skill to turn the situation to his advantage. He stood before his unconscious brother, shaking with anger and humiliation.

In silence Chagatai looked up once more at his father. There was no reprieve. He dropped quickly to one knee and the crowd roared and hooted. Chagatai rose more slowly, his face cold as he stalked to the wooden walls and accepted a hand to heave him back over.

Jelme nodded wearily to himself.

“I think you had the better son to train, my friend,” he murmured to Tsubodai.

“I hope his father knows it,” Tsubodai replied. The two men shared a glance of understanding before they called warriors down to begin skinning the tiger. The meat would feed as many as possible, half-burned scraps forced into the mouths of warriors. There were many who desired the speed and ferocity of such an animal. Jelme wondered if Chagatai would taste the meat, or just his own rage that night.

CHAPTER SIX

IT WAS ANOTHER THREE DAYS before Genghis came to see Jochi. After the riotous night that followed the fight with the tiger, almost all the camp had slept, and Genghis himself had risen only to vomit for an entire day and night after three spent solidly drinking. Another day had been spent in moving the great host back to the banks of the river Orkhon. Jelme’s camp had been a fine place to feast Arslan’s life, but the herds and horses needed water and sweet grass. With his customary vitality, Genghis had recovered during the ride, though his bowels remained watery as he stood before the ger of the shaman Kokchu. It depressed him to think he would once have thrown off the effects of so much drink in just a night’s sleep.

Genghis opened the small door onto a peaceful scene that reminded him of the death of his father. He swallowed acid and ducked inside, his gaze hard as he looked over the bandaged figure in the shadows. Kokchu was washing Jochi and he twisted round in irritation before he saw who it was. The shaman came to his feet from kneeling and bowed low before the khan.

The shade was a relief after the hard sunlight, and Genghis relaxed slightly, pleased to be away from the bustling camp.

“Has he woken?” he asked.

Kokchu shook his head solemnly. “Only for moments, lord. His wounds have let a fever into his body, and he wakes and cries out before sleeping once more.”

Genghis came closer, drawn by memories. At Jochi’s side lay the sword he had won, a blade that Genghis himself had inherited. In its scabbard, it brought back many memories, and he could not help but sniff the air for the scent of rot. It was painful to recall the time he had come to his father as he died, the wasted body racked with poison. Genghis breathed deeply over the supine form of his son. Kokchu watched him closely and Genghis returned the stare rather than let it rest on him unchallenged.

“Will he live, shaman? I have lost count of the times I have been asked.”

Kokchu looked back at the young warrior lying so still. The chest barely rose and fell and he could not say. He gestured at the bandages wrapping both legs and the splinted arm.

“You see his wounds, lord. The beast broke two bones in his lower arm as well as three ribs. He has dislocated a finger on his right hand, though that is minor enough. The gashes have swollen and weep pus.” He shook his head. “I have seen men recover from worse.”

“Have you sealed the cuts?” Genghis asked.

Kokchu hesitated, before speaking too quickly. In the fall of Yenking, he had taken books on medicine and magic that were worth more than all the gold and jade. He had not expected to have his treatment challenged and spoke without his usual confidence.

“I have Chin texts that are astonishing, lord, for what they know of the body. Their practice is to pour boiling wine into a gash before stitching. I have done that, as well as poultices to bring out the fever.”

“Then you have not sealed them in the manner of our people,” Genghis replied, his eyes cold. “Have an iron brazier brought to the ger and burn the cuts properly. I have seen it work.”

Kokchu knew better than to argue further.

“Your will, lord.” For the father, he would press red iron against each wound, though he now considered it a crude practice, beneath a man of his learning. He hid his distaste and Genghis seemed satisfied. Kokchu saw the khan intended to leave and spoke again, still trying to understand the man who led the tribes.

“The pain will be intense, lord. If it wakes him, shall I give him a message from you?”

Genghis turned his pale eyes on the shaman. He left without another word.

The generals gathered in the khan’s ger, half again as high and twice as wide as any other in the camp. Khasar and Kachiun had come with Temuge, though he would only be responsible for the camp itself and would not ride with them. Tsubodai, Jelme, and Chagatai had been summoned and took their places on the ring of low beds that served as couches for the khan’s council. The ger was as bare as that of the poorest herder, and they were all reminded that Genghis cared nothing for wealth or its trappings.

The last pair to enter before Genghis was Arslan and the young man he had chosen as his successor. Jebe, the Arrow, seemed unimpressed by the presence of so many leaders of his people in one place. As Arslan gestured for him to take a seat, he nodded to them as if he had every right to be there. The other men merely watched him, though they greeted Arslan openly, putting aside the cold face to show their appreciation of the old man. He also would not ride with them. All the men present knew that Arslan had tied packs to three mares and three stallions and that his wife and a small herd would travel with him into the wilderness.

Jelme’s eyes were bright with pride for his father, and he made a point of vacating his seat for Arslan. The two men exchanged glances, and though they did not speak, Arlsan too seemed moved that the moment was finally upon him.

When Genghis entered the ger, the men within sat subtly straighter. He took his place on a pile of saddles and blankets facing the door and gestured to a servant for a cup of goat’s milk to calm his stomach.

Arslan waited until the khan had finished the drink before speaking.

“My lord, I commend this man to you, Jebe, whom you named.”

Genghis looked across the ger at the new face, taking in his breadth of shoulder. Jebe wore an open robe over a bare chest, and his reddish skin shone with health and mutton fat. Even sitting, he seemed poised and alert, a warrior born. He made Genghis feel old.

“You are welcome in my ger, Jebe. With Arslan to speak for you, you will always be welcome. In the days to come, you will be tested. Be sure you honor his name in all that you do.”

“I will, lord,” Jebe replied. His confidence was obvious and Khasar grinned to himself as Genghis looked away.

Genghis took a deep breath and rested his hands on his knees. He knew as well as anyone that this meeting of generals would change the world, and he enjoyed the quiet moment while they waited for him to speak.

“When you left me to finish the siege of Yenking, I sent envoys to far lands. Some brought back trade goods and made alliances in my name. Others were attacked or have simply not returned.” He paused, but no man spoke. They were hardly breathing as they listened to the man who would send them out like wolves on the hunt. The entire camp knew war was coming and it was a pleasure to be the first to hear the details.

“One group went into the west, more than two thousand miles. A single scout returned when the rest were slaughtered. At first I did not think too much of it. It was not so long ago that a raiding party in our own land would have been killed by whichever tribe came first upon them.” Some of the older men nodded, though Tsubodai and Jebe could barely recall those times.

“I learned from the scout that the leader of that land is one who calls himself Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed.” Genghis pronounced the name with difficulty, then gestured to Temuge. “On my brother’s advice, I sent a group of four hundred warriors, well armed, but only as a threat. They traveled to the closest city, Otrar, and met the governor there. They took letters with my words on them for the Shah.” Genghis grimaced at the memory. “I expected him to hand over the men involved, or at least to send word where they had their camp. I called him ‘beloved son’ and mentioned only trade and friendship.” At that, he stared coldly at Temuge until his brother looked away. It had been his advice that had failed so spectacularly.

“The bazaar in Otrar is a public place. I sent three spies with the warriors to witness their treatment.” He showed his teeth for an instant as anger swelled in him. “The governor commands a garrison of twenty thousand. They arrested my men and tore up my words in a gesture for the crowd.” Once more he glared at Temuge.

“Even then, I did not react! This Shah is served by a fool, but I thought perhaps he could yet be made to walk a straight path. I learned of greater cities than Otrar in the east, and I sent three senior officers to the Shah himself, demanding that the governor be bound and handed over to me for punishment and my men freed. In this too, I was scorned.” His face had grown flushed and the men in the ger felt their own hearts beat faster in response.

“Shah Mohammed sent their heads back to me,” Genghis went on. He clenched his right fist slowly. “I am not the author of this trouble, but I have prayed to the sky father to give me the strength to exact vengeance.” In the distance, they heard a man’s voice screaming, and more than one head jerked at hearing it. Genghis too listened and nodded, satisfied.

“It is Jochi. My shaman is tending his wounds.” He looked at Chagatai as he spoke, and his son blurted out a question.

“Will he too ride with us?”

Genghis’s eyes turned distant. “He killed the tiger, in front of the people. And our numbers have grown.” His expression hardened at the memory of Chagatai kneeling. “As you have a place, so will he, if he lives. We will cross the Altai mountains to the west and show these desert men whom they have chosen to insult.”

“And the Chin lands?” Khasar said. “There are cities more wealthy than any we have seen yet, and they lie untouched in the south.”

Genghis was quiet at that. He still dreamed of bringing the southern Chin empire under his feet. Taking his nation into the west had its risks, and it was tempting to send at least one of the men in the ger to crush his ancestral enemy. He remembered the estimates of Chin numbers and grimaced again. Against millions, one tuman would not be enough. Reluctantly, he had decided the Chin must wait to see him on their horizon.

“They will still be there, my brother, when we come back for them. You will see Chin lands again, I promise you.”

Khasar frowned at that and would have spoken again, but Genghis went on.

“Ask yourself this: for what purpose do we go to war and risk our lives? Is it for gold coins and to build the sort of palaces we tear down? I cannot care for those things. A man spends his life in struggle, from the pain of birth to the last breath.” He looked round at them all then, his gaze falling finally on Jebe and Chagatai.

“There are some who will tell you they seek happiness, that there is nothing more to our lives than that simple aim. I tell you now that the sheep are happy on the plains and the hawks are happy in the air. For us, happiness is a small thing, one to be discounted in a man’s life. We strive and we suffer because we know through those things that we are alive.” He snorted. “You may want to see the Chin cities humbled, Khasar, but can I let this challenge go unanswered? How long will it be before every small king dares to spit on my shadow?” His voice grew harder as he spoke, so that it filled the ger. Outside, they could hear another scream from Jochi and it seemed a fitting counterpoint under those yellow eyes. “Can I let my people’s deaths go unavenged? Never in this world.”

He had them all. He knew it, as he had always known.

“When I am gone, I do not want men to say ‘Look at his piles of wealth, his cities, his palaces and fine clothes.’ ” Genghis paused for a moment. “Instead I want them to say ‘Make sure he is truly dead. He is a vicious old man and he conquered half the world.’ ” He chuckled at the idea and some of the tension went out of the group.

“We are not here to earn riches with a bow. The wolf does not think of fine things, only that his pack is strong and no other wolf dares to cross his path. That is enough.”

His gaze swept them and he was satisfied. Genghis stood and his manner changed to one of respect as he gestured to Arslan.

“Your horses are ready, General,” he said. “I will think of you resting your bones as we ride.”

“Long life and victory, my lord,” Arslan said. As they all stood, the ger became suddenly crowded. Having the highest rank, Genghis could have left first, but he stood back for Arslan to step out into the light. One by one, they followed until only Jebe remained to stare round at the khan’s ger. The young warrior took it all in and nodded to himself, strangely satisfied at the lack of ornament. He felt the khan was a man to follow and everything Arslan had told him had been confirmed. Jebe grinned lightly with no one to see him. He had been born on a hillside and raised in winters so terrible that his father brought the sheep into the only ger to protect them. His eyes were bright at the memory. Now he would lead a tuman for the khan. If Genghis only knew it, he had loosed a wolf. Jebe nodded to himself, satisfied. He would show the khan what he could do. In time, every man and woman of the tribes would know his name.

Outside, Arslan checked his packs and mounts one more time, refusing to let the seriousness of the moment alter his routines. Genghis watched him test each knot and give instructions to three herd boys who would accompany him to his first camp. No one spoke until the old man was ready. When he was satisfied, Arslan embraced Jelme and they could all see the son’s eyes were proud. Finally, Arslan stood before Genghis.

“I was there at the beginning, lord,” Arslan said. “If I were younger, I would ride with you to the end.”

“I know it, General,” Genghis replied. He gestured to the vast camp on the banks of the river. “Without you, none of this would be here. I will honor your name always.”

Arslan had never been a man who enjoyed physical contact, but he took Genghis’s hand in the warrior’s grip and then mounted. His young wife looked up at her husband, proud to see great men honor him with their presence.

“Goodbye, old friend,” Genghis called as Arslan clicked his tongue and the ponies moved away. The herd boys used their sticks to move the animals with their master.

In the distance, they could hear the khan’s son crying out, a mournful wail that seemed to go on and on.

Moving such a vast host of people and animals was no small task. As well as a hundred thousand warriors, a quarter of a million ponies had to be herded, with as many again of sheep, goats, yaks, camels, and oxen. The need for grazing land had grown to the point that the nation could remain in one place for only a month at a time.

On a frozen dawn, with the sun barely touching the east, Genghis rode through the busy camp, noting every detail of the cart lines with the huddled figures of women and young children on them. The column stretched for miles, always surrounded by the herds. He had lived with the sounds of animals all his life and hardly noticed the constant bleating of goats and sheep. His generals were ready; his sons were. It remained to be seen whether the Arab nations were ready to meet them in war. In their arrogance, they had invited annihilation.

Jochi had survived having his wounds burned. As Genghis had promoted Chagatai to lead a tuman of ten thousand warriors, he could hardly do less for an older son, especially one who had triumphed against a savage beast. The people talked of it still. Yet it would be months before Jochi was able to take his place at their head. Until then, he would travel with the women and children, tended by servants while he healed.

In the middle of the host, Genghis trotted past the ger of his second wife, Chakahai, who had once been a princess of the Xi Xia kingdom. Her father had remained a loyal vassal for almost a decade, and the tribute kept the Mongols in silk and valuable timber. Genghis cursed softly to himself as he realized he had not arranged a way for the tribute to follow him into the west. He could not trust the king to hold it for him. It was one more thing to tell Temuge before the tribes moved. Genghis passed the cart where Chakahai sat in furs with the three children she had borne. His oldest daughter bowed her head and smiled to see her father.

He did not leave the path to find the carts of Borte and his mother, Hoelun. The two women had become inseparable over the years and would be together somewhere. Genghis grimaced at the thought.

He passed two men boiling goat meat on a small fire while they waited. They had a stack of unleavened bread pouches ready to pack with meat for the trip. Seeing the khan himself, one of the men offered up a wooden platter with the head on it, touching the white eyes with a finger to make sure Genghis saw them. Genghis shook his head and the man bowed deeply. As the khan moved on, the warrior threw one of the eyes into the air for the sky father before popping the other in his mouth and chewing lustily. Genghis smiled at the sight. His people had not yet forgotten the old ways or been spoiled by looted riches. He thought of the new way stations that stretched in lines into the east and south, manned by crippled warriors and the elderly. A scout could change horses at a dozen of those places, covering land faster than Genghis would once have believed possible. They had come a long way from the hungry, quarreling tribes he had known as a boy, but they were still the same.

In a mass of carts and animals, Genghis dismounted at last, having ridden more than a mile from the head of the column. His sister Temulun was there, she who had been a babe in arms when his own tribe had abandoned him years before. She had grown into a fine young woman and married a warrior from the Olkhun’ut. Genghis had met the man only once, at the wedding, but he had seemed healthy and Temulun was pleased with the match.

As he adjusted the belly strap on his pony, she was ordering Chin servants to collect the last of her belongings. Her ger had been stored before dawn, leaving a black circle on the grass. As she saw Genghis, Temulun smiled and went to him, taking his reins.

“Don’t worry, brother, we are ready, though I cannot find my best iron pot. No doubt it is at the bottom of the packs, under everything else.” She spoke lightly, but her eyes were questioning. The khan had not visited her even once since she had been properly married. For him to come as they rode to war made her uneasy.

“It will not be long now,” Genghis told her, losing some of his stiffness. He liked Temulun, though she would always be a child to him in some ways. She could not remember the first winters alone, when the brothers and their mother were hunted and starving.

“Is my husband well?” she asked. “I have not seen Palchuk in three days now.”

“I don’t know,” Genghis admitted. “He is with Jebe. I have decided to have Palchuk command a thousand and carry the gold paitze.”

Temulun clapped her hands with pleasure. “You are a good brother, Genghis. He will be pleased.” A slight frown crossed her face as she considered giving her husband the good news. “Is it for him you have done this, or for me?”

Genghis blinked at her changing moods. “For you, sister. Should I not raise my own family? Can I have my only sister’s husband in the ranks?” He saw her expression remained troubled. This sort of thing was beyond him, though he struggled to understand.

“He will not refuse, Temulun,” Genghis said.

“I know that!” she replied. “But he will worry that the promotion comes from you.”

“It does,” Genghis replied.

Temulun raised her eyes at her brother’s failings for an instant. “I mean it will matter to him that he did not earn the new rank.”

“Let him prove he is worthy of it then,” Genghis said with a shrug. “I can always take the paitze back.”

Temulun glared at her brother. “You wouldn’t dare. Better not to raise him at all, than lift and drop him as you please.”

Genghis sighed to himself. “I will have Jebe tell him. He is still reordering Arslan’s tuman. It will not be so strange, unless your precious husband is an idiot.”

“You are a good man, Genghis,” Temulun replied.

Genghis looked around to see who was close enough to hear.

“Keep it quiet, woman!” He chuckled to himself, remounting and taking back the reins.

“Leave the pot behind if you cannot find it, Temulun. It is time to go.”

The restless urge that had made him tour the carts faded away as he rode back to the front. He nodded to his generals and saw that they too felt the same simple pleasure. Their people were on the move again and every day would bring a new horizon. There was nothing like the sense of freedom it brought, with all the world before them. As he reached his brothers and his generals, Genghis blew a long note on a scout horn and urged his pony to a trot. Slowly, the nation moved behind him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

IT WAS SNOWING in the high passes. The Altai mountains were further west than most of the families had ever traveled. Only the Turkic tribes, the Uighurs and the Uriankhai, knew them well and then as a place to avoid, a place of poor hunting and death in the winter.

Though the mounted warriors could have crossed the range in a single day, the heavily laden carts were ponderous, built for grassy plains and ill suited to deep snowdrifts and goat paths. Tsubodai’s new spoked wheels did better than the solid discs that broke too easily, but only a few carts had been converted and progress was slow. Every day there seemed to be some new obstacle, and there were times when the slopes were so steep that the carts had to be lowered on ropes, held by teams of straining warriors. When the air was at its thinnest and men and animals grew exhausted, they were lucky to make five miles in a day. Every peak was followed by a twisting valley and another dogged climb to the best way through. The range seemed to go on endlessly and the families huddled miserably in their furs, exposed to the wind. When they halted, the rush to raise gers before sunset was hampered by frozen fingers. Almost all the people slept under the carts each night, covered in blankets and surrounded by the warm bodies of goats and sheep tethered to the wheels. Goats had to be killed to feed them, and the vast herds dwindled visibly as they traveled.

Thirty days out from the river Orkhon, Genghis called a halt early in the day. The clouds had come down so low that they touched the peaks around them. Snow had begun to fall as the tribes made a temporary camp in the lee of a vast cliff, soaring into whiteness above their heads. There was at least some protection from the biting wind in that place, and Genghis gave the order rather than take them over an exposed ridge that would see them still traveling as the light faded. He had riders out for a hundred miles and more ahead of them, a stream of young warriors who scouted the best path through and reported on anything they found. The mountains marked the end of the world Genghis knew, and as he watched his servants kill a young goat, he wondered how Arab cities would look. Would they resemble Chin fortresses of stone? Further than the scouts, he had sent spies to learn what they could of the markets and defenses. Anything could be useful in the campaign to come. The first ones out were beginning to return to him, exhausted and hungry. He had the beginnings of a picture in his head, but it was still in fragments.

His brothers sat with him in the khan’s ger on its cart, above the heads of all the others. Looking out into the whiteness, Genghis could see gers like a host of pale shells, thin trails of smoke rising from them to the skies. It was a cold and hostile place, but he was not discouraged. His nation had no use for cities, and the life of the tribes went on all around him, from feuds and friendship to family celebrations and weddings. They did not have to stop to live: life went on regardless.

Genghis rubbed his hands together, blowing into them as he watched his Chin servants make a cut in the kid goat’s chest before reaching in and squeezing the main vein around the heart. The goat stopped kicking and they began to skin it expertly. Every piece would be used and the skin would wrap one of his young children against the winter cold. Genghis watched as the servants emptied the stomach onto the ground, shoving out a mulch of half-digested grass. Roasting the flesh inside the flaccid white bag was faster than the slow boil the tribes preferred. The meat would be tough and hard on the teeth, but in such cold, it was important to eat quickly and take strength. At the thought, Genghis tested the stump he had broken in his drunken ride to Jelme and winced. It hurt constantly and he thought he might have to get Kokchu to pull the root out. His mood grew sour at the prospect.

“They’ll have it on the fire in a little while,” Genghis said to his brothers.

“Not soon enough for me,” Khasar replied. “I haven’t eaten since dawn.” Around them in the pass, thousands of hot meals were being prepared. The animals themselves would get barely a handful of dry grass, but there was no help for it. Over the constant bleating, they could all hear the sounds and chatter of their people, and despite the cold, there was contentment in it. They rode to war and the mood was light in the camp.

In the distance, the generals heard a thin cheering, and they looked at Kachiun, who usually knew everything that went on in the gers. Under the stares of his brothers, he shrugged.

“Yao Shu is training the young warriors,” he said. Temuge tutted under his breath, but Kachiun ignored him. It was no secret that Temuge disliked the Buddhist monk he and Khasar had brought back from Chin lands. Though Yao Shu was ever courteous, he had fallen out with the shaman, Kokchu, when Temuge had been Kokchu’s most willing disciple. Perhaps because of those memories, Temuge regarded him with irritation, especially when he preached his weak Buddhist faith to fighting men. Genghis had ignored Temuge’s protests, seeing only jealousy for a holy man who could fight better with his hands and feet than most men with swords.

They listened as another cheer went up, louder this time as if more men had gathered to watch. The women would be preparing food in the camp, but it was common enough for the men to wrestle or train when the gers were up. In the high passes, it was often the only way to stay warm.

Khasar stood and dipped his head to Genghis.

“If that goat won’t be ready for a while, I’ll go and watch, brother. Yao Shu makes our wrestlers look slow and clumsy.”

Genghis nodded, seeing how Temuge grimaced. He looked outside at the bloated goat stomach and sniffed the air hungrily.

Kachiun saw Genghis wanted an excuse to watch the training and smiled to himself.

“It could be Chagatai, brother. He and Ogedai spend a great deal of time with Yao Shu.”

It was enough.

“We’ll all go,” Genghis said, his face lighting up. Before Temuge could protest, the khan stepped out into the cold wind. The rest followed, though Temuge looked back at the roasting goat, his mouth watering.

Yao Shu was bare-chested, despite the altitude. He seemed not to feel the cold, and as Chagatai walked in a circle, making him turn, the falling snowflakes rested as they touched the monk’s shoulders. Yao Shu was breathing lightly, though Chagatai was already flushed and bruised from the bout. He eyed the monk’s stick, wary of a sudden strike. Though the little Buddhist disdained swords, he used the stick as if he had been born to it. Chagatai felt stabbing aches in his ribs and left leg where he had been struck. He had not yet landed a blow of his own, and his temper simmered close to the surface.

The crowd had grown, swelling with idle warriors. There was little else to do and they were always curious. The pass was too narrow for more than a few hundred of them to watch the practice, and they pushed and squabbled amongst themselves as they tried to give the fighters room. Chagatai sensed the movement in the crowd before he saw his father and uncles walking through, the ranks pressing back rather than jostle their generals. He clenched his jaw, resolving to get in at least one good blow while Genghis watched.

To think was to act and Chagatai darted in, bringing his stick around in a short, chopping blow. If Yao Shu had remained still, it would have cracked him in the head, but he ducked and tapped Chagatai sharply in the lower ribs before stepping away.

It was not a hard strike, but Chagatai colored with anger.

Yao Shu shook his head. “Remain calm,” the monk murmured. It was the boy’s chief failing in the practice bouts. There was nothing wrong with his balance or reflexes, but his temper undid him every time. Yao Shu had worked for weeks to get Chagatai to stay cold in battle, to put aside rage as much as fear. The two emotions seemed permanently linked in the young warrior, and Yao Shu was resigned to slow progress.

Chagatai circled, reversing his gait just as it looked like he might attack. Yao Shu swayed back to meet the stick as it came in low. He blocked it with ease, snapping out his left fist against Chagatai’s cheek. He saw the boy’s eyes flare and rage took over, as it had done many times before. Chagatai came in fast, his stick blurring. The crowd whooped at the cracking sounds as he was blocked again and again. Chagatai’s arms were burning when he tried to step away, and at that moment, the monk trapped his foot under his own, sending Chagatai sprawling.

Their movements had taken them away from the open ground between two gers. Yao Shu would have spoken to Chagatai, but he sensed someone close behind him and turned, always alert.

It was Kachiun who stood there, his face showing nothing. Yao Shu bowed briefly to the general, still listening for the sound of Chagatai coming at him again.

Kachiun bent his head close, though the noisy crowd could hardly have overheard.

“Will you give him nothing, monk?” Kachiun murmured. “With his father watching and men the boy will command?”

Yao Shu looked up at the Mongol general blankly. He had trained to master his body. The thought of letting a blustering child like Chagatai strike him was a strange concept. If it had been a more modest warrior, one who would not crow about it for months, Yao Shu might have agreed. For the khan’s spoiled second son, he only shook his head.

Kachiun would have spoken again, but both of them jerked as Chagatai attacked from behind, desperate for any advantage. Kachiun firmed his mouth in annoyance as he watched Yao Shu step clear with smooth strides, almost sliding across the ground. The monk was always in balance and Kachiun knew Chagatai would not touch him that day. He watched coldly as Yao Shu blocked two more blows, then attacked harder and faster than before, giving Kachiun his answer.

All the warriors heard Chagatai’s “oof” as the stick thumped air from his lungs. Before he could recover, Yao Shu struck him on the right hand so that it sprang open and the stick fell. Without pausing, the monk passed his weapon through Chagatai’s legs, so that the boy went tumbling on the frozen ground. The crowd did not cheer as Yao Shu bowed to the prostrate son of a khan. They expected Chagatai to return the gesture, but instead he rose with his cheeks flaming and stalked from the open space without looking back.

Yao Shu held the pose longer than necessary, showing his own anger at having been ignored. It was his habit to discuss the bouts with the young warriors, explaining where they had failed and done well. In five years with the tribes, he had trained many of the men Genghis commanded and kept a school of twenty of the most promising. Chagatai was not one of those, but Yao Shu had learned enough of the world to understand his permission to remain came at a price. Today, it had been too high for him. He passed Kachiun without even glancing at the general.

Though many in the crowd looked at Genghis to see how he reacted to his son’s rudeness, the khan showed them the cold face. He turned to Temuge and Khasar after watching the monk pass Kachiun.

“That goat will be ready by now,” he said.

Temuge smiled for an instant, though it was not at news of hot food. In his innocence, the monk had made enemies of violent men. Perhaps they would teach him humility. The day had turned out rather better than Temuge could have hoped.

Yao Shu was a small man, but he still had to duck low to pass into the ger of the khan’s second wife. As he entered, he bowed to Chakahai, as befitted a princess of the Xi Xia. In truth, he cared nothing for the titles of men, but he admired the way the woman had made her place in Mongol society. It could not have been more alien to the court she had once known, but she had survived and Yao Shu liked her.

Ho Sa was already there, sipping the black tea her father sent to the camp. Yao Shu nodded to him, accepting a steaming cup from Chakahai’s own hands before settling himself. The camp was a small place in some ways, despite the vast, sprawling size of it. Yao Shu suspected Kachiun would know exactly how many times the three of them met and perhaps even had listeners outside. The thought made the tea seem sour in his mouth, and Yao Shu grimaced lightly. This was not his world. He had come to the camps to spread the gentle teachings of the Buddha. He did not know yet if that had been the right choice. The Mongols were a strange people. They seemed to accept whatever he told them, especially if he phrased the lessons in stories. Yao Shu had passed on much of the wisdom he had learned as a boy, but when the war horns sounded, the Mongols shrugged off his teachings and rushed to kill. There was no understanding them, but he had accepted it as his path. As he sipped, he wondered if Chakahai was so accepting of her role.

Yao Shu hardly spoke for a long time, as Ho Sa and Chakahai discussed the welfare of Chin soldiers in the khan’s tumans. Perhaps eight thousand men in the camp had once lived in Chin cities or been soldiers for the emperor himself. Yet as many had come from the Turkic tribes in the north. The Chin recruits should have had little influence, but Chakahai had seen to it that all senior men were served by her people. Through them, she knew as well as Kachiun himself what went on in the camps.

Yao Shu watched the delicate woman as she assured Ho Sa she would speak to her husband about the death rites for Chin soldiers. Yao Shu emptied his tea, taking pleasure in the bitter taste and the sound of his own language in his ears. That was something he missed, without a doubt. His drifting thoughts were dragged sharply back at his own name.

“… perhaps Yao Shu can tell us,” Chakahai said. “He has been with my husband’s sons as much as any other.”

Yao Shu realized he had not heard the question and covered his embarrassment by holding out his bowl to be refilled.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

Chakahai sighed. “You have not been listening, my friend. I asked when Jochi would be fit enough to take his place with his men.”

“In another turn of the moon, perhaps,” Yao Shu replied immediately. “His wounds have remained clear, though his legs and arm will always be scarred from the hot irons. He has to rebuild the muscles there. I can work with him. At least he listens, unlike his foolish brother.”

Both Chakahai and Ho Sa stiffened slightly as he spoke. The servants had been sent away on an errand, but there were always ears to hear.

“I watched the practice, earlier,” Ho Sa said. He hesitated, aware of delicate ground. “What did General Kachiun say to you?”

Yao Shu looked up, irritated at the way Ho Sa’s voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.

“It is not important, Ho Sa, any more than it is important to guard my words in this ger. I speak truth as I find it.” He sighed audibly. “And yet, I was once fifteen years old and stupid. Perhaps Chagatai could still grow into a strong man, I do not know. As it stands, he is too much of an angry boy.”

For the monk, it was an astonishing outburst and Ho Sa blinked in surprise.

“That ‘angry boy’ may lead the tribes one day,” Chakahai said softly.

Yao Shu snorted into his tea. “I think sometimes that I have been among the tribes for too long. I should care nothing for which man inherits the horse-tail standard of his father, or even if these new enemies see it trampled into the dirt.”

“You have friends here, Yao Shu,” Ho Sa said. “Why should you not care what happens to us?”

The monk frowned to himself. “I thought once that I could be a voice for reason in this camp, that I might have an influence on the khan and his brothers.” He made a dismissive sound in his throat. “Such is the arrogance of young men. I thought then that I might bring peace to the fierce hearts of the sons.” Yao Shu’s cheeks flushed slightly under his skin. “Instead, perhaps I will watch as Chagatai comes to lead his father’s people and takes them on to more destruction than any of us could imagine.”

“As you said, he is yet a boy,” Chakahai murmured, moved to see Yao Shu so distressed. “He will learn, or Jochi will lead the tribes.”

The monk’s face softened at her tone and he reached out to pat her on her shoulder.

“It has been a difficult day, Princess. Ignore what I have said. Tomorrow I will be a different man, with the past gone and the future unknown, as always. I am sorry to have brought my anger here.” His mouth twisted wryly. “At times, I think I am a bad Buddhist, but I would not be anywhere else.”

Chakahai smiled at him, nodding. Ho Sa refilled his own cup with the precious tea, deep in thought. When he spoke, his voice was very low and hard to hear.

“If Genghis falls in battle, it will be Kachiun who is khan. He has sons of his own and all of this would be like leaves in the wind.”

Chakahai tilted her head to listen. She was beautiful in the lamplight, making Ho Sa think again that the khan was a lucky man to have such a woman waiting in his gers.

“If my husband named an heir from among his sons, I think Kachiun would honor it.”

“If you push him to it, he will name Chagatai,” Ho Sa said. “The whole camp knows he does not favor Jochi, while Ogedai and Tolui are still too young.” He paused, suspecting that Genghis would not be pleased to have other men talking to his wife on such a subject. Still, he was curious. “Have you spoken to the khan about it?”

“Not yet,” Chakahai replied. “But you are right. I do not want Kachiun’s sons to inherit. Where would I be then? It is not so long since the tribes abandoned the families of dead khans.”

“Genghis knows that better than anyone,” Ho Sa said. “He would not want you to suffer as his mother suffered.”

Chakahai nodded. It was such a pleasure to be able to speak openly in her own language, so far from the guttural breathiness of Mongol speech. She realized she would rather go back to her father than see Chagatai become khan as things stood, yet Ho Sa spoke the truth. Kachiun had his own wives and children. Would any of them treat her with kindness if her husband fell? Kachiun perhaps would give her honor, perhaps even send her back to the Xi Xia king. Yet there would always be some who looked to the old khan’s wives and sons for a figurehead. Kachiun would be safest in having them all killed on the same day his brother fell in battle. She bit her lip as she thought it through, disturbed to have such dark thoughts come to her ger. Genghis would not accept Jochi, she was almost certain. He had been laid up to heal for more than a month, and a leader needed to be seen by his men if he were not to be forgotten. Even then, she did not know him, only that Chagatai would be a poor choice. Her children would not long survive his rise, she was certain. She wondered if she had the skill to bring Chagatai to her side.

“I will think about it,” she told the two men. “We will find the right path through.”

Outside the ger, they could hear the wind moaning through the carts and homes of the Mongol nation. Both men heard the sadness in Chakahai’s voice as she dismissed them back to their posts to sleep.

As Yao Shu stepped out into the wind and snow, he shivered, pulling his deel close around his shoulders. It was not just the cold, which he hardly noticed after so many years wearing just a thin robe. At times, he felt he had taken a wrong turn in coming among the people of the horse. He liked them, for all their childlike arrogance and belief that they could order the world to suit them. The khan was a man to follow and Yao Shu had been impressed by him. Yet he had failed to find the right ears for the words of the Buddha. Only little Tolui seemed open to them and then only because he was so young. Chagatai laughed coarsely at any philosophy that did not involve grinding enemies under his heels, and Jochi seemed to listen with detached interest, letting the words and ideas flow over him without sinking in.

Yao Shu was lost in thought as he walked the snowy paths through the camp. Even then, he remained aware of his surroundings, and he knew the men were there as soon as they began to surround him. He sighed to himself. There was only one foolish boy who would have sent warriors to attack him that night. Yao Shu had not even brought his practice stick to the ger of Chakahai, believing himself safe.

Still, he was not a child to be ambushed by fools. He wondered if Chagatai had told them to kill him, or just break a few bones. It did not matter: his response would be the same. As the snow swirled, Yao Shu darted between two gers and attacked the first dark shape to loom up before him. The man was too slow and Yao Shu dropped him neatly with a strike to the chin while he blocked the back foot with his own. He did not intend to kill in that mountain pass, but he heard other voices answer the sound and knew there were many of them. Footsteps pattered lightly from all directions and Yao Shu controlled the growing anger in his chest. It was unlikely that he knew the men, or they him. There would be no malice in the assault, unless he killed one of them. He shrugged to himself, thinking again that time amongst the tribes had changed him subtly. The Buddha would have let them come in without raising a hand in anger. Yao Shu shrugged as he padded toward another shadow. At least he was no longer cold.

“Where is he?” a man hissed, only a pace away. Yao Shu stepped in behind him, pushing the man down before he could resist and slipping past. The warrior’s surprised yell echoed back from the high hills, and Yao Shu heard other men closing fast.

The first to reach him was met with an explosive punch into the lower ribs. Yao Shu felt them break under his hand and drew back before he jammed the shards into vital organs. He ducked on instinct as something else moved, but in the whiteness, he had not seen two warriors and one of them tackled him around the waist, throwing him to the hard ground.

Yao Shu kicked out and his foot jarred against something solid, hurting him. He came to his feet as a ring of men closed, and looked around at the unsmiling faces. It distressed him to see three of them were from his own training group. They at least would not meet his eyes. The others were strangers carrying heavy sticks.

“We have you now, monk,” one of them growled. Yao Shu readied himself, dropping slightly on bent legs so that he was in perfect balance. He could not defeat so many, but he was once again ready to teach.

Eight men fell into the center of the circle, and Yao Shu almost slipped between two and was away. By chance, one of them snagged his robe. Yao Shu felt fingers slip over the skin of his skull and he brought his head back sharply. The hard fingers vanished and the monk struck out with his right foot. Another man fell back with a cry, his knee shattered, but by then they had struck him many times and Yao Shu was dazed. He still hammered blows with hands, knees, and head wherever he could, but they knocked him down. The heavy sticks rose and fell with mindless anger. He did not cry out, even when one of them stamped on his right foot and broke the small bones.

Before he lost consciousness, Yao Shu thought he heard Kachiun’s voice shouting and felt the hands on him falling away. The words of his own teachers spiraled in his mind then as he collapsed in the snow. They had told him that holding on to anger was like grasping a hot coal. Only he would be burned by it. Yet as the men scattered and he felt strong arms lift him up, Yao Shu held the hot coal closely and felt only warmth.

CHAPTER EIGHT

YAO SHU LOOKED UP as Kachiun came into the ger where the wounded were treated. By day, sick men and women traveled on the carts, well wrapped in furs. There were always some who needed a poisoned toe lanced or a wound bound. Yao Shu knew three of the men with him. They were the ones he had injured himself. He had not spoken to them and they seemed embarrassed by his silence and would not meet his eyes.

Kachiun brightened as he greeted Jochi, sitting on the edge of his bed and chatting lightly with him. He admired the striped tiger skin at Jochi’s feet, running his hands over the stiff folds and flattened head as they talked. Yao Shu could see the two men were friends. Tsubodai too visited each dawn, and despite his seclusion, Jochi was well informed. Yao Shu watched the pair talk with some curiosity as he tested the splints on his foot and winced.

When conversation died away, Kachiun turned to the monk, visibly searching for words. He knew as well as anyone that it could only have been Chagatai who ordered the beating. He knew also that it would never be proven. Chagatai strutted around the camp and there were more than a few warriors who looked on him with approval. There was no shame for them in taking revenge, and Kachiun could guess what Genghis thought about it. The khan would not have relied on others to make his point, but he would not have lost sleep about it if he had. The camp was a hard world and Kachiun wondered how to explain that to Yao Shu.

“Kokchu says you will be walking in just a few weeks,” he said.

Yao Shu shrugged. “I heal, General. The body is just an animal, after all. Dogs and foxes heal and so do I.”

“I have not heard anything else about the men who attacked you,” Kachiun lied. Yao Shu’s eyes drifted to the others in the small ger and Kachiun flushed slightly. “There is always someone fighting in the camp,” he said, spreading his hands.

Yao Shu looked calmly at him, surprised that the general seemed to be feeling guilt. He had played no part in it, after all, and was he responsible for Chagatai? He was not. In fact, the beating could have been much worse if Kachiun had not come and scattered them. The warriors had vanished back to their gers, bearing their wounded away. Yao Shu suspected Kachiun could have named each one if he wanted to, perhaps with the names of their families as well. It did not matter. The Mongols loved revenge, but Yao Shu felt no anger toward young fools following orders. He had vowed to teach Chagatai another lesson in the fullness of time.

It troubled the monk that his faith came second to such a base desire, but he still relished the prospect. He could hardly speak of it with Chagatai’s own men in the ger, but they too were healing and it would not be long before he was alone with Jochi. Though he might have gained an enemy in Chagatai, Yao Shu had seen the fight with the tiger. As he glanced at the great striped skin draped over Jochi’s low bed, he thought he had surely gained an ally as well. The Xi Xia princess would be pleased, he thought wryly.

Kachiun stood automatically when he heard Genghis’s voice outside. The khan entered and Yao Shu saw his whole face was swollen and red, the left eye almost closed.

The khan registered the presence of the men in the ger and nodded to Yao Shu before speaking to Kachiun. He ignored Jochi as if he were not present.

“Where is Kokchu, brother? I have to get this broken tooth out of my head.”

The shaman came in as he spoke, bringing with him the strange odor that made Yao Shu wrinkle his nose. He could not like the skinny magic worker. He had found the shaman competent at splinting broken bones, but Kokchu treated the sick as if they were an annoyance, then fawned on the generals and Genghis himself without shame.

“The tooth, Kokchu,” Genghis growled. “It is time.” Sweat beaded his brow and Yao Shu guessed he was in great pain, though the khan made a fetish of never showing it. Yao Shu sometimes wondered if they were insane, these Mongols. Pain was merely a part of life, to be embraced and understood, not crushed.

“Yes, lord khan,” Kokchu replied. “I will take it out and give you herbs for the swelling. Lie back, lord, and open your mouth as far as you can.”

With an ill grace, Genghis took the last bed in the ger and tilted his head far enough so that Yao Shu could see inflamed flesh. The Mongols had very good teeth, he thought. The brown stump looked out of place in the white ones. Yao Shu wondered if their diet of meat was responsible for their strength and violence. He shunned flesh himself, believing it to be responsible for bad humors in the blood. Still, the Mongols seemed to thrive on it, bad humors and all.

Kokchu unrolled a leather tube to reveal a small pair of blacksmith’s pincers and a set of narrow knives. Yao Shu saw Genghis’s eyes swivel to see the tools, then the khan met his gaze and a stillness came over him that was impressive to watch. The man had decided to treat the ordeal as a test, Yao Shu could see. The monk wondered if his self-discipline would hold.

Kokchu clacked the ends of the pincers together and took a deep breath to steady his hands. He looked into the khan’s open mouth and pursed his lips.

“I will be as quick as I can, lord, but I have to take out the root.”

“Do your work, shaman. Get it out,” Genghis snapped, and again Yao Shu saw the pain must have been immense for him to speak in such a way. As Kokchu probed the broken tooth, the khan clenched his hands then let them fall loose, lying as if he slept.

Yao Shu watched with interest as Kokchu dug deep with the pincers, trying to get a purchase. The metal tool slipped twice as he brought pressure to bear. With a grimace, the shaman turned back to his roll and selected a knife.

“I have to cut the gum, lord,” he said nervously. Yao Shu could see the shaman was shaking as if his own life were at stake. Perhaps it was. Genghis did not bother to reply, though once again the hands tensed and relaxed as he fought his body for control. The khan stiffened as Kokchu leaned on the knife, digging deeply. Genghis choked on a flood of pus and blood, waving Kokchu away so he could spit on the floor before settling back. His eyes were wild, Yao Shu saw, quietly awed at the man’s strength of will.

Once more, Kokchu cut and jerked the blade, then reached in with the pincers, took a grip, and heaved. The shaman almost fell as a long shard of root came out and Genghis grunted, rising to spit once more.

“That is almost all of it, lord,” the shaman said. Genghis glared at him, then lay back again. The second piece came out quickly and the khan sat up, holding his aching jaw and clearly relieved to have it end. The rim of his mouth was red and Yao Shu watched as Genghis swallowed bitterness.

Jochi too had observed the extraction, though he had tried to make it look as if he hadn’t. As Genghis rose again, Jochi lay back on his bed and stared at the ribs of birch that made up the ceiling of the ger. Yao Shu thought the khan would leave without speaking to his son and was surprised when Genghis paused and tapped Jochi on the leg.

“You can walk, can’t you?” Genghis said.

Jochi turned his head slowly. “Yes, I can walk.”

“Then you can ride.” Genghis noticed the wolf’s-head sword that Jochi never let out of his sight, and his right hand twitched to hold it. It rested on the tiger skin and Genghis ran his fingers through the stiff fur.

“If you can walk, you can ride,” Genghis told him again. He might have turned away then, but some impulse held him in place.

“I thought that cat would kill you,” Genghis said.

“It nearly did,” Jochi replied. To his surprise, Genghis grinned at him, showing red teeth.

“Still, you beat it. You have a tuman and we ride to conquer.”

Yao Shu saw that the khan was trying to mend bridges between them. Jochi would command ten thousand men, a position of immense trust and not lightly given. To Yao Shu’s private disappointment, Jochi sneered.

“What else could I possibly want from you, my lord?”

A stillness came into the ger then until Genghis shrugged.

“As you say, boy. I have given you more than enough.”

The stream of carts and animals took days to spill out of the mountains to the plains. To the south and west lay the cities ruled by Shah Mohammed. Every man and woman of the people had heard of the challenge to their khan and the deaths of their envoys. They were impatient to bring vengeance.

Around the core of the people, scouts rode out in wide circles as they moved, leaving the cold mountains behind. The generals had gambled with knucklebones for the right to take a tuman raiding, and it had been Jebe who had thrown four horses and won. When Genghis heard, he had summoned Arslan’s replacement to him for orders. Jebe had found the khan with his brothers, deep in conversation as they planned the war to come. When Genghis finally noticed the young man standing by the door, he had nodded to him, barely looking up from new maps being drawn with charcoal and ink.

“I need information more than piles of the dead, General,” Genghis had said. “The Shah can call on cities as great as any in Chin lands. He will not be idle as we cross his lands. We must meet his armies, but when we do, it will be on my terms. Until that day, I need everything you can learn. If a town has less than two hundred warriors, let them surrender. Send their traders and merchants to me, men who know a little of the world around them.”

“And if they will not surrender, lord?” Jebe had asked. Khasar had chuckled without looking up, but the khan’s yellow gaze had lifted from the maps.

“Then clear the way,” Genghis had replied. As Jebe turned to leave, Genghis had whistled softly. Jebe had turned to him questioningly.

“They are your warriors now, Jebe, not mine, nor any other man here. They will look to you first. Remember that. I have seen brave warriors who broke and ran, then stood against impossible odds just a few months later. The only difference was that their officers had changed. Never believe another man can do your job. You understand?”

“Yes, lord,” Jebe had replied. He had struggled not to show his delight, though he felt light-headed with it. It was his first independent command. Ten thousand men would look to him alone, their lives and honor in his hands. Genghis had smiled wryly to himself, fully aware of the young man’s sweating palms and thumping heart.

“Then go,” the khan had said, returning to his maps.

On a spring morning, Jebe had ridden out with ten thousand veterans, eager to make his name. Within just a few days, Arab merchants rode into the camp as if the devil himself were behind them. They were willing to barter and sell information to this new force in the land, and Genghis welcomed a stream of them to his ger, sending them away with their pouches full of silver. Behind them, distant plumes of smoke rose sluggishly into the heat.

Jochi joined his men two days after he had seen Genghis in the ger for the sick. He was thin and pale from six weeks of seclusion, but he mounted his favorite horse stiffly, setting his jaw against the pain. His left arm was splinted and the wounds on his legs cracked and wept, but he smiled as he trotted to the ranks. His men had been told he was coming, and they formed up to greet their general and the khan’s first son. Jochi’s expression remained stern, concentrating on his own weakness. He raised a hand in greeting and they cheered his survival and the tiger skin he had placed between the saddle and the horse’s skin. The dried head would always snarl at his pommel.

When he took his place in the front rank, he turned his pony and looked back at the men his father had given him. Of the ten thousand, more than four thousand were from the Chin cities. They were mounted and armored in the Mongol style, but he knew they could not shoot arrows as fast or as well as his brethren. Two thousand more were from the Turkic tribes to the north and west, dark-skinned men who knew the Arab lands better than the Mongols themselves. He thought his father had given them to Jochi as those of lesser blood, but they were fierce and they knew the ground and the hunting. Jochi was pleased with them. The last four thousand were of the people: the Naimans, the Oirat, and the Jajirat. Jochi cast his gaze over their ranks and it was there that he sensed a weakness in their grim faces. The Mongols knew Jochi was not a favorite son of the khan, perhaps not even his son at all. He read subtle doubt in the way they looked at each other and did not cheer as lustily as the others.

Jochi felt his energy flag and summoned his will. He would have liked longer for his arm to heal. Yet he had seen Tsubodai bind men together and he was eager to begin the work.

“I see men before me,” he called to them. His voice was strong and many grinned. “I see warriors, but I do not yet see an army.” The grins faltered and he gestured to the vast array of carts rolling out of the mountains behind them.

“Our people have enough men to keep out the wolves,” he said. “Ride with me today and I will see what I can make of you.”

He dug in his heels, though his legs had already begun to ache. Behind him, ten thousand men began to trot out onto the plains. He would run them ragged, he told himself, until they were blind with exhaustion, or until his limbs hurt so much he could not stand it any longer. Jochi smiled at the thought. He would endure. He always had.

The city of Otrar was one of the many jewels of Khwarezm, made rich at the crossroads of ancient empires. It had guarded the west for a thousand years, taking a part of the wealth that flowed along the trade roads. Its walls protected thousands of brick houses, some of them three stories high and painted white against the hard sun. The streets were always busy and a man could buy anything in the world in Otrar if he had enough gold. Its governor, Inalchuk, gave offerings each day in the mosque and made public displays of his devotion to the teachings of the prophet. In private, he drank forbidden wine and kept a house of women chosen from the slaves of a dozen races, all picked for his pleasure.

As the sun dipped toward the hills, Otrar cooled slowly and the streets lost their mad energy as men and women returned home. Inalchuk wiped sweat from his eyes and lunged at his sword instructor. The man was quick and there were times when Inalchuk thought he allowed his master to take points. He did not mind as long as the instructor was clever. If he left too obvious an opening, Inalchuk struck with greater force, leaving a welt or a bruise. It was a game, as all things were games.

Out of the corner of his eye, Inalchuk saw his chief scribe halt on the edge of the courtyard. His instructor darted at him to punish the moment of inattention, and Inalchuk fell back before striking low so that the point of his blunt sword sank into the man’s stomach. The instructor fell heavily and Inalchuk laughed.

“You will not tempt me to lift you up, Akram. Once is enough for each trick.”

The instructor smiled and leapt to his feet, but the light was fading and Inalchuk bowed to him before handing over the blade.

As the sun set, Inalchuk heard the voices of the muezzins call the greatness of God across Otrar. It was time for evening prayers and the courtyard began to fill with the members of his household. They carried mats and lined up in rows, their heads bowed. Inalchuk led them in the responses, the thoughts and worries of the day vanishing as he took the first position.

As they chanted in unison, Inalchuk looked forward to breaking the day’s fast. Ramadan was close to its end and even he did not dare to ignore its disciplines. Servants chattered like birds and he knew better than to provide them with evidence against him for the shari’a courts. As he prostrated himself, touching his forehead to the ground, he thought of the women he would choose to bathe him. Even in the holy month, all things were possible after sunset, and a man was king in his own home. He would have honey brought and dribble it onto the back of his current favorite as he enjoyed her.

“Allahu Akbar!” he said aloud. God is great. Honey was a wonderful thing, he thought, the gift of Allah to all men. Inalchuk could have eaten it every day if it were not for his expanding waist. There was a price for every pleasure, it seemed.

He prostrated himself once more, a model of piety in front of his household. The sun had set during the ritual and Inalchuk was starving. He rolled his prayer mat and walked swiftly through the yard, his scribe falling in behind him.

“Where is the army of the khan?” Inalchuk called over his shoulder. His scribe fussed with a sheaf of papers as he always did, though Inalchuk did not doubt he had the answer ready. Zayed bin Saleh had grown old in his service, but age had not dulled his intelligence.

“The Mongol army moves slowly, master,” Zayed said. “Allah be thanked for that. They darken the earth all the way back to the mountains.”

Inalchuk frowned, the image of honey-covered skin vanishing from his imagination.

“More than we thought before?”

“Perhaps a hundred thousand fighting men, master, though I cannot be sure with so many carts. They ride as a great snake on the land.”

Inalchuk smiled at the image.

“Even such a snake has but one head, Zayed. If the khan is troublesome, I will have the assassins cut it off.”

The scribe grimaced, showing teeth like yellow ivory.

“I would rather embrace a scorpion than deal with those Shia mystics, master. They are dangerous in more than just their daggers. Do they not reject the Caliphs? They are not true men of Islam, I think.”

Inalchuk laughed, clapping Zayed on the shoulder.

“They frighten you, little Zayed, but they can be bought and there is no one as good. Did they not leave a poisoned cake on Saladin’s own chest as he slept? That is what matters. They honor their contracts and all their dark madness is just for show.”

Zayed shuddered delicately. The assassins ruled in their mountain fortresses and even the Shah himself could not command them to come out. They worshipped death and violence and Zayed felt Inalchuk should not be so casual in speaking of them, even in his own home. He hoped his silence would be taken as a subtle reproof, but Inalchuk went on as another thought struck him.

“You have not mentioned word from Shah Mohammed,” he said. “Can it be that he has not yet answered?”

Zayed shook his head. “There are no reinforcements yet, master. I have men waiting for them to the south. I will know as soon as they appear.”

They had reached the bathing complex in the governor’s house. As a male slave, Zayed could not pass through the door, and Inalchuk paused with him, thinking through his orders.

“My cousin has more than a million men under arms, Zayed, more than enough to crush this army of carts and skinny goats. Send another message with my personal seal. Tell him… two hundred thousand Mongol warriors have come through the mountains. Perhaps he will understand my garrison can only retreat before so many.”

“The Shah may not believe they will strike at Otrar, master. There are other cities without our walls.”

Inalchuk made a tutting sound and ran a hand down the oiled curls of his beard.

“Where else would they come? It was here that I had the khan’s men flogged in the marketplace. Here that we made a pile of hands as high as a man’s waist. Did my cousin not guide me in that? I have followed his orders in the knowledge that his army would be ready to throw these Mongols back on their heels. Now I have called and still he delays.”

Zayed did not respond. The walls of Otrar had never been broken, but Arab merchants were beginning to come in from Chin lands. They talked of the Mongols using machines that could smash cities. It was not beyond possibility that the Shah had decided to let the Otrar garrison test the mettle of the Mongol khan. Twenty thousand men rested within the walls, but Zayed did not feel confident.

“Remind my cousin that I once saved his life when we were boys together,” Inalchuk said. “He has never repaid that debt to me.”

Zayed bowed his head. “I will have word sent to him, master, by the fastest horses.”

Inalchuk nodded curtly, disappearing inside the door. Zayed watched him go and frowned to himself. The master would rut like a dog in heat until dawn, leaving the campaign planning to his servants.

Zayed did not understand lust, any more than he understood men like the assassins who chose to eat the sticky brown lumps of hashish that banished fear and made them writhe with the desire to kill. When he was young, his body had tormented him, but one blessing of old age was relief from the demands of flesh. The only true pleasure he had ever known came from planning and scholarship.

Zayed realized dimly that he would need to eat to sustain himself in the long night ahead. He had more than a hundred spies in the path of the Mongol army, and their reports came in every hour. He heard his master’s rhythmic grunting begin and shook his head as if at a wayward child. To act in such a way when the world was ready to topple mystified him. Zayed did not doubt Shah Mohammed had visions of becoming a new Saladin. Inalchuk had been just a child, but Zayed remembered the reign of the great king. He cherished memories of Saladin’s warriors passing through Bukhara to Jerusalem more than thirty years before. It had been a golden time!

The Shah would not let Otrar fall, Zayed was almost certain. There were many leaders who had come to his banners, but they would be watching for weakness. It was the curse of all strong men, and the Shah could not give up a wealthy city. After all, the Chin had never been weaker. If Genghis could be stopped at Otrar, there was a world to win.

Zayed heard his master’s grunting passion grow in volume and sighed. No doubt Inalchuk had his own eyes on the Shah’s throne. If the Mongols could be broken quickly, perhaps it was even in his reach.

The corridor was cool after sunset and Zayed barely noticed the slaves lighting oil lamps along its length. He was not tired. That too was a blessing of old age, that he needed very little sleep. He shuffled away into the gloom, his mind on a thousand things he had to do before dawn.

CHAPTER NINE

JEBE HAD LOST COUNT of the miles he had ridden in a month away from the khan’s army. At first he had headed south, coming across a vast lake in the shape of a crescent. Jebe had never seen such a body of fresh water, so wide that even the sharp-eyed scouts could not see the other side. For days he and his men had speared fat green fish they could not name, feasting on the flesh before moving on. Jebe had decided against trying to swim the horses across and took his tuman along the clay banks. The land teemed with animals they could eat, from gazelles and ibex to a brown bear that came bellowing out of a copse and almost reached a raiding group before arrows brought it down. Jebe had the bearskin draped over his horse’s back, thick with rotting fat. He hoped to smoke-cure the skin before it was too far gone. Falcons and eagles soared the warm winds above their heads and the hills and green valleys reminded Jebe of home.

As Genghis had ordered, he left small villages alone, his men riding past in a dark mass as farmers ran or stared in dull fear. Such men reminded Jebe of cattle and he could only shudder at living such a life, trapped in one place for all time. He had destroyed four large towns and more than a dozen road forts, leaving the loot buried in marked spots in the hills. His men were coming to know him as leader, and they rode with their heads up, enjoying his style of striking fast and covering huge distances in just a few days. Arslan had been more cautious as a general, but he had taught Jebe well and the younger man drove them hard. He had a name to make among the generals, and he allowed no weakness or hesitation in those who followed him.

If a town surrendered quickly, Jebe sent its merchants north and east to where he thought Genghis might have reached with the slower carts. He promised them gold and tempted them with Chin coins as proof of the generosity they would receive. Many of them had been forced to watch their homes burned to the ground and had no love for the young Mongol general, but they accepted the gifts and rode away. They could not rebuild with Genghis coming south, and Jebe found them more pragmatic than his own people, more accepting of the fate that can raise one man and break another with no cause or reason. He did not admire the attitude, though it suited his own purposes well enough.

By the end of the new moon, which Jebe had learned was the Arab month of Ramadan, he reached a new range of mountains to the south of the crescent lake. Otrar was to the west and further on lay the golden cities of the Shah, with names Jebe could hardly pronounce. He learned of Samarkand and Bukhara and had Arab farmers draw their locations on rough maps that Genghis would value. Jebe did not travel to see those walled places. When he did, it would be with the Mongol host at his back.

As the moon vanished, Jebe rode on one last sweep into the hills of the south, mapping sources of water and keeping his men fit. He was almost ready to return and go to war. Though his tuman had stayed out for more than a moon’s turn, he had no gers with him and made his camp in a sheltered valley, with scouts posted on all the peaks around him. It was one of those who rode back into camp, his pony lathered with sweat.

“I have seen riders, General, in the distance.”

“Did they spot you?” Jebe asked.

The young warrior shook his head proudly. “Not in this life, General. It was in the last light before the sun set, and I came straight back.” The man hesitated and Jebe waited for him to speak again.

“I thought… they could have been Mongols, General, from the way they rode. It was just a glimpse before the light went, but there were six men riding together and they could have been ours.”

Jebe stood up, his meal of rabbit forgotten at his feet.

“Who else would have come so far south?” he muttered. With a low whistle, he had his men leaving their rations and mounting all around. It was too dark to ride fast, but he had seen a trail leading through the hills before sunset, and Jebe could not resist moving closer in the darkness. By dawn he would be in position. He passed on his orders to his officers and let them inform the men. In no time at all, they were clicking gently to their mounts, moving into a column.

Without a moon, the night was very dark, but they followed his orders and Jebe grinned to himself. If it was Khasar, or better still, Tsubodai, he would like nothing more than to surprise a Mongol force at dawn. As he walked his mount to the head of the line, he sent scouts out with whispered orders, knowing that the khan’s generals would take pleasure in doing the same to him. Unlike the older men, he had a name to win for himself and he relished the challenge of a new land. Tsubodai’s rise had shown Genghis valued talent over blood, every time.

Jochi woke from sleeping like a dead man in pine woods, halfway up a mountain slope. He lay still in pitch darkness, raising his left hand before his face and blinking wearily. The Arabs judged dawn as the time when a black thread could be distinguished from a white one, and it was not yet light enough for that. He yawned and knew he would not sleep again now that his battered body had dragged itself awake. His legs were stiff in the mornings and he began each day by rubbing oil into the raised scars from the hot irons and the tiger’s claws. He worked the ridged skin with his thumbs, grunting in relief as the muscles relaxed. It was then that he heard hoofbeats in the darkness and one of his scouts calling.

“Over here,” he said. The scout dismounted and came to kneel by him. It was one of the Chin recruits and Jochi handed him the pot of oil to continue as he listened. The scout talked quickly in his own language, but Jochi interrupted only once to ask for the meaning of a word.

“In three weeks, we’ve seen no sign of an armed force and now they come creeping at us in the dark,” Jochi said, wincing as the Chin warrior’s thumbs worked a tender spot.

“We could be miles away by dawn, General,” the scout murmured.

Jochi shook his head. His men would allow him to run if he had some plan to draw an enemy into an ambush. To simply retreat would undermine him with all the groups of his tuman.

He cursed softly. In the moonless night, he could not know where the enemy were or how many came against him. His best trackers would be useless. His one advantage was that he knew the land. The isolated valley to the south had been his training ground for half a month, and he had used it to work his men to a new edge of toughness. Along with his scouts, he knew every back trail and piece of cover from one end to the other.

“Fetch my minghaan officers to me,” he said to the scout. The ten senior officers could spread his orders quickly to the individual thousands of his tuman. Genghis had created the system and it worked well. Jochi had only added Tsubodai’s idea of naming each thousand and each jagun of a hundred men. It led to less confusion in battle and he was pleased with them.

The Chin scout handed him the pot of oil and bowed his head before scurrying away. Jochi stood and was pleased to find his legs had stopped aching, at least for a while.

By the time his men were walking their mounts up to the ridge that led down into the valley beyond, two more scouts had come in. The sun was not yet up, but the gray light of the wolf dawn was over the hills, when men felt life stir in their limbs. Jochi saw the scouts were chuckling and gestured for them to come to his side. They too were of Chin stock, but the usually impassive warriors were visibly amused at something.

“What is it?” Jochi asked impatiently. The two men exchanged a glance.

“Those coming are Mongols, General.”

Jochi blinked in confusion. It was true that he could make out the faces of the scouts in the dim light, but they had ridden through darkness to get back to him.

“How do you know?” he demanded.

To his surprise, one of them tapped his nose.

“The smell, General. The breeze is north to south and there is no mistaking it. Arab warriors do not use rancid mutton fat.”

The scouts clearly expected Jochi to be relieved, but instead he narrowed his eyes, dismissing them with a sharp gesture. It could only be Arslan’s tuman, led by the new man his father had promoted. He had not had the chance to know Jebe before Genghis sent him out. Jochi showed his teeth in the darkness. He would meet him on his own terms at least, on land Jebe could not know as well.

Jochi passed on new orders and they increased the pace, needing to be in the valley before dawn. They had all heard the news of another tuman in the area and, like their general, were eager to show what they could do. Destroying Shah Mohammed’s armies could not bring them the satisfaction of confounding their own.

With the sun above the horizon, Jebe moved slowly forward. His warriors had crept through the last of the darkness, moving stealthily to surround a valley where they could hear warriors and horses. The whinnying calls carried far in the bowl of hills, and Jebe had left forty mares in season well back, where they would not call to stallions.

The first light made the young general smile to see the terrain ahead. Warriors moved in dark smudges on the land, surrounded on all sides by slopes and crags. The shamans told stories of great stones hurtling from the stars and gouging valleys. This looked like such a place. Jebe spotted a prominent ridge where he could direct the flanking groups and used the tree cover to move toward it, always out of sight from those on the valley floor. He did not intend to take lives, only to show the Mongol tuman that he could have destroyed them. They would not forget the sight of his armed lines coming thundering down the slopes.

Jebe’s eyes were sharp over distance and he was pleased to see no sign of alarm in those he watched. They were clearly training and he could see a line of distant discs that could only be straw archery targets. Rank after rank galloped and shot their arrows at full speed before looping back for another try. Jebe chuckled as he heard the distant calls of Mongol horns.

With two senior men and two flag bearers, Jebe tied his reins to a pine tree and crouched, moving slowly to the ridge. For the last few paces, he approached on his stomach, worming forward until he could see the entire green valley. It was still too far to recognize the general, but Jebe nodded at the sharp formations as they wheeled and maneuvered. Whoever it was had trained his men well.

Half a mile away, Jebe saw a flash of red, gone as quickly as it had appeared on a high crag. His left flank had found themselves a slope they could ride, and they were ready. He waited for the right flank to do the same and his heart beat faster when a flag of blue flickered.

Something nagged at him then, spoiling his concentration. Where were the other scouts, the men who were meant to watch for exactly this sort of attack? The valley floor was vulnerable to any hostile force, and Jebe could not think of one of Genghis’s generals who would leave himself blind. His men had orders to disarm the scouts before they could sound their horns, but that was down to luck. Perhaps the sky father was watching over his endeavors this day, and the scouts had been taken in silence. He shook his head warily.

“Where are the scouts?” he muttered. The closest man to him was Palchuk, who had married Genghis’s sister, Temulun. Jebe had found him a solid choice, for all he suspected Genghis had broken his own rules to promote him.

“There is no large army close to this place,” Palchuk said, shrugging. “Perhaps they have brought the scouts further in.”

On the other side of the valley, Jebe saw a twinkle of light. The distance was too far for flags to be seen, but his man carried a piece of Chin glass and used it to reflect the sun. Jebe put aside his doubts and stood. A hundred paces behind the general lay two thousand men with their ponies beside them. The animals were well trained and hardly made a sound as the men removed their arms from the necks and allowed them to stand.

“Keep the bows in the saddle holders,” Jebe called. “We are training men, not killing them.”

Palchuk chuckled softly as he and Jebe mounted with the rest. They would charge on four fronts, converging in the center, where Jebe would meet the general. He reminded himself not to gloat when the man acknowledged him.

As Jebe raised his arm to give the order, he saw a red flash on the left, as if his flank were signaling again.

“What are they doing?” he said aloud. Before Palchuk could answer, men erupted from the ground on every side. Jebe’s warriors shouted in confusion as warriors stood up from shallow pits, holding drawn bows. They had waited through the last of the darkness in complete silence, covered in a thick layer of leaf mulch and dead pine needles. In just moments, more and more of them were aiming sharp arrows at Jebe as he turned his mount in amazement.

He saw Jochi come striding out from between the trees and threw his head back to laugh. The khan’s son did not reply until he had walked to Jebe’s stirrup. Jochi dropped his hand to the wolf’s-head sword.

“Your men are taken, General,” he said. “No one is coming and you are mine.” Only then did Jochi smile, and those closest surrounded Jebe, grinning evilly.

“I knew there should have been more scouts out,” Jebe said. Accepting the mood, he handed over his own sword. Jochi bowed to him and handed it back, his face bright with success. As Jebe watched in amusement, Jochi blew a long note on a scout’s horn that echoed across the valley. Far below, the warriors stopped their maneuvers and their cheering voices carried even to the heights.

“You are welcome in my camp, General,” Jochi said. “Will you ride down to the valley with me?”

Jebe bowed to the inevitable. He waited until Jochi’s men had put aside their weapons and horses had been brought up to the ridge.

“How did you know I would direct my men from here?” he asked Jochi.

The khan’s son shrugged. “It’s where I would have chosen.”

“And you were trained by Tsubodai,” Jebe replied wryly.

Jochi smiled, choosing not to mention the men he had hidden at four other places along the ridge. The hours of silent waiting had been damp and cold, but seeing Jebe’s expression when they stood up had made the discomfort worthwhile.

The two generals rode together down the slope to the valley, comfortable in each other’s presence.

“I have been giving thought to a name for my tuman,” Jochi said.

Jebe looked at him, raising his eyebrows.

“Tsubodai has his Young Wolves and it has a better ring than ‘Jochi’s warriors’ or ‘Jebe’s tuman,’ don’t you think?”

Jebe had witnessed this strange young man standing his ground when a tiger leapt at him. The striped skin lay under Jochi’s saddle and Jebe was uncomfortably aware of the rotting bearskin he sat upon. Jochi did not seem to have noticed it.

“Are you thinking of tigers or something of that sort?” Jebe said warily.

“Oh no, it doesn’t have to be an animal,” Jochi said, and then he did glance at the bearskin.

Jebe felt his cheeks flush and chuckled again. He liked this khan’s son, no matter what was said of him in the camps. Whether he was truly Genghis’s son or not, Jebe relaxed. He sensed none of the blustering arrogance he had seen in Chagatai, and it pleased him.

They had ridden down to where Jochi’s men waited in perfect squares. Jebe inclined his head to the officers, giving them honor in front of their men.

“They look dangerous enough,” Jebe said. “What about the ‘Iron Lance’?”

“Iron Lance,” Jochi repeated, testing the sound. “I like ‘Iron,’ but I have too few lances to make the name work. It wouldn’t seem right to make them retrain to fit the name.”

“ ‘Iron Horse’ then,” Jebe replied, caught up in the game. “They all have mounts, at least.”

Jochi reined in. “I like that! Tsubodai has the Young Wolves. I have the Iron Horse. Yes, it is very stirring.” He smiled as he spoke and suddenly both men were laughing, to the confusion of the officers around them.

“How did you know we were coming?” Jebe asked.

“I smelled that bearskin,” Jochi replied, setting them both off again.

Jochi’s men had hunted well and had meat enough for all Jebe’s warriors. Taking the lead from the two generals who sat together like old friends, the tumans mingled easily and the mood was light. Only the scouts stayed high on the hills, and this time Jochi sent men out for miles as he had every day of the training. He could not be surprised in his valley.

Jebe allowed his men to train with Jochi and spent most of the day discussing tactics and the terrain they had covered. He accepted Jochi’s offer to sleep in the makeshift camp, and it was not until the following dawn that he decided to leave. It had been a pleasant break from hard riding and trail rations. Jebe had eaten well and Jochi had provided the last of a stock of airag for the senior men. Jochi had not once referred to the way he had surprised the other general on the heights, and Jebe knew he was in his debt. The men would be talking about it for months.

“I will leave you with your Iron Horse, General,” Jebe said as the sun rose. “Perhaps I will find a name for my own men in time.”

“I will think on it,” Jochi promised. For a moment, he lost his light manner.

“I have few friends, Jebe. Shall I call you one of them?”

Jebe did not reply at first. The khan’s son walked a hard path and he felt a chill at the thought of being caught between Genghis and this tall young man. Perhaps it was the debt he owed, or simply because he truly liked Jochi, but he had always been impulsive. With a quick gesture, he drew a knife and gashed his palm, holding it out.

Jochi stared, then nodded. He copied the gesture and the two men clasped their right hands together. It was no small thing and the men around them were silent as they looked on.

In the distance, two scouts were riding in, and the moment was broken as they both turned. From the sheer speed, they knew in an instant that the scouts had news, and Jebe put aside his plans to leave until he had heard.

They were Jochi’s men and Jebe could only stand and listen as they reported.

“The enemy are in sight, General. Thirty miles south and coming west.”

“How many?” Jebe said, unable to stop himself.

The scout saw Jochi nod and answered.

“I cannot count such a force of men and horses, General. More than all the khan’s warriors, perhaps twice as many. They travel with huge beasts I have not seen before, armored in gold.”

“The Shah is in the field,” Jochi said with satisfaction. “My Iron Horse will ride to see them. Will your Bearskins come with us?”

“I do not like ‘Bearskins’ at all,” Jebe replied.

“It is a fine name, but we will discuss it as we ride,” Jochi replied, whistling for his horse and bow.

CHAPTER TEN

THOUGH THEY MADE GOOD TIME on the hill trails that Jochi knew well, it took most of the day for the tumans to reach the point where the scout had seen the Shah’s army. In mountainous lands, it was sometimes possible for two armies to pass only a valley apart and never know the other was there. Yet if the scout’s estimates were right, such a host could not be hidden. In late afternoon, the generals were close enough to see a trail of reddish dust that hung in the air like a false horizon. Jebe and Jochi came together to discuss a plan for the first contact with the army of the Shah. With older men, deciding who would ride to the other might have been delicate. Jochi was the son of the khan, while Jebe was seven years more experienced. With the red lines still fresh on their palms, neither made an issue of it. They rode to a central point to discuss their plans and observe the enemy.

Jebe had lost the light mood of the morning. He nodded to Jochi as they trotted abreast, ahead of twenty thousand. As a man he liked the khan’s son, but he did not know him as a general, and Jebe felt the first prickle of annoyance that he had to allow for another force on the field.

The Mongol armies rode through a high pass toward the dust trail. Ahead, the light was brighter as the land opened out, and both men aimed their mounts at a ridge that overlooked the plains beyond. Jochi at least had scouted it before. The dust hung like storm clouds in the distance, and he could only swallow dryly as he imagined an enemy force large enough to cause such a sight.

At last the generals halted, both men raising an arm to stop the warriors at their back. Their own dust trail moved in sluggish tails on the warm breeze. The enemy would know they were watched, but it was impossible to move such large forces without being seen in daylight.

Jochi and Jebe sat their mounts in grim silence as they watched a bannered host rumble west, just a mile away. It was an army to dwarf the khan’s tumans, both in foot soldiers and a huge number of mounted men riding the wings. The foot of the valley was flat for miles, but still seemed too small to hold such a mass.

Jochi could see spears like the pines of a forest even at such a distance. In the brass light of the sun, iron armor glittered in the ranks. He looked across to Jebe to see how he was reacting and found the general leaning low in his saddle, staring in fascination.

“You see the bows?” Jebe asked, squinting.

Jochi had not, but he nodded, wishing Tsubodai was there to assess this force they would face in battle.

Jebe spoke as if he was already making his report. “Double-curved, like ours. They have good shields as well, larger than our own. So many camels! I have never seen so many in one place, nor seen them ridden to war. They will be faster over rough ground than our horses. We must be sure not to let them use that advantage.”

There was something about Jebe that always lightened Jochi’s mood.

“Do not forget those huge beasts,” he said, “with horns, or teeth or whatever they are. They too will be new to our men.”

“Elephants,” Jebe replied. “Jelme talked of seeing one at the Koryon court. They are fearsome animals.” He gestured at the black wings of the Shah’s army, cutting the air with his hands.

“They use their cavalry on the edges, protecting the center. That is where we will find their generals.” From the ridge, he could see the entire structure of the Shah’s army, laid out before him. A smaller group of horsemen rode in the center, their ranks perfect. Jebe sucked his teeth while he considered. “You see the boxes on the backs of those elephants? Surrounded by riders? Those will be senior men.” He paused and whistled to himself. “They are fine horsemen. See how they keep formation.”

Jochi glanced sideways as he replied. “Frightening, aren’t they?”

Jebe chuckled. “Do not be afraid, Jochi. I am here now.”

Jochi snorted, though in fact he was afraid. His father’s army could be swallowed up in so many, and he could not see a weakness in the dark lines.

Both men were aware that they had been spotted almost as soon as they showed themselves on the ridge. Riders were racing up and down the Shah’s lines, and the Mongol generals watched with interest, learning everything they could. There was much they did not understand. Though Jebe had heard elephants described, the reality of seeing those huge animals looming over the riders was intimidating. The great heads looked armored in bone as well as glittering metal. If they could be made to charge, he could not see how to stop them.

As Jebe turned to point out a detail to Jochi, a vast host of Arab horsemen broke away from the main column and formed up in swirling dust. Horn calls brought the rest to a halt, and even in that, they could see the discipline of the Shah’s men. Jebe and Jochi looked at each other in wild surmise.

“They are going to attack us!” Jebe said. “You should withdraw, Jochi, and take word to your father. Everything we have seen here will be useful in the days to come.”

Jochi shook his head. His father would not look kindly on him if he simply left. The information could be carried by a single scout, and they had not come to the Shah’s lands to retreat before his armies.

Jochi felt a pang of resentment that Jebe was with him. He had come a long way to lead his warriors, and it did not sit well with him to defer to a more senior man.

“We have the high ground at least,” Jochi said. He remembered the Russian knights who had labored up a hill at him and knew the worth of such an advantage.

In the distance, the massive Arab formations kicked into a fast trot, and Jochi felt a sudden panic. He knew he could not lead the tuman straight at the enemy horsemen. There were easier ways to waste lives. He considered a running blow that would lead the Arabs out along the plain. His men were fit as only Mongols knew fitness, but he did not know if the Chin soldiers in his ranks would fall behind and be destroyed.

Jebe seemed blithely unaware of Jochi’s whirling thoughts as he spoke.

“They will have to come straight up at us, with their Shah watching. They will not know how many men we have behind this ridge. I should think they are as surprised as we are to meet in this place, so far from Otrar or the khan. Can you get around to the flank?”

Jochi looked into the distance before nodding. Jebe smiled as if they merely discussed a wrestling match or a wager.

“Then that will be the plan. I will wait until they have tired themselves riding up, then fall like a mountain on their heads. You will come from the flank and cut a wedge through to the center. Your lances will be useful there, I think.”

Jochi looked down the steep slope. “It is only a shame that we do not have rocks to roll into them,” he said.

Jebe nodded, surprised. “That is an excellent idea! I would give my second wife for pots of oil to roll down as well, but I will see what I can find.” For an instant, both men sensed the strain in the other and exchanged a glance that had none of the lightness of their words.

“We cannot take so many if they are as good as their weapons and armor,” Jochi said. “I will hit the flank, but then pull back and let them follow me far from the main force.”

“Is that Tsubodai’s voice I hear?” Jebe asked.

Jochi did not smile. “It is my voice, General. I will run them to exhaustion, well away from their reinforcements.”

Jebe bowed his head to the khan’s son. He did not mention that almost half of Jochi’s tuman were of Chin stock. Though they rode hardy Mongol ponies, they would not have the endurance of men born to the saddle.

“Good luck, General,” he called as he turned his mount. Jochi did not reply, already issuing orders to his men. Ten thousand of those behind the ridge gathered quickly and rode east to get around the steep slope. It would not be easy to charge over the loose shale, and Jebe honestly did not know which of them had the hardest task.

Khalifa Al-Nayhan was a worried man as he rode up the hill, his fine gelding already laboring in the heat and dust. He had grown up in those very mountains and knew the ridge he was assaulting. The Shah had given the order and he had formed his men without hesitation, but his stomach felt hollow. After the first shock of seeing Mongol scouts hundreds of miles from where they should have been, Shah Mohammed had settled into a fury Khalifa knew he could maintain for days or weeks. It was not a time to suggest that they wait for better terrain.

Khalifa urged his mount on over the broken ground, looking up at the ridge that seemed far above his head. Perhaps it was no more than a scout’s camp at the top. By the time he arrived, they might well have galloped away, and then at least the Shah would be satisfied. No one knew how these savage Mongols had made a Chin emperor kneel, and the Shah needed quick victories to reassure his chieftains.

Khalifa shook the loose thoughts out of his head as he rode, feeling sweat sting his eyes. The summer had been mild so far, but climbing to the ridge was hard work. He trusted the men around him, many of them from his own tribe of desert warriors. The Shah had spared nothing in outfitting them for war, and though the new armor and shields were heavy, Khalifa felt the confidence they brought. They were picked men: the first into every battle, the breakers of walls and armies. He felt his bow slapping against his thigh, but they could not bring arrows to bear while riding up such a slope. Once more he thought of the Shah watching and shook his head against weak thoughts. They would win or they would be killed. It was all the same to Allah.

At the steepest point of the slope, Khalifa knew they were committed. The horses plunged on, but the ground was even softer than he remembered and progress was painfully slow. Khalifa felt exposed and made his peace with God as he drew the curved shamsher saber that had served him for many years. With his left hand, he raised his shield, and rode only with his feet in the stirrups. Like many of his men, he secretly despised the metal foot-holders that made it hard to dismount quickly. Yet they showed their use on such a slope, when he needed both hands for his weapons. A quick tap on his boot showed him his dagger was still there in the leather sheath, and he leaned forward into the warm breeze that came over the ridge.

In time of peace, civilization had no place for butchers like him, but still they were needed and would always be needed, when the jeweled cities and green parks were threatened. Khalifa had escaped two murder charges by joining the army and assuming a new name. It was what he did best. Sometimes he was paid and other times hunted, depending on how and when he practiced his skills. Riding with his men into the teeth of the enemy was what he loved. The Shah was watching, and if they bloodied their swords, there would be rewards of women and gold for the commanders.

“Hold the line straight, Ali, or I will see you whipped!” Khalifa roared across his men. He saw dust still rising from the ridge and knew the enemy had not run. He could hardly see in the clouds that his own men churned up, but there was only one objective and his horse was still strong.

Above him, Khalifa saw rocks grow in size as they were pushed to the edge. He called out a warning, but he could do nothing. He watched in fear as the boulders came bouncing down, ripping through men and horses in a series of sickening cracks. Khalifa cried out as one came close enough for him to feel the wind of its passage. As it passed, it seemed to leap like something alive, striking the man behind with a great crunch. He could see only six of the huge stones scything through his men, but each one took many lives and left the ground littered with pieces of armor and men. They were riding in close ranks and there was no room to dodge the stones.

As quickly as it had begun, the boulders stopped and a ragged cheer went up from those who still labored on the slope. The ridge was no more than four hundred paces away, and Khalifa kicked his mount on, hungry now to bring vengeance to those who killed his men. He saw a dark line of archers ahead and raised his shield instinctively, ducking his head beneath the rim. He was close enough to hear orders called in a strange language, and he clenched his teeth. The Shah had sent forty thousand men up that slope. No force in the world could do more than thin the ranks before they were among them and killing.

Firing downhill, the Mongol archers could send their shafts further than normal range. Khalifa could only keep his head down as arrows thumped against his shield. The one time he raised his head, it was immediately rocked back by a glancing blow that yanked the turban from his head and left it dangling. Rather than have it snag, he cut it free with part of his long hair and it bounded down the hill behind him.

At first the shields protected his men, but as they reached the last hundred paces, the air was thick with whistling shafts and men died in scores. Khalifa’s shield was of wood, covered in the dried hide of a hippopotamus—the lightest and best of all the Shah’s equipment. It held, though the muscles of his arm were bruised and battered until he could barely hold it. Without warning, he felt his horse shudder and begin to die.

Khalifa would have leapt clear, but his feet snagged in the stirrups and for a breathless moment of panic his right leg was trapped under the dying horse. Another mount crashed into his as it fell, and he jerked free, thanking Allah for his deliverance. He rose on sandy ground, spitting blood and wild with rage.

The entire front rank had been brought down by the archers, fouling those behind. Many of his men were yelling, tugging at shafts through their legs and arms while others lay sprawled and unmoving. Khalifa roared fresh orders and the men behind dismounted to lead their mounts through the broken dead. The gap closed further and Khalifa held his sword high, pointing it at the enemy above. One hundred paces and he was lost in his desire to kill. If anything, he was faster on foot, though every step on loose ground sapped his strength. He scrambled up with his sword ready for the first blow. The Shah was watching and Khalifa could almost feel the old man’s eyes on his back.

The Mongols poured over the ridge, straight down the steep slope. Their ponies slid, with front legs straight and stiff while the back legs bunched to keep them upright. The desert warriors strained to take the first impact, but to Khalifa’s shock, another wave of arrows punched them from their feet before the two forces met. He could not understand how the Mongols could draw and loose while guiding their mounts down such a slope, but the volley devastated his men. Hundreds died on foot or leading their mounts, and this time the shafts were followed by the Mongol front line crashing down on them. Khalifa heard their yelling swell until it seemed to echo back from the hills all around.

The Mongol horsemen came like a breaking wave, smashing anything in their path by sheer weight. Khalifa was standing behind the bodies of two horses and could only watch in astonishment as the charge roared past him, a wedge tipped with lances that struck deep and deeper into the climbing lines below.

He was left alive, but still they came. Khalifa could not climb further. The way was blocked by thousands of Mongol horsemen, guiding their mounts with just their knees while they loosed arrows at anything that moved. A long shaft ripped through his side, parting the steel links of his armor as if they had been made of paper. He fell, shouting incoherently, and it was then that he glimpsed another force cutting across the face of the slope.

Jochi’s men hit the flank of the Arab riders below Jebe’s charge. Their arrows tore a hole in the ranks, and they followed it with lances and swords, cutting men down while they were held in the press. Khalifa stood to see them, fear and bile rising in his throat. Arrows still whirred by his bare head, but he did not flinch. He saw the two forces meet in the center and the combined mass drove his men further down so that they almost reached the valley floor. Bodies covered the ground behind them and riderless horses ran wild, knocking fresh warriors from their saddles in their panic.

The Mongol charge from the ridge had passed him by, and Khalifa saw one horse with its reins trapped under a dead man. He ran to it, ignoring the pain in his side as he mounted, throwing his shield aside with a curse when the arrow shafts snagged. The air was thick with dust and the cries of dying brothers, but he had a horse and a sword and had never asked for more. Perhaps thirty thousand desert men still lived, struggling below to hold back the twin charge. Khalifa could see the Mongols had gambled their full force in the attack, and he shouted as he rode wildly down the hill toward the ranks. They could be held. They could be broken, he was sure of it.

As he reached his men, he bellowed commands to the closest officers. A solid square began to form, ringed with shields. The Mongols threw themselves at the edges and began to die as they met the swords of his tribe. Khalifa felt the battle like a live thing and knew he could still turn the losses to triumph. He had his men retreat in order back to the flat ground, harried all the way by the Mongol warriors. He drew them away from the slope they had used to such effect, and when the earth was hard under his mount, Khalifa ordered a charge into them, urging his men on with words of the Prophet.

“They shall be slain or crucified or have their hands and feet cut off on alternate sides, or be banished from the land. They shall be held up to shame in this world and sternly punished in the hereafter!”

His men were true Arabs of the blood. They heard and became fierce once more, taking the fight to the enemy. At the same time, the Shah moved at last, sending fresh soldiers racing in squares as the Mongols came within range. The lines met and a roar went up as the Mongols were knocked back, defending desperately as attacks came from more than one direction. Khalifa saw the Shah’s ranks move wide to surround them, marching steadily in.

The Mongol warriors faltered, overwhelmed as Khalifa barged his horse through to the front rank. A young warrior came at him and Khalifa braced and took the man’s head as he swept past. The Shah’s riders advanced, their swords red. Discipline held them and Khalifa was proud. Once more he sensed uncertainty in the attacking horsemen, and suddenly they broke and ran, leaving the foot regiments in their wake as they galloped clear.

Khalifa ordered his lancers forward and was pleased with their formation as they took many of the fleeing men in the backs, hammering them from the saddles.

“For the prophet, brothers!” he roared. “Run these dogs down!”

The Mongol warriors were streaming across the plain on their ponies, riding flat out. Khalifa raised his hand and dropped it and the lines of Arabs dug in their heels to give chase. They would pass along the flank of the Shah’s army, and Khalifa hoped the fierce old man would see and give thanks. As he rode, he glanced back to the slope leading up to the ridge. It was black with the dead and he felt new strength surge in him. These men had dared to enter his land, and they would find only fire and the sword.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AFTER THE INITIAL RACE east along the valley, both the tumans and their pursuers settled into a slow gallop that ate the miles. Before the sun set, Khalifa’s men tried to close the gap three times and were driven back with arrows fired by men turning in the saddle. Unlike the Mongols, the Arab horsemen were not accurate loosing arrows at full speed. Though their mounts were faster over short distances, they were forced to settle in for a long chase. By the time the sun touched the west behind them, they were more than a dozen miles from the Shah’s army. The Mongol warriors rode in grim concentration, knowing that to fall behind was to die.

Jochi and Jebe had come together about halfway through the ranks of their men. They did not know how many of their number had been lost on the slopes under the ridge. The Arabs had fought well at the end, but both generals were pleased with what they had achieved. Genghis would be told of both strength and weaknesses in the enemy, and what they had learned would be vital to the khan in the days to come. Still, they had to survive the dogged pursuit. Both men knew it was easier to chase than to be hunted. As eagles and wolves had eyes to the front of their heads, so did man. Riding after an enemy kept the spirits strong, just as hearing the enemy always at their backs sapped the confidence of the tumans. Yet they did not falter.

“Will they follow us into the darkness, do you think?” Jochi asked.

Jebe looked back over his shoulder at the mass of riders. Perhaps thirty thousand men had come after them, and he could not know their quality. He and Jochi had left so many on the slopes that he thought anger would keep the Arabs on their trail for a long time. They had been thrown back in chaos in the battle, and they would not let them go without a chase. As he stared at the enemy, Jebe could admit that the Arabs were excellent horsemen. They had shown discipline and courage. Against that, the two tumans could only bring the stoic endurance they had learned on the brutal winter plains. They would not fall, if they had to run to the end of the world.

Jebe glanced back at the setting sun, now just a gold line that cast writhing shadows ahead of his men. He realized he had not answered the question and shrugged.

“They look determined enough and they have more speed in short bursts. If I were their commander, I would wait for true darkness and then close the gap when we cannot see to drive them back.”

Jochi rode carefully, conserving his strength. His left arm ached and his legs were stiff, the old scars sending needles of discomfort along his thighs as they stretched. Even so, he struggled not to show his pride at the action on the ridge. His flanking charge had shattered the Arab soldiers, but Jebe had not mentioned it.

“When it is dark, then,” Jochi said, “we should race for a mile and open a gap they cannot cross easily.”

Jebe winced at the thought of pelting full speed across unknown ground. Their greatest fear was that the Arabs knew the valley would come to a sudden end, perhaps in a blocked canyon. The tumans could be riding right to their own destruction.

Jochi strained to see ahead, but the peaks on either side seemed to go on forever. A pang of hunger interrupted his thoughts and he reached into a pocket to pull out a lump of dried mutton. In the last light, he eyed the black twist dubiously, but tore off a piece and chewed before reaching out and offering it to Jebe. The general accepted the gift without speaking, pulling it apart with his fingers before passing the rest back. They had not eaten since the morning and both men were starving.

“When my father fought the Xi Xia kingdom,” Jochi said, chewing, “the king used clusters of iron nails that could bring down a charging line.”

“They would be useful now,” Jebe replied, nodding. “If we had each man carry just a few, we could let these Arabs ride over a trail of them.”

“Next time, my friend,” Jochi said. “If there is one.”

The sun set and a dim gray light crossed the valley, falling through shades to blackness. They had a little time before the new moon rose, its white crescent reversed. Jochi and Jebe gave orders that could barely be heard above the thunder of hooves, and the pace increased slowly. Both leaders depended on the sturdiness of the plains-bred ponies. The scouts were used to riding a hundred miles in a single day, and Jochi and Jebe counted on that to exhaust their enemy. Like the men who rode them, the ponies were as tough as old leather.

Behind them, both generals heard the rhythm of the Arab horses change to the fastest gallop, but they had already widened the gap. Jochi sent an order for the rear ranks to shoot three shafts each into the blackness. The decision was rewarded by crashes and yells that echoed from the hills. Once more the pursuers fell back and the generals settled to a fast canter, ready to gallop at any moment. The Mongol ponies had fought and charged already that day. Many of them were weary and already suffering without water, but there was no way to rest them.

“Did you see the flags of the Shah’s army?” Jochi asked.

Jebe nodded, remembering the host of crescents all along the Arab ranks. The new moon was significant to their enemy, perhaps because it marked the beginning and end of their holy month. Jebe hoped it was not an omen of good fortune for those that rode behind him.

The crescent cast a silvery gloom on the armies that streamed through the valley. Some of the Mongol warriors used the dim light to loose arrows, until Jochi sent an order to conserve their stock. It was too hard to kill a man with a shield in the dark, and they would need every shaft.

Khalifa rode in furious silence at the head of his men. He had never experienced anything like this moonlight chase and could not escape the nagging feeling that he had deprived the Shah of his cavalry wing in territory that had already proved hostile. He had ridden down fleeing armies before, but that was a brief wild moment after an enemy broke, where a warrior could blood his sword joyfully on the necks of fleeing men, or shoot arrows until his quiver was empty. He remembered such times with great fondness, coming as they did after battles where he had ridden close to death.

This was something different and he could not understand the Mongol generals ahead. They rode in good order and every attempt to bring them down before sunset had been repulsed. Had their nerve gone? They did not ride in mindless panic. Instead, they seemed to be guarding the strength of their mounts, keeping only just enough ahead that he could not bring bows to bear against them.

Khalifa gritted his teeth in irritation, his wounded side throbbing. The Shah had chosen this valley as the fastest route west to support Otrar. The crease between mountains was more than a hundred miles long and opened out into a great plain close by the village where Khalifa had been born. Every mile took him further from the main army and made him wonder if the Mongols were not deliberately drawing him away. Yet he could not rein in and let them go. His blood cried out for vengeance for those they had slaughtered.

The moon rose, which brought some respite as he spent hours calculating angles from the red planet Merreikh to the moon and the eastern horizon. He could not decide if the results promised good fortune or not, and the mental game did not satisfy him. Could the Mongols have planned an ambush so far from the main battle site? Surely it was impossible. As the moon crept higher, he strained his eyes in the gloom for some sign that the Mongols were signaling to another force lying in wait.

He could see nothing but their backs, riding as if they were not pursued by a vast army of furious men intent on their deaths. In the dark valley, it was easy to imagine enemies in every shadow. Khalifa’s anger sustained him as the cold became biting. He took a single gulp from his waterskin and shook it irritably. It had not been full at the beginning, and there was only a little left. He felt his men looking to him for orders, but he had no words for them. He would not return to the Shah only to tell him the enemy had escaped. He could not.

Jebe and Jochi had spent much of the night in conversation, developing a mutual respect that deepened with the hours in the saddle. Some of the men dozed in turns around them, always with a friend to take the reins in case their mounts began to drift back through the ranks. It was common practice for those who had been herdsmen to ride asleep, though usually at just a walking pace. No one fell, despite their drooping heads. The tumans had slowed as the moon began to descend, and the force at their heels had instantly kicked on to a gallop, closing the gap once more. Four times they had been forced to match the frantic pace before slowing, but as dawn approached, both armies were trotting, their mounts biting froth at their mouths as they panted and rode on.

Jochi saw the first wolf dawn and reached across to nudge Jebe. The moon was just a faint sliver on the hills, and a new day was beginning. Another attack was likely and the men around them rubbed tiredness from their eyes. The night they had spent seemed to have lasted forever and at the same time had vanished in an instant. Despite the enemy at their backs, it had been oddly peaceful as the men shared the last of their dried meat and passed skins of warm, sour water between them until they were empty.

Jebe was sore and dry-mouthed, feeling as if there was dust in every joint. His lower back ached and he could only wonder at the enemy who were still there when he looked back. As the light increased, he saw the Arab horses were exhausted from the ride. Their pursuers were lolling in their saddles, but they had not fallen, or allowed the tumans to get too far ahead.

Jochi was proud of the Chin who rode with his people. They had suffered more than anyone and so many had drifted back that they formed the rear of the tumans. Still, they went on. Less than half a mile separated the two armies, and that had not changed since the darkest hours.

As the sun rose in glory, Khalifa passed orders down to his senior men. He had suffered through the night, with cold and exhaustion. The end of the valley was in sight and he knew they had covered more than a hundred miles in one ride. When he had been young, he might have laughed at such a challenge, but at forty, his knees and ankles had begun to hurt with every stride of his mount. His men too were weary, though they had the grim endurance of desert Arabs. They lifted their heads as the order came to close the gap once more. Surely he could bring the Mongols to battle this last time!

There was no sudden surge of speed to alert the enemy ahead. Instead, Khalifa urged his panting mount on slowly, closing the gap to just four hundred paces before the Mongols reacted. Khalifa raised his hand then, roaring through the dust in his throat for a charge.

His men dug in their heels and the exhausted horses responded, hitting a ragged gallop. Khalifa heard a horse scream and go down, spilling a man to the ground. He could not see what had happened as he closed to two hundred paces and drew a long, black arrow from the quiver on his back.

The Mongols had seen the threat and answered it with a volley of shafts loosed behind them. Even then, the accuracy was terrifying and Khalifa saw men and horses plucked away to be trampled on every side. He snarled in frustration as his arrow feathers touched his cheek. His mount was foundering and still they managed to widen the gap. He let go, crying out in triumph as his shaft took an enemy high in the back, sending him crashing down. Dozens more were struck, though armor saved some. Those who fell went under the Arab hooves as they writhed in the dust, struck many times until their bones were shattered pulp.

Khalifa shouted raucously to his men, but they were finished. He could see from the way they swayed in the saddle that they had reached the end of their strength. Many of the horses had gone lame in the night. They drifted to the rear as their riders flailed uselessly with whips and sword scabbards.

He considered ordering a halt, but the effort was too much. Always, he thought he could hang on a little longer, just until the Mongols killed their horses and began to die themselves. His eyes were sore and red from the gritty dust he had ridden through all night, and he could only watch as the enemy drew ahead once more, to half a mile and further. There they stayed as the sun rose higher, and neither side could widen or close the gap. Khalifa put his bow back in the leather sleeve behind his right leg and patted his horse’s neck.

“Just a little further, great heart,” he murmured to the plunging animal. He knew that many of the horses would be ruined after such a ride. They had been pushed beyond anything they had known before, and the wind of many would be permanently broken. He heard another thump and cry as a horse fell somewhere behind him, staggering into those around it and collapsing. Others would follow, he knew, but still the rear ranks of the Mongols beckoned him on and he narrowed his eyes against the choking dust.

As the tumans came out of the shadowy valley onto a plain, their spirits lifted. They could see the morning smoke of villages in the distance, and they followed a road of packed earth into the east. Somewhere ahead lay the cities of the Shah and potential reinforcements for those who still followed. Jebe and Jochi had no idea how many men the Shah could bring to the field. His cities could have been stripped for the war, or left well manned and bristling for just such a raid into their territory.

The road was wide, perhaps because of the huge army that had trampled the earth in passing, just a few days before. The Mongol column narrowed to use the hard ground, riding in ranks of fifty across as they came out of the mountains in a whirl of dust. The sun passed noon and the heat brought horses and men crashing down on both sides, vanishing behind in a welter of hooves. The Mongols sweated and there was no water or salt to keep up their strength. Jebe and Jochi began to glance back more and more often in desperation.

The Arab horses were better than anything they had faced before in war, certainly better than Chin or Russian mounts. Yet as the heat sapped their strength, the pursuers began to fall further behind until Jebe ordered a slower pace. He did not want to lose them or allow them time to halt and regroup. He thought perhaps that they had led the Shah’s riders for more than a hundred and fifty miles, approaching the limits of even the toughest Mongol scouts. The ponies were lathered in strings of soapy spit, their skin dark with sweat and fresh sores where the saddle had rubbed away patches of old callus.

Long into the sweltering afternoon, they passed a road fort with openmouthed soldiers on the walls, shouting challenges to them as they passed. The Mongols did not respond. Each man was lost in his own world, resisting the weakness of flesh.

Jochi spent the hot hours in pain as a raw spot appeared on his thigh, rubbed bloody in the ride. It went numb as the evening came once again, which was a blessed relief. His scars had eased, but his left arm felt weak and the ache there had become a hot iron in his flesh as he gripped the reins. There was no talking in the Mongol ranks by then. Their mouths were closed as they had been taught, conserving moisture in their bodies as they approached the end of endurance. Jochi looked to Jebe occasionally, waiting for the other man to judge the best time to break off the ride. Jebe rode stiffly, his eyes hardly leaving the horizon ahead. To look at him, Jochi thought the young general might well ride to the horizon.

“It is time, Jebe,” Jochi called to him at last.

The general stirred sluggishly from his daze, mumbling something incoherent and spitting feebly, so that the wad of phlegm struck his own chest.

“My Chin warriors are drifting further back,” Jochi went on. “We could lose them. Those who follow are letting the gap widen.”

Jebe turned in the saddle, wincing as his muscles protested. The Arabs were almost a full mile behind. The lead animals were stumbling and lame and Jebe nodded, a tired smile crossing his face as he came fully alert.

“At this pace, a mile is only four hundred heartbeats apart,” he said. Jochi nodded. They had spent part of the dawn judging speed with markers as they passed them and then took note of the Arab ranks drawing abreast at that point. Both Jochi and Jebe found the calculations easy and had amused each other estimating distance and speed to pass the time.

“Increase the pace then,” Jochi replied. He forced his mount to a canter as he spoke, and the tumans matched them doggedly. The enemy dwindled with painful slowness as the generals called out the mark. When the first Arab riders passed a pinkish stone six hundred heartbeats after the last Mongol, the generals looked at each other and nodded grimly. They had come as far as any scout had ever ridden and further. All the men were weary and sore, but it was time. Jochi and Jebe passed orders down the line so that the warriors were ready. Though they had pushed themselves to the limit, Jochi and Jebe both saw something in the red-rimmed eyes of those around them that made them proud.

Jochi had sent orders to the minghaan officers of his Chin recruits at the back, and it was one of those men who rode up through the ranks to speak to him.

The Chin soldier was covered in dust as thick as paint, so that cracks appeared around his eyes and mouth. Even then, Jochi could see his anger.

“General, I must have misunderstood the order you sent,” he said, his voice a dry croak. “If we turn to face this enemy, my men will be in the front rank. Surely you cannot mean to have us fall back?”

Jochi glanced at Jebe, but the Mongol general had fixed his gaze on the horizon.

“Your men are exhausted, Sen Tu,” Jochi said.

The Chin officer could not deny it, but he shook his head. “We have come this far. My men will be shamed if they are taken from the line of battle at the end.”

Jochi saw fierce pride in his officer and realized he should not have given the order. Many of the Chin would die, but they too were his men to command and he should not have tried to spare them.

“Very well. You have the first rank when I call the halt. I will send those with lances to you. Show me you are worthy of this honor.”

The Chin officer bowed in his saddle before returning to the rear. Jochi did not look again at Jebe, though the latter nodded in appreciation.

It took time for the orders to spread through the Mongol riders. For tired men, it seemed to act like a gulp of airag, so that warriors sat straighter in their saddles and readied their bows, lances, and swords. While they still rode, Jebe sent his lancemen to support the rear and waited until they were in position.

“We have come a long way, Jochi,” Jebe said.

The khan’s son nodded. He felt as if he had known Jebe all his life after the night ride. “Are you ready, old man?” Jochi said, grinning despite his tiredness.

“I feel like one, but I am ready,” Jebe replied. Both men raised their left hands high into the air and circled their fists. The Mongol tumans ground to a halt and the gasping horses were turned to face the enemy riding toward them.

Jebe drew his sword and pointed it at the dusty Arab riders.

“Those are tired men” he roared. “Show them we are stronger.” His mount snorted as if in anger and broke into a gallop, its sides heaving like bellows as they charged the pursuing enemy.

Khalifa rode in a daze, drifting in and out of alertness. At times, he thought of the vineyard near Bukhara, where he had first seen his wife tending the crop. Surely he was there and this ride was just a fever dream of dust and pain.

His men began to shout with dry throats all around him, and Khalifa raised his head slowly, blinking. He saw the Mongols had stopped and for a moment he took a searing breath in triumph. He saw the rear ranks raise lances and suddenly the gap between the armies was closing. Khalifa hardly had strength to speak. When he tried to shout, his voice was a feeble whisper. When had he emptied his water flask? That morning? He could not remember. He saw the approaching line and somehow Chin faces were grinning at him. Even then he could barely raise his shield.

The approaching lancers carried small shields in their left hands, some part of him noted. Archers needed both hands for the bows and were vulnerable just as they began to draw. Khalifa nodded to himself at the thought. The Shah would value such information.

The two armies came together with a numbing crash. The heavy birch lances broke shields and pierced men right through. On the narrow road, the column ripped into the Arab riders, deeper and still deeper, tearing them apart.

Arrows screamed past his ears and Khalifa felt something burn his stomach. As he looked down, he saw an arrow there and he plucked at it. His horse had stopped moving at last, falling to its knees as its heart burst in its chest. Khalifa fell with it, the cursed stirrups entangling his right leg, so that his knee tore and his body twisted as he fell. He gasped as the arrow drove further through him. Above his head, he could see Mongols riding like kings.

Khalifa could hear nothing but wind rushing in his ears. The Mongols had ridden them down and he feared for the armies of the Shah. He must be told, Khalifa thought to himself, but then he was gone.

“Kill them all!” Jochi shouted above the roaring hooves and men. The Arabs tried to rally, but many could barely lift their swords more than once and they fell like wheat. The generals smashed through them with their column, seeming to take new strength from every man they killed.

It took hours to turn the dusty road red. As it grew dark, the slaughter continued until they could not see to strike and those who tried to run were brought down by shafts or chased like lost goats. Jebe sent scouts to look for water and at last they made camp on the banks of a small lake just three miles further down the road. The warriors had to be watchful then, as their mounts would have drunk to bursting. More than one had to strike his pony hard on the nose to stop it taking too much water. Only when the animals had drunk did the men throw themselves into the lake, turning the dark waters pink with blood and dust as they gasped and drank and vomited it back up, cheering the generals who had brought them such a victory. Jochi took the time to commend Sen Tu for the way he had led the Chin recruits. They had hacked through the enemy with unmatched ferocity, and they sat at fires with tribesmen of both tumans, proud of the part they had played.

Jochi and Jebe sent aching men back along the road to quarter dead horses and bring them to the fires. The men needed meat as much as water if they were to make it back to Genghis. Both men knew they had done something extraordinary, but they fell into the routines of the camp with just a shared glance of triumph. They had deprived the Shah of his cavalry wings and given Genghis a fighting chance.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE GATES OF THE CITY OF OTRAR were barred against Genghis. He stood on a hill overlooking the city, watching dark smoke lift sluggishly over the burning suburbs. He had spent three days scouting the land, but even for those who had taken dozens of Chin cities, there was no obvious flaw in the design. The walls had been built in layers of light gray limestone on a granite base, each slab weighing many tons. In the walls of the inner city, two iron gates led out to a sprawling maze of abandoned markets and streets. It had been strange to ride through those echoing passageways in sight of the great walls. The governor had known they were coming for months, and apart from a few stray dogs and broken pots, everything of value had been taken. Genghis’s scouts had found a number of subtle traps set for them as they searched. One boy of only thirteen had kicked open a door and fallen back with a crossbow bolt in his chest. After two more deaths, Genghis had given Temuge the task of firing the outer city and Otrar still choked on black smoke. In the cinders and rubble below the hill, Tsubodai’s Young Wolves used pikes to pull down the walls and give the khan a clear route to the inner city.

There was no shortage of information. In exchange for gold, Arab merchants even gave the location of wells within the walls. Genghis had ridden round the entire city with his engineers, noting the thickness of the stone.

The clearest weakness was the hill on the city’s northern side, overlooking the walls. His scouts had found abandoned pleasure gardens there, rich with flowers and an ornamental lake and wooden pavilion. Two days before, Genghis had sent warriors to clear the crest, leaving the rest covered in ancient pine trees. If he sited his wall-breaking weapons where the pavilion had stood, they would have the height to send stones right down the throat of the governor.

Genghis looked down on the city, enjoying the sense of having it almost in his grasp. If he had been governor of such a place, he would have had the hill leveled rather than give an enemy any advantage. Yet he could not enjoy it. Thirty miles to the east, his own camp was protected by his brother Khasar, with just two tumans. The rest of them had sallied into the field against Otrar. Before the far scouts had ridden in, he had been confident that the walls could be broken.

That morning, his scouts had reported a huge army coming from the south. More than two men for every one of his eighty thousand were marching toward that position, and Genghis knew he must not be caught between Otrar and the Shah’s army. Around him on the crest, twelve men drew maps and made written notes on the city. Led by Lian, a master mason from a Chin city, still more worked on assembling catapults and piling clay pots of fire oil. Lian too had been confident before the Shah’s army had been sighted. Now the decisions would be military and the mason simply spread his hands when any of his workers asked what the future held.

“I’d let the governor of Otrar rot in his city if he didn’t have twenty thousand to hit our rear the moment we move,” Genghis said.

His brother Kachiun nodded thoughtfully as he turned his horse in place. “We can’t bar the gates from the outside, brother,” he replied. “They would let men down on ropes and pull the beams away. I can stay here while you take the army to meet our enemy. If you need reserves, send a scout and I’ll come.”

Genghis grimaced. The warriors of Jebe and Jochi had vanished into the valleys and hills, with no sign or contact. He could not leave the families in his camp without protection, and he could not let Otrar go free with so many men. Yet if the scouts were right, he would face a hundred and sixty thousand with only six of his ten tumans. No one had more faith in the fighting ability of his warriors than Genghis himself, but his spies and reports said that this was only one of the Shah’s armies. Genghis not only had to crush it, but come through without serious losses, or the next army would end it all. For the first time since coming west, he wondered if he had made a mistake. With such a vast force available to him, it was no wonder the governor of Otrar had been so arrogant.

“Have you sent men out looking for Jochi and Jebe?” Genghis demanded suddenly.

Kachiun bowed his head, though the khan had asked the question twice already that morning.

“There is still no sign. I have scouts riding a hundred miles in all directions. Someone will bring them in.”

“I would expect Jochi to be absent when I need him, but Jebe!” Genghis snapped. “If I ever needed Arslan’s veterans, it is now! Against so many, it will be like throwing pebbles into a river. And elephants! Who knows how we can stand against those beasts?”

“Leave the camp undefended,” Kachiun said.

Genghis glared at him, but he only shrugged.

“If we fail, two tumans would not be enough to get them home. The Shah would fall on them with everything he has left. The stakes are already that high, just by being here.”

Genghis did not reply as he watched the spars of a catapult being lifted into position. If he had a free month, two at most, he could smash his way into the city, but the Shah would never give him such a respite. He scowled in irritation at the choices. A khan could not throw bones with his entire people, he told himself. The risk of being crushed between hammer and anvil was too great.

Genghis shook his head without speaking. A khan could do as he pleased with the lives of those who followed him. If he gambled and lost, it would be a better life and death than raising goats on the plains of home. He still remembered how it had been to live in fear of the sight of men on the horizon.

“When we were at the walls of Yenking, brother, I sent you out to bleed a Chin column. We know where the Shah is heading and I will not wait in patient squares and columns for him to come to us. I want his men under attack all the way to Otrar.”

Kachiun raised his head when he saw the glitter come back to his brother’s eyes. He took a scout map from a servant’s arms and unrolled it on the ground. Genghis and his brother crouched over it, looking for terrain they could use.

“With so many men and animals, he will have to split his force here and here, or bring them through this wide pass in one group,” Kachiun said. The land to the south of Otrar was a rough plain of farms and crops, but to reach it, the Shah had to cross a range of hills that would funnel the Arabs into a long column.

“How long before they reach the passes?” Genghis asked.

“Two days, maybe more, if they are slow,” Kachiun replied. “After that, they are on open farmland. Nothing we have will stop them.”

“You cannot guard three passes, Kachiun. Who do you want?”

Kachiun did not hesitate. “Tsubodai and Jelme.”

The khan looked at his younger brother, seeing his enthusiasm kindle. “My orders are to thin them, Kachiun, not fight to the death. Hit and retreat, then hit them again, but do not let them trap you.”

Kachiun bowed his head, still staring at the map, but Genghis tapped him on the arm.

“Repeat the order, brother,” he said softly.

Kachiun grinned and did so. “Are you worried I will not leave enough for you?” he said.

Genghis did not answer and Kachiun looked away, flushing. The khan stood and Kachiun rose with him. On impulse, his brother bowed and Genghis accepted the gesture with a dip of his head. Over the years, he had learned respect came at the cost of personal warmth, even with his brothers. They looked to him for answers to all the problems of war, and though it made him a remote figure, it was a part of him and no longer a mask.

“Send for Tsubodai and Jelme,” Genghis said. “If you delay the Shah long enough, perhaps Jochi and Jebe will support you. They too are yours to command. You have half my army, brother. I will be waiting here,” Genghis said. He and Kachiun had come a long way from the young raiders they had once been, he thought. Ten generals would stand to face the Shah’s army, and Genghis did not know whether they would live or die.

Chakahai came out of her ger to see what the sudden shouts meant. She stood in the hot sun with her Chin servants shading her skin, and she bit her lip when she saw the warriors coming out of their homes with supplies and weapons.

Chakahai had lived among the Mongols for long enough to know it was not just a scouting group that was forming. All the men but Khasar and his second, Samuka, were away at the city to the west and she bit her lip in frustration. Ho Sa would be with Khasar, of course, but surely Yao Shu would know what was happening. With a curt order, she started her servants moving with her, seeking out the Buddhist monk as the camp grew noisier all around. She could hear women screeching in anger and she passed one who was weeping on the shoulder of a young man. Chakahai frowned to herself, her suspicions hardening.

She passed the ger of Borte and Hoelun before she caught a glimpse of the monk. Chakahai hesitated outside, but the decision was made when Borte came out, flushed and angry. The two wives of Genghis saw each other at the same time, and both stood stiffly, not quite able to put aside the strain they felt.

“Do you have news?” Chakahai spoke first, deliberately giving the older woman honor. It was a small thing, but Borte’s shoulders became less rigid and she nodded. Chakahai saw how weary she was as she spoke.

“Genghis is taking the tumans,” Borte said. “Khasar and Samuka have orders to leave at noon.”

One of Chakahai’s servants made a terrified sound, and Chakahai reached out instantly, slapping the girl’s face. She turned back to Borte, who was already staring across the camp at the men gathering in ranks.

“What if we are attacked?” Chakahai asked.

Borte winced and shook her head. “How many times have I been asked that since the orders came?” she said. She saw the genuine fear in the Xi Xia princess’s eyes and softened her tone. The woman had been given to Genghis as a gift by her defeated father. She had seen chaos in her time and knew the terror that came with it.

“Do you think we will be defenseless, sister?” Borte said.

Chakahai too had looked away, but the term of friendship brought her gaze snapping back. “Are we not?” she demanded. “What can women and children do against soldiers, if they come?”

Borte sighed. “You were not raised in the tribes, Chakahai. If we are attacked, the women will take up knives and fight. Crippled warriors will mount as best they can and attack. Boys will use their bows. We have horses and weapons enough to hurt anyone who troubles us.”

Chakahai stared in silence, her heart pounding. How could her husband have left her undefended? She knew why Borte spoke in such a way. Panic would destroy the camp before they even sighted an enemy. Families would be torn between the safety of numbers and the fact that the camp itself would draw danger to it. Left alone to protect their children, many wives and mothers would be considering leaving in the night to find a safe place in the hills. To a mother of young children, the idea was tempting, but Chakahai resisted. Like Borte, she was the khan’s wife. The others would look to them for leadership. Of all the women left behind, they could not run.

Borte seemed to be waiting for a response and Chakahai thought carefully before replying. The children would be frightened as they saw the last warriors leave. They would need to see confidence, though it was all false.

“Is it too late for me to learn the bow, sister?” Chakahai said.

Borte smiled. “With those bony, narrow shoulders? It is. But find yourself a good knife.”

Chakahai nodded, though uncertainty swept through her. “I have never killed a man before, Borte.”

“Perhaps you will not have the chance. The knife is to cut and shape straw warriors to put on the saddles of spare horses. In poor light, an enemy will not see our men have gone.”

Borte raised her eyes from her worries and the two women shared a glance before each one turned away, satisfied. There could be no true friendship between them, but neither had found a weakness in the other and both took comfort from that.

As the sun reached its highest point, Khasar looked back at the camp he had been told to abandon. It was as busy as an ants’ nest as women and children scurried between the gers. Even without the tumans, it was a vast assembly, more than a hundred thousand people and gers by a small river. Around them, herds grazed, oblivious. Everything they had looted from the Chin was there, from jade to gold and ancient weapons. Temuge and Kokchu had their collection of manuscripts and books. Khasar bit his lip at the thought of the Shah’s soldiers finding such a prize undefended. Perhaps a thousand elderly or crippled warriors would remain, but he did not hold out hope that those who had lost arms and legs would stop a determined enemy. If they came, the gers would burn, but his brother had called him and he would not disobey. He had three wives and eleven young children somewhere in the maze of gers, and he regretted not taking the time to speak to them before gathering his men.

It was done. The sun was high and he had been called. Khasar looked at his second in command, Samuka. The man was caught between pride at his promotion to lead a tuman and shame at abandoning the camp. Khasar clicked his tongue to catch the other man’s attention, then raised his arm and let it fall. His men kicked in their heels and rode with him, leaving everything they valued behind.

Jochi and Jebe rode together at the head of the tumans. Jochi’s mood was light as they wound their way through valleys back into the west. He had lost almost a thousand men. Some had fallen in the wild charge across the face of the ridge, while more had been cut down or fallen from sheer exhaustion in the long ride that none of them would ever forget. Most of those had been from his Chin soldiers, but those who survived rode with their heads high, knowing they had earned the right to follow their general. Jebe had lost as many, but they were men he had known for years under Arslan. They had died well, but would still be denied the sky funerals, where bodies were taken to the highest peaks to feed hawks and birds of prey. Both generals knew there was no time to honor the dead. Genghis’s brother-in-law Palchuk had been among the bodies, found with a great gash across his face from an Arab sword. Jebe did not know how Genghis would respond to the news, and spent two days resting by the lake in grim silence.

Jebe and Jochi were painfully aware of the threat to the khan, but the horses were spent. They had been forced to let the animals recover their strength before remounting. Even then, it was too early. Many of the animals were still lame and it hurt the senior men to order the ruined ones killed and the meat distributed. Dozens of warriors carried a rack of ribs or a leg across their saddles, while others rode Arab horses in little better condition. For men who saw horses as the only true spoils of war, the battle in the pass had been a triumph worth telling round the fires for a generation. With each warrior, two or three of the Arab mounts ran alongside. Many were lame and broken-winded, but their strength could be used and the Mongols could not bear to leave them behind.

Eighteen thousand men rode with the generals as they turned away from the main valley and took a more tortuous route. As tempting as it was to ride in their own steps, the Shah could well have left an ambushing force somewhere ahead. The men needed time to recover before facing an enemy once more.

Water at least was plentiful. Many of the men had drunk until their bellies were swollen. When they were being chased, they had emptied their bladders as the need came, letting the warm water cut through the coating of dust on their mounts. On the way back, they had food in them. The speed had been slowed by dozens at a time dismounting quickly and squatting on the ground before wiping themselves with rags and leaping back on. They were stinking, filthy, and thin, but hardened by the land they had ridden for so long.

It was Jochi who saw the scouts riding back from a ridge ahead. In Jebe, he had found a man who understood the need to know terrain as well as Tsubodai, and they were always surrounded by a ring of riders many miles out. Jochi whistled to catch Jebe’s attention, but the other general had also seen and merely raised his eyebrows in surmise.

“Did I not send two men that way?” Jochi called. Three were returning and even from a distance, they could see the other rider was a scout like their own, without armor or anything but a sword to slow him down. Some even rode without that weapon, depending on speed alone.

Without a signal, the young generals kicked their mounts forward of the line, hungry for information.

The scout was not from their tumans, though he looked almost as weary and dusty as their own men. Jochi and Jebe looked on as the young man dismounted and bowed, holding his reins in his hands. Jebe raised a hand and the warriors came to a halt. At first the scout hesitated in the presence of two generals, unsure whom to address first. Jochi’s impatience broke the silence.

“You have found us,” he said. “Report.”

The scout bowed again, overwhelmed to be speaking to a son of the khan.

“I was about to turn back when I saw the dust of your horses, General. Tsubodai sent me out. The Shah is in the field with a great army.”

If the scout had expected any excitement at this news, he was disappointed.

“And?” Jebe asked.

The scout began to dip his head and hesitated again, his composure deserting him. “I was sent to bring you in at all speed, General. My lord Genghis will attack, but I do not know any more. I have been out for two days alone, looking for you.”

“We could hit the rear if we get back into that valley,” Jochi said to Jebe, ignoring the scout. Jebe looked back at his men, knowing they were still close to complete exhaustion. A warrior of the tribes could ride all day and still fight, but the horses had clearer limits to their strength. The value of staging an attack on the Shah’s rear ranks would be lost if a fresh enemy turned and cut them to pieces. Jebe nodded grimly to Jochi. Genghis would expect them to push on.

“The Shah’s army will have moved from where we left them,” Jebe said. “It could be a hundred miles yet and then a battle to win.”

Jochi turned his pony in place, preparing to ride. “Then we will have to make good time, General,” he said. The scout watched the conversation warily, unsure whether he should say more. He eyed the herds of horses enviously, pony and Arab mount standing together.

“If you have a fresh horse for me, I will ride ahead and tell the khan you are coming,” he said. For some reason, both generals shared a grin at his words.

“Do you see any fresh horses?” Jebe asked. “If you do, you should take one.”

The scout looked again at the milling animals, seeing the way they stood to favor sore legs. He glanced at the ranks of dusty, grim warriors with them. Some had their arms and legs bound in strips of torn cloth, showing bloody patches under the grime. For their part, the warriors stared back indifferently, ready for orders. Their generals had shown them their own strength in that long ride through the valley. Those who had survived had come out with a confidence they had not known before. If they could ride thirty thousand Arabs to death, what could they not do?

Disappointed, the scout bowed to the generals once more, before mounting. He was barely more than a boy and Jochi chuckled to see his nervousness. With fresh eyes, the general looked over the mass of riders. They had been tested and they would not fail him. For an instant, he saw the pleasure his father took in leading men in war. There was nothing like it.

Jochi clicked with his tongue and the scout looked at him.

“Tell my father we are coming. If he has fresh orders, send scouts along the long valley just to the north. You will find us there.”

The scout nodded earnestly and raced away, filled with the importance of his task.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

SHAH ALA-UD-DIN MOHAMMED seethed as the elephant under him rocked like a ship at sea. The last he had seen of his cavalry had been watching it disappear into the east days before. After each dawn prayer, he could not resist turning to the sun to see if they were returning, but his hopes sank lower each time. The desert tribes could not be trusted and he was certain Khalifa was resting at some distant town, caring nothing for the betrayal. Ala-ud-Din swore there would be a reckoning, when the Mongols had been thrown back over their mountains, or destroyed.

All around the Shah, his army marched stolidly on, heading for the hills that would lead them to Otrar and the Mongol khan. The sight of the shining ranks never failed to lift his aging heart. In truth, the invasion had come at the right time for him. He had spent almost twelve years bringing kings and chieftains to heel, and when they were at their most rebellious, an enemy had swept in from the north, forcing them to choose loyalty over bickering and petty rivalry.

It was hard not to think of Saladin as the army strode on over rocky ground. The great king had captured Jerusalem and sent crusaders reeling. Saladin had faced enemies as fearsome as the Mongol khan and more so. Each night, when the army made its camp, Ala-ud-Din read lines by lamplight from Saladin’s own record of his battles, learning what he could before tucking it under a thin pillow and finding sleep. Next to his copy of the Koran, it was his most prized possession.

The curtained howdah was still cool after the night, though the sun would be fierce as it rose. Ala-ud-Din broke his fast with a plate of dates and dried apricots, washing them down with a draught of cool yoghurt. His men carried dried mutton and flat bread that had long gone stale, but it did not matter. Otrar was not more than a few days away, and his idiot cousin, Inalchuk, would entertain him with the best of meats and fruit when they saved his city for him.

Ala-ud-Din jerked as his servant cleared his throat softly outside the curtains.

“What is it?” he demanded.

The curtain flicked back to reveal the man standing on a step set in the elephant’s belly strap. “The last of the coffee, master.”

Ala-ud-Din nodded and held out his hand for the cup. They had been on the move for almost an hour, and he was surprised to find the black liquid still steaming. He tipped it carefully so as not to dribble the precious drink onto his beard.

“How have you kept it hot?” he asked.

His manservant smiled to see his master pleased. “I put the pot in a leather bag, master, filed with ashes from the morning fires.”

Ala-ud-Din grunted, sipping. It was bitter and delicious.

“You have done well, Abbas. This is very fine.”

The curtain dropped as his servant stepped down. Ala-ud-Din heard him trotting at the side of the great beast for a while. No doubt he was already thinking of what he could scavenge for his master’s next meal after the midday prayers.

If his men would have allowed it, Ala-ud-Din had considered granting a dispensation not to pray as they marched. They lost more than three hours a day to do so, and the delays chafed on him. It would be taken as weakness in the faith by those who looked to challenge him, and he brushed off the thought once more. It was their belief that kept them strong, after all. The words of the prophet formed the call to prayer, and even a Shah could not resist.

He had turned his army from the great valley at last, heading north to Otrar. Ahead was a range of brown hills, and beyond that, his men would fall on the Mongol host with all the ferocity of men bred to the harsh southern deserts. Ala-ud-Din closed his eyes in the rocking howdah and considered those he had brought to war. With the loss of Khalifa’s riders, he had only five hundred horsemen, his own guard of noble sons. Already he had been forced to use them as messengers and scouts. For the sons of ancient families, it was an insult to their blood, but he had no choice.

Further back in the column, six thousand camels plodded, the supplies of the entire army on their backs. Half as fast as the best horses, they could carry immense weight. The rest of the army marched, while the Shah and the most senior men rode in comfort. He doted on his elephants for sheer power and strength, eighty bulls in their prime.

Looking out from the howdah, Ala-ud-Din took pride in the force he had assembled. Saladin himself would have been proud of them. The Shah could see his oldest son, Jelaudin, mounted on a superb black stallion, still uncut though the animal was vicious. The Shah’s heart soared at the sight of the handsome young man who would one day succeed him. The men adored the prince and it was not hard to dream of his line ruling all the Arab peoples for centuries to come.

Ala-ud-Din thought again of Khalifa’s horsemen and struggled to prevent anger from spoiling the morning. He would have them hunted down when the battle was over and leave not one of them alive. He swore it silently as his army marched on and the hills grew slowly closer.

Tsubodai’s scouts came racing in as he crouched on one knee, overlooking the plains below the hills and the Shah’s army. The view stretched for many miles and he did not need the young men to tell him the enemy was coming through the wide pass, the one he had chosen to defend.

As the scouts dismounted, Tsubodai waved a hand in their direction.

“I know,” he said. “Go and tell the other generals. We will hit them here.”

In the distance, he saw the Shah’s outriders cutting dusty lines through scrub crops as they rode north. Tsubodai tried to put himself in the Shah’s position, but it was hard. He would never have brought such an army through a single pass. Instead, he would have gone round the mountains entirely and let Otrar fall. The distances would have delayed the Shah for another month in the field, but the Mongol tumans would have been forced to meet him on open ground, with all advantages stolen away.

Instead, the Shah took the easiest route, revealing that he valued Otrar. Tsubodai was learning everything he could, noting every decision that would help to destroy his enemy. He knew as well as anyone that Genghis was overextended in this realm. It was no longer a matter of bringing vengeance to one city, but simple survival for their people. They had stuck their hands into a wasps’ nest every bit as furious as the Chin empire, and once again the stakes were at their highest.

Tsubodai smiled at the thought. Some of the men fought for new land, for exotic women, even for gold. From his private conversations with the khan, Tsubodai knew he and Genghis cared for none of those things. The sky father gave a man his life and nothing else. The khan’s people were alone on the plains and it was a savage loneliness. Yet they could ride and conquer, take cities and empires one by one. Perhaps in time, those who followed them would be as weak and soft as the city dwellers they faced, but that did not matter to Tsubodai. He was not responsible for the choices of his sons and grandsons, only for the way he lived his own life. As he knelt on hard gray stone and watched the clouds of dust come closer below, he thought again that he had only one rule, which guided everything he did.

“Fight for every breath and step,” he muttered aloud, the words a talisman to him. It was possible that the Shah’s great army could not be stopped, that it would roll over the tumans of Genghis, right to the plains of home. Only the sky father knew. Like the khan, Tsubodai would still seek out anyone who might ever be a threat and hit them first and harder than they would believe. With that, when he came to the end of his life, he would be able to look back with pride and not shame.

Tsubodai broke off his thoughts as riders from Kachiun and Jelme cantered up to his position. After days in that place, he knew them all by name and greeted them. They dismounted and bowed deeply, honored by a general who remembered such details.

“The tumans are coming, General,” one of them said.

“Do you have orders for me?” Tsubodai replied.

The scout shook his head and Tsubodai frowned. He did not enjoy being set under Kachiun’s command, though he had found him a solid leader.

“Tell your officers that we cannot wait here. The Shah could still send men around us. We need to sting him, to force him along the route we have chosen.”

Tsubodai looked up with the others as Kachiun and Jelme came riding in, leaping down from their horses and striding to the high crag. Tsubodai rose and dipped his head to Kachiun.

“I wanted to see for myself,” Kachiun said, staring out onto the farmland below. The Shah’s army was only a few miles away, and they could all see the front ranks through the dust. It came on as a solid block and the sheer size of it was enough to alarm any man.

“I have waited for your orders before moving, Kachiun,” Tsubodai said.

Kachiun glanced sharply at him. He had known the young general when he was just another warrior, but Genghis had seen something valuable in him. He reminded himself that Tsubodai had repaid his brother’s trust many times.

“Tell me what you have in mind,” Kachiun said.

Tsubodai nodded. “This is a huge army, ruled by one man. The fact that he has chosen to come through this pass shows that he does not have our structure of officers. Why did he not trust two good men to take columns through the other passes? Know the enemy and you will know how to kill him. It is all useful to us.”

Kachiun and Jelme looked at each other. As experienced as they were, Tsubodai had a reputation for keeping his warriors alive that was unmatched in the tribes. He spoke without haste and all the time the Shah’s army was drawing closer.

Tsubodai saw Jelme glance over his shoulder and smiled.

“We hit them with that weakness,” he continued. “We have thirty minghaans between us, each commanded by a man who can think and act on his own. Our strength is in that and in our speed.” He thought again of wasps as he went on. “We send all but four out against them. Like a swarm. Let the Shah try and crush them with his clumsy hands. We are too fast for them.”

“And the four thousand men who stay behind?” Kachiun asked.

“The best archers,” Tsubodai replied. “The very best we have. They will line the pass, high in the rocks. You showed the power of our bows at the Badger’s Mouth pass, did you not? I cannot find a better example.”

Kachiun twisted his mouth at the praise. Against Chin cavalry, he had once stood with nine thousand men and hammered shafts at them until they had broken.

“If I keep the men low enough on the rocks to be accurate,” he replied, “the Shah’s archers will pluck them down with their own shafts. We don’t even know how those elephants will act in war.”

Tsubodai nodded, unconcerned. “No plan is perfect, General. You must use your judgment to place your men, of course, though they will have more range shooting down than up, no? I have said how I would tackle this Shah and his host. Even so, I will follow your orders.”

Kachiun thought only for a moment. “Pray you are right, Tsubodai. I will send the men out.”

Tsubodai chuckled, surprising both Jelme and Kachiun. “I do not pray to anyone, General. I think if I did, the sky father would say ‘Tsubodai, you have been given the best fighting men in the world, generals who listen to your plans, and a foolish, slow-moving enemy, yet you are still looking for an edge?’ ” He chuckled again at the idea. “No, I will use what we have. We will take them apart.”

Kachiun and Jelme looked once more at the immense enemy marching toward the pass. A hundred and sixty thousand men were coming with their blood up, but somehow they seemed less terrible after Tsubodai’s words.

Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed jerked as his army let out a great shout all around him. He had been playing chess with himself to pass the hours, and the set slipped from the small table in the howdah, scattering pieces. He swore under his breath as he yanked back the curtains at the front, squinting into the distance. His eyes were not strong and he could only make out bodies of horsemen coming at his army. Alarm horns sounded across the host and Ala-ud-Din felt a spasm of fear as he turned to look for his servant. Abbas was already running alongside and leapt nimbly to the wooden mounting step. Both men stared across two miles to where the Mongols rode.

“Will you say nothing, Abbas?”

The servant swallowed nervously. “It is … strange, master. As soon as they are out of the pass, they sheer off and take different directions. There is no order to it.”

“How many?” the Shah demanded, losing his patience.

Abbas counted quickly, his mouth moving with the strain. “Perhaps twenty thousand, master, but they move constantly. I cannot be certain.”

Ala-ud-Din relaxed. The Mongol khan must have been desperate to send so few against him. He could see them better now as they galloped toward his marching army. They rode in strange patterns, weaving and overlapping the groups so that he could not see where they would strike first. No orders had yet been given and his men marched stoically on toward the pass, readying their shields and swords. He wished Khalifa’s riders were there, but that was merely revisiting empty anger.

Ala-ud-Din beckoned to three sons of chieftains, riding behind his elephant. He saw his son Jelaudin riding close, his young face stern with righteous anger. Ala-ud-Din raised a proud hand in greeting as the scouts came up.

“Take my orders to the front,” he told them. “Have the flanks move out to a wider line. Wherever the enemy strikes, we will surround them.”

“Master,” Abbas said, “they are already attacking.”

“What?” Ala-ud-Din snapped. He narrowed his eyes, blinking in surprise at how close the Mongols had come. He could hear distant shouts as his front ranks met the first volleys of arrows with raised shields.

Columns of galloping Mongol horsemen were swinging in, passing the front and riding along the vulnerable flanks of his army. Ala-ud-Din gaped. Khalifa could have held them, but the man had betrayed his master. He could feel his son’s eyes burning into him, but he would not send the guard out yet. They were his shield and they rode the only horses he had left.

“Tell the generals that we do not stop for these. March on and use the shields. If they come too close, make the sky black with arrows.”

The noble sons raced to the front and the Shah fretted as the elephant strode on, oblivious to its master’s concerns.

Tsubodai rode at full gallop along the flank of the Shah’s army. He stood in the stirrups with his bow bent, balancing against the pony’s rhythms. He could feel the strike of each hoof and then there would be a moment of flying stillness as all four legs were in the air. It lasted for less than a heartbeat, but he loosed an arrow in that instant and watched it strike a yelling enemy soldier, knocking him off his feet.

He could hear the Shah’s officers bark commands, strange syllables on the wind. The man himself was well protected in the heart of the army. Tsubodai shook his head in amazement at the core of riders trapped in the center. What good did they do there, where they could not maneuver? The elephants too were deep in the ranks, too far to hit with his shafts. Tsubodai wondered if the Shah valued them more than his own men. It was one more thing to know. As he thought and rode, thousands of marching men raised their double-curved bows and loosed. Arrows whined at him and Tsubodai ducked instinctively. The Shah’s bows had more range than anything he had faced in Chin lands. Tsubodai had lost men on his first pass down the flank, but he could not stay out of reach and still make his own shafts count. Instead, he brought his column swinging in, pounding the Arabs with arrows, then galloping away as the reply came snapping back at him. It was a risky maneuver, but he had begun to get a feel for how long he could delay to aim. The Arabs had to hit a fast-moving column, while his men could aim anywhere in the mass.

Around him, his minghaans adopted the tactic, each column of a thousand biting holes in the Arab lines before racing clear. The Shah’s army marched on, and though the shields saved many, a trail of broken dead marked their path toward the pass in the hills.

Tsubodai pulled his men in a wider curve than the last three strikes, straining his eyes to see the pass. Once the Shah’s front ranks reached it, there would be no chance to slip back in and join Kachiun. The Shah’s army advanced like a plug being forced into a bottle and there was not much time left before the pass was blocked. Tsubodai hesitated, his thoughts spinning. If the Shah continued at that speed, he would leave the flying columns behind and punch his way through to Otrar. Kachiun’s four thousand would surely not stop such a mass. It was true that Tsubodai could continue the attacks on the rear as they advanced, and he knew that was a sound decision. He and his men could snatch thousands from the helpless ranks, and the Shah would be unable to stop them. Even then, there were two other passes to go round the army. Tsubodai could lead the minghaans through and still support Genghis at Otrar.

It was not enough. Though the Mongol riders had killed thousands, the Shah’s army barely shuddered as they closed ranks over the dead and moved on. When they reached the plain before Otrar, Genghis would be left with the same problem Tsubodai had been sent to solve. The Shah would hit the khan from the front, while the Otrar garrison waited at his back.

Tsubodai led his men in once more, loosing arrows a thousand at a time. Without warning, another minghaan crossed his path and he was forced to pull up or crash into the young fool who led them. Arrows soared out of the Shah’s ranks as soon as they saw him slow, and this time dozens of warriors fell, their horses screaming and bloody. Tsubodai swore at the officer who had ridden across his line and caught a glimpse of the man’s appalled expression as the two forces separated and swung away. It was not truly his fault, Tsubodai acknowledged. He had trained his own tuman for just such an attack, but it was hard to weave trails around the Shah without some confusion. It would not save the man from public disgrace when Tsubodai caught up with him later on.

The Shah’s army reached the pass and Tsubodai’s chance to dart in ahead of them had gone. He looked for Jelme, knowing the older general was riding his own weaving path, but he could not see him. Tsubodai watched the tail of the great host begin to shrink as the Shah passed to what he thought was safety. If anything, the stinging attacks on the flanks intensified as the minghaans had less ground to cover. As the tail shrank, they struck again and again and Tsubodai saw some of the wilder men lead attacks with swords, cutting right into the marching lines. The Arabs screamed and fought, holding them off as best they could, but with every pace, the numbers fell in Tsubodai’s favor. There would be a moment when the flying columns outnumbered those left in the tail, and he decided then to cut it off completely.

He sent his freshest men off to pass on the order, but it was hardly necessary. The Mongols had gathered round the last of the Shah’s army, harrying them so closely that they had almost stopped. The ground was red around the mouth of the pass, and Tsubodai saw limbs and bodies lying everywhere as the carnage grew.

Forty thousand Arabs were still in the column before the pass when a shudder rippled through them. Tsubodai cocked his head and thought he could hear screams in the distance, echoing back from the hills. Kachiun’s attack had begun. Tsubodai’s quiver was empty on his back and he drew his sword, determined to see the Shah’s tail wither in the sun.

Warning shouts broke his concentration as Tsubodai led his men in again, this time directly across the face of the column. He had chosen a spot close to the pass itself, and his heart was hammering as he kicked his mount into a gallop. At first he did not hear the shouts, but his instincts were good and he looked up for the source, raising his sword to halt his men before the attack.

For an instant, Tsubodai swore under his breath. He could see riders and an awful suspicion followed that the Shah had kept a rear guard to surprise their attackers at just such a moment. The fear passed as quickly as it had come. He saw his own people riding and his heart lifted. Jochi still lived and Jebe rode with him.

Tsubodai looked around sharply with fresh eyes. Perhaps thirty thousand Arabs still struggled to reach the pass, hammered and struck on all sides. The minghaans really did swarm around them like wasps, Tsubodai thought, but even a bear could be brought down in the end. He was not needed there, though he could not leave without telling Jelme.

It seemed to take an age before he found his fellow general, bloody and battered, but jubilant as he too readied his men to ride in once more.

“Like sheep to a slaughter!” Jelme shouted as Tsubodai rode up. Concentrating on the battle, he had not yet seen the riders, and Tsubodai only nodded in their direction.

Jelme frowned and let his fingers drop to a long shaft that had struck him in the shoulder. It had passed through armor to cut his flesh just below the skin. Jelme worked furiously at it, trying to pull it free. Tsubodai came close and took the shaft, snapping it quickly and throwing the pieces down.

“Thank you,” Jelme said. “Is it our missing generals?”

“Who else has two tumans in this place?” Tsubodai replied. “We could have used them before, but I shall send them around the passes to attack the Shah as he comes out.”

“No,” Jelme replied. “You and I can do that well enough. Let these latecomers take our leavings and follow the Shah into the pass. I am still fresh, General. I will fight again today.”

Tsubodai grinned and clapped Jelme on the shoulder. He sent two scouts back to carry orders to Jebe and Jochi before peeling off and calling his men after him. The closest pass was little more than a mile away.

In just moments, the attack on the rear had ceased and the last of the Shah’s bloody soldiers passed between the hills. As shadow crossed their faces at last, they looked fearfully back at the wild horsemen who rode so swiftly toward somewhere else. No one cheered to have survived it. They were filled with dark foreboding and as they looked behind at the swathe of dead they had left, another army rode closer and closer, ready to begin the killing again.

Tsubodai forced his mount over broken ground, heading up into the hills. The second pass was a narrow trail and the Shah might well have discounted it for so many men. Still, it served a rank of ten across, and as he climbed, Tsubodai looked at the farmlands below, seeing a wavering red slash marking the path of the battle, quickly drying to brown. Over it came the tumans of Jochi and Jebe, and even from that distance, Tsubodai could see they were riding slowly. He saw the tiny figures of his scouts reach them and the pace picked up.

Tsubodai’s view was blocked after that and he did not see them follow the Shah into the pass. Kachiun would be out of arrows and still the army was too large for the forces of Genghis at Otrar. Yet Tsubodai was pleased with the killing. He had shown the strength of the columns on their own and the best way to act against a slow enemy. He looked ahead to where Jelme rode, urging on his men. Tsubodai smiled at the older man’s enthusiasm and energy, still undimmed. Every warrior there knew that they might have another chance to attack if they could get through the hills before the Shah reached open ground. There would be no place for stinging wasps then, Tsubodai realized. With the right timing, they would hit the Shah’s right flank with the best part of twenty thousand men. Most of their arrows had gone. Shields and swords would have to finish what they had begun.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

IN THE MORNING SUN, Genghis turned quickly enough to make Khasar jump. When he saw it was his younger brother, the khan’s face grew a fraction less terrible, but the visible strain remained. Genghis had lived on anger and frustration for two days, while his men fought and died beyond the southern hills. If the walls of Otrar had been a little less thick, he would have had the catapults working all that time. Instead, it would have been a pointless gesture and he had waited. The city was not as important as surviving the Shah’s army, but inaction had worn his temper to bare bones.

“Give me good news,” Genghis snapped.

Khasar hesitated and Genghis scowled as he saw it.

“Then give me whatever you have,” he said.

“The scouts report a battle before the pass. The generals have thinned the Shah’s men as you ordered, but the army is still mostly intact. Kachiun is ready with archers on the high slopes. They will kill many, but unless the army breaks and runs, the Shah will come through. You knew it would be so, brother.”

He watched as Genghis clenched his left fist hard enough to make the arm shake.

“Tell me how to stop twenty thousand warriors falling on us from behind and I will stand in the Shah’s path as he comes out,” Genghis said.

Khasar looked away at the city that mocked their preparations. With the camp stripped of warriors, five full tumans waited for orders, and Genghis chafed at every wasted moment. He did not underestimate the risk he had taken. As well as his wives, his sons Ogedai and Tolui had been left without protection as he tried to wring every advantage from the forces available to him. As the sun had risen on a second day, only Khasar had dared speak to his brother, and he could offer no solution.

Khasar knew as well as his brother that if the Shah made it through the hills with his army, the garrison at Otrar would attack as soon as they saw his banners. The tumans would be crushed. Khasar knew he did not have the brilliance of Tsubodai or even the wits of Kachiun, but he could see only one order to give. They could not hold Otrar. All they could do was retreat, drawing all the generals with them. Still, he waited for Genghis.

The black smoke of the burning suburbs had dwindled to nothing over the previous days. The air was clean and hot as Genghis looked over his army. The city was silent as they waited for deliverance.

“There will be other years, brother,” Kachiun said at last. “Other battles.”

“You would have me retreat, Khasar?” Genghis turned to his brother once more.

Khasar shrugged. “Better than being killed. If you take the tumans ten miles north, this Shah will join the garrison at Otrar and then at least we will face one army, with no one to attack the rear.”

Genghis snorted in disdain for the idea. “Miles of plains and mountains that they know better than we do. They would batter us all the way home, and even my generals cannot stop so many. Yet if I can reach this pass, the Shah will not be able to maneuver. Even now, it would be hard to reach him before the sun sets, brother. Time is killing us.”

Genghis fell silent suddenly, as a thought struck him. “The man who was your second, Samuka. Is he loyal?”

Khasar narrowed his eyes, wondering what Genghis was thinking. “Of course,” he replied.

Genghis nodded sharply, making a decision. “Give him five thousand men and have him hold this place until I return. He does not have to win the battle, just prevent them from entering the field. Tell him I need time and that he must win it for me.”

Khasar did not reply at first. Chagatai’s tuman was closer to the city than Samuka’s men, but Khasar knew Genghis would not send his son to certain death, as he seemed willing to do with Samuka.

“Very well, brother. I will tell him,” he said. Genghis was already mounting his horse and turning it to take his place at the head of the army. Khasar rode back to the ranks, cutting across at a gallop to reach Samuka.

He found his old second in command standing with Ho Sa, discussing the riding order. Their faces lit up as they saw Khasar, and his heart sank at what he must say. With a gesture, Khasar drew them apart from the other officers and spoke in a low voice.

“My lord Genghis orders you to stay behind, Samuka. Take five thousand of the best archers and hold the city until we return.”

Ho Sa stiffened as if he had been struck. Samuka’s dark eyes searched Khasar’s for a moment. All three men knew it was a death sentence. The garrison would cut them to pieces in their desperation to get out of the city.

“They will do their best to break through,” Khasar went on. “It will be bloody work.”

Samuka nodded, already resigned. Five thousand men would not be enough to hold two gates. As a thought struck him, he glanced to Ho Sa.

“I do not need this one, General. Let him go with you.” Samuka smiled tiredly. “He is useless anyway and I will not need him here.”

Ho Sa suffered through a moment of utter weakness. He did not want to die in a land he barely knew. Samuka had given him a chance to live. Khasar looked away rather than watch the turmoil on Ho Sa’s face.

“I will stay,” Ho Sa said.

Samuka looked to the skies and blew air out of puffed cheeks. “You are a fool then,” Samuka said. He turned to Khasar and took a deep breath, his manner suddenly brisk. “How long must I hold?”

Khasar gave no sign that he had noticed Ho Sa’s struggle. “Perhaps a day. I will relieve you myself.”

Both Ho Sa and Samuka bowed their heads, accepting the task before them. On impulse, Khasar reached out and gripped Ho Sa’s shoulder. He had known the Xi Xia officer for many years, ever since the first raids into Chin territory.

“Stay alive, brother,” Khasar said. “I will come if I can.”

“I will be watching for you,” Ho Sa said, his voice rough. His face showed none of the fear that churned in his stomach.

Genghis was already at the head of his army, staring coldly across at the three men. He waited until Samuka shouted orders to five minghaan officers and they rode clear of the main army. Khasar delayed a while to collect four arrows from each warrior of Chagatai’s tuman, passing them on in bundles. Samuka and Ho Sa would need every one. If they could hold the Otrar garrison even until dark, perhaps Genghis would have justified the waste of men.

As the order to remain spread among the five thousand, many heads turned to Khasar. They knew what the orders meant. He sat like a stone and was pleased to see no shouted arguments. They had learned discipline, his people, even unto death.

Genghis dug in his heels and his pony leapt forward. Chagatai and Khasar went with him toward the brown hills where the Shah battled the generals. Behind them, the people of Otrar cheered on the walls, and only the small, grim force with Samuka and Ho Sa rode back, dwarfed by the city.

The front ranks of the Shah’s army marched out of the pass into bright sunlight, roaring at having survived. Arrows had fallen on them in tens of thousands as they forced their way through. Their shields bristled with spent shafts and many of the men used knives to cut them to stubs as they strode on toward Otrar.

Behind them, there was still screaming in the valley as the Mongols tore at the rear of his army, perhaps hoping the Arabs would panic and break. Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed smiled grimly at the thought. There was no shame in dying well and his men were strong in their faith. Not one of them had run from the bloody swords of the enemy. The Mongol bows had been silent at the back, and that was Allah’s mercy, at least. The Shah wondered if they had used up their arrows on Khalifa’s riders, and in his embattled state of mind, he hoped so. It was a better end for the desert thief than betrayal.

It had taken a long time to march through the storm of shafts from Mongols perched like hawks on the cliffs. The sun was long past noon and the Shah did not know if the devils would continue their assaults into darkness. Otrar was no more than twenty miles north, and he would push his men on until the city was in sight. He would make his camp where the people of the city would know he had come to save them.

He heard fresh death cries behind and snarled to himself. The Mongols were everywhere, and though his men had locked shields, it was hard to have an enemy killing where you could not see him. Many in the ranks looked back fearfully, but they were the best of those he could summon to war. Every one of them had fought in battles and raids. Only death would stop them reaching the city.

From his high position on the elephant’s back, Ala-ud-Din was among the first to see Tsubodai and Jelme coming out of the mountains on his right side. He cursed under his breath, calling for his noble messengers once more. He cast a quick glance over his army, noting the strengths and regiments to hand, then nodded to the first man to ride close.

“Tell my son Jelaudin to destroy the flanking force. He may have twelve elephants and ten thousand men under General Faisal. Tell him I will be watching.”

The rider pressed fingers to his lips and heart before racing away to pass on the order. Ala-ud-Din turned his gaze away from the right flank, knowing his son would ride them down.

The Shah smiled grimly as his army left the mountain pass behind. Nothing could stop him reaching Otrar. Somewhere ahead Genghis rode, but he had left it too late. Even if he was on his way, Inalchuk’s garrison would hamstring him. The Mongols were fast and more mobile than Shah Mohammed could believe, but he outnumbered them still and his men would not run while he lived.

It would be a fine battle and Ala-ud-Din was surprised to discover he was looking forward to seeing the khan crushed. It was almost with regret that he must kill such a daring enemy. The last year had been more exciting and rewarding than any of the three before it. He sighed to himself, remembering a childhood tale of a Shah who feared black depression almost as much as the giddy heights of overconfidence. When he asked his advisers to find him a solution, they had forged a simple ring with the words “This too shall pass” cut into the gold. There was truth in such simplicity and the Shah was content as his battered army strode on to Otrar.

Tsubodai’s columns formed into a wide charging line as they came out of the hills. The head of the Shah’s army was already in sight, but Tsubodai halted his men and made them pass arrows to the front ranks. There were very few. He had enough for three quick shots from five hundred men before it was down to swords.

Jelme came to ride at his side as the ponies surged forward.

“Jochi and Jebe are on the tail of this snake,” Jelme said. “Can we cut off the head?”

“All things are possible,” Tsubodai shouted over his shoulder. “I can hardly believe this enemy has weathered so many attacks without losing formation. It is one thing more to know, General: they have extraordinary discipline, almost as good as our own. Even with a fool for a leader, they will be hard to break.”

They had just over a mile to ride before they hit the right wing. Tsubodai calculated the time in his head. At that speed, they could reach the lines in two hundred heartbeats.

As they bore down on the army spilling out of the pass, Tsubodai saw a great piece of it break off and face them. He frowned at a line of elephants coming to the fore, jabbed and whipped by their handlers. He felt rather than saw his men hesitate and shouted encouragement to them.

“The heads are armored. Aim for the legs,” he called. “Anything that lives can be killed by us.” Those who heard grinned as the orders flew across the lines. The archers bent their bows in readiness, testing their strength.

The elephants began to lumber forward, picking up speed quickly. Tsubodai saw foot soldiers running alongside them. The elephants were terrifying as they grew and grew before his eyes. Tsubodai readied his sword, swinging it lightly along his horse’s flank, so that it swished the air. He could see the tumans under Genghis coming from the north and wondered idly how the khan had left Otrar at his back.

“Kill the elephants first!” he roared to his archers. They were ready and he felt his heartbeat pounding in his chest and throat. The sun was dipping toward the horizon and it was a good day to be alive.

Samuka had arranged his five thousand in two groups at either end of the city, each facing the high gates set into the walls. Ho Sa commanded the second and Samuka approved of the cold face the Xi Xia officer had learned in his time with the tribes. Once both men were in position, Samuka became calm. His men had assembled rough barriers braced against rocks that would protect them from arrows while they held the gate. Samuka sighed to himself. Genghis had left him only one advantage and he would use it to the best of his ability. He ran a silk banner through his fingers, enjoying the feel of it. He could see dark faces watching him from the high towers of Otrar, and he did not think he would have long to wait.

Genghis was not more than a few miles to the south when Samuka heard the garrison’s orders echoing inside the walls. He nodded to himself and checked his officers were ready one more time. They were as grim as their general and no one was foolish enough to think they would survive the battle to come.

The iron door in the eastern wall opened slowly. At the same time, ranks of dark bowmen appeared on the walls, thousands of them. Samuka stared up indifferently, judging the numbers. In the days previously, the Mongols had cleared a path to the gate, using pikes to pull down the rubble of charred houses. It had been a good plan at the time, but they had made it easier for the inhabitants to come storming out. Samuka snapped an order and his men readied their bows, placing arrows carefully at their feet where they could be snatched up at speed. One of the makeshift wooden barriers collapsed and Samuka heard an officer swear as he sent men to brace it. Samuka smiled tightly. Genghis had placed him there and he would not be moved easily.

He did not know if the garrison would come at just this one place or try to force Ho Sa’s gate as well, hidden from his sight. Either way, his path was set as he sat his pony just out of range and watched the iron gates pushed back. In the sunlit city beyond, ranks of well-armored men sat good Arab horses. Samuka squinted at them. They were the ones he had to destroy. Infantry could not reach Genghis in time.

For a man who loved horseflesh, it was a bitter order, but Samuka raised his head.

“Kill the horses,” he shouted, his voice carrying far. Like an echo, it was repeated, though for such a small force, there could not have been many who did not hear him. The Mongol ponies were little use in a crescent formation that could not move, but it was comforting to sit his saddle and Samuka would not have wanted to stand on the ground with an enemy coming at him.

Voices roared in the city and the enemy lunged out. The gateway compressed their ranks, so that only five at a time could hit the gallop. Samuka raised his left hand, looking for the moment. A hundred men bent their bows at the gaps in the barricades. He knew he had to stagger the volleys to conserve the stock of arrows, but he wanted the first one to be terrifying.

The garrison had planned well enough, Samuka saw. They widened their rank as they came through the gate, getting as many men out as possible in the shortest time. Samuka watched impassively as they crossed the marker he had left at a hundred paces.

“Horses first!” he shouted again, and dropped his hand.

The crack that followed made his heart race. A hundred long shafts soared out, hardly slowing before they hit the emerging horsemen. The first rank collapsed like a burst waterskin, horses and men falling on the dusty ground. Samuka raised his hand again and dropped it almost immediately, knowing the next hundred would be ready. Nothing could resist such hammering blows. Though the Arabs wore armor and carried shields, they fell hard with their horses, then more arrows impaled those who staggered to their feet.

The air above the gates filled with whirring shafts as the archers on the walls bent and loosed. Samuka ducked instinctively, though the barriers protected him. Those that shot high dropped on the shields of his men. They were experienced and took the blows with a light hand, soaking up the impacts.

Still the riders came out. Samuka sent volley after volley at the lines until there were hills of dead men and horses before Otrar. Some of his men died as arrows from the walls beat past their guard, but it was only a few.

Lulls came as the garrison used their own wooden barricades to clear the bodies. It took time and the Mongols were pleased to wait before beginning the slaughter once more. Even then, Samuka despaired as he estimated the arrows remaining. If every shot took a life, it would still come to swords in the end.

The brutal exchange went on. If the garrison were willing to ride straight out, Samuka could at least hold them until dark, he was almost sure. His confidence was on the rise when he saw fresh movement on the walls. He glanced up quickly, assuming it was a change of men, or arrows being brought up to them. He grimaced at the sight of ropes spilling over the crest and soldiers clambering down, burning their hands in the need to reach the ground quickly.

Samuka swore, though he had expected it. Already, hundreds were forming up out of his range, and all the time, his men sent shafts into the gateway, killing screaming riders as they struggled to break out. Samuka summoned a scout and sent him to Ho Sa on the other side of the city. If the warriors there were still untouched, he could bring a few hundred around and sweep the new threat away. As Samuka watched, more and more ropes became black with climbing men and the ranks on the ground grew thicker and more confident. His heart sank as he saw them begin to run toward his position, swords and shields bright in the afternoon sun. Once more he dropped his hand to send arrows at riders urging their mounts over their own dead. He could not maneuver until the arrows were gone.

If the Otrar officers had decided to take a wide route around him, Samuka would have been forced to cut them off. It was too early to allow them to ride in support of the Shah. Samuka watched them carefully, but in his rage and excitement, the governor had clearly ordered them to sweep the Mongols away. They came at the run and Samuka had his mobile five hundred meet them with arrows as they closed, the shafts tearing through their ranks. More and more climbed out of the city, and Samuka clenched his jaw in anger and frustration as the first garrison soldiers met his.

While his men fought savagely, four hundred Mongol riders came racing round the city and charged straight at the infantry of Otrar. At first they cut through them, loosing one vicious wave of shafts before they drew their swords and fell to the killing. The garrison buckled under the onslaught, but every Mongol warrior was met by three or four Arab soldiers. Samuka saw their numbers dwindle as the charge came to a shuddering halt. Assailed on all sides, they fought well and no one broke, but the Arabs cut them down until just a few dozen remained in the press, hacking desperately at anything they could reach. They too fell at last and Samuka groaned aloud as almost ten thousand of the garrison re-formed. He had one last bone to throw and it would not be enough.

Inside the iron gate, he could see lines of fresh cavalry, shouting and holding up their shields. They knew they had the victory.

Wearily, Samuka pulled the silk banner from where he had stuffed it under a saddle cloth. The breeze made it flutter as he raised it over his head. He looked up at the hill behind the city and felt a shadow pass over his face before he heard the crack of the catapults.

Pottery balls shattered against the gate into Otrar, each as large as a man could carry. Samuka held out an arrow with the head bound in oil-soaked cloth and let a warrior light it from a shuttered lamp. He saw two more clay pots break in the gate, sending a horseman tumbling. Samuka sighted carefully and let the arrow go.

He was rewarded by a rush of flame that enveloped the gate and incinerated all those trying to come through it. The Chin fire oil was terrible to see, the heat so intense that many of the Mongol ponies danced back from it until they were brought under control. The catapults on the hill sent more clay pots over the heads of his men, adding to the inferno until the gate itself began to glow dull red. Samuka knew he could ignore the gate for a time. No one could cross those flames and live. He had intended to join Ho Sa on the other side while the first one roared in flames, but the plan was ruined by the mass of soldiers who had climbed down.

As his men turned their bows on the Arab infantry and crumpled them, Samuka shook his head to clear it. Foot soldiers could not trouble Genghis, he reminded himself. One sharp blast on a scout horn had his men turning their horses to him.

Samuka used his sword to point and kicked his mount forward, passing close enough to the fiery gate to feel its warmth on his cheek. Even as he did so, the city vomited fresh soldiers down the ropes to replace the dead, but no enemy remained to face them.

It was strange to leave a battle behind. Otrar was not a small city and Samuka saw blurred figures on the walls as he and his men raced along in their shadow, alone with the rhythm of hooves and the smell of smoke. He did not know how long the supply of Chin fire oil would last, and he suffered at the thought that a better thinker would have found a way to hold both gates.

He heard Ho Sa’s men before he saw them, and Samuka drew his bow from its holder, an extension of his strong right arm. The walls rushed by and the sound grew until he came upon a scene of bloody chaos.

Ho Sa had struggled to hold the second gate, Samuka saw at a glance. Without the catapults, he and his men had been driven back by waves of soldiers. They roared at the Mongols, berserk to the point of pulling arrows from their own flesh as they marched and leaving bloody footsteps on the ground.

Samuka’s last thousand men hit them from behind, cutting into the Arab regiments in an impact so colossal that they smashed almost through to Ho Sa’s core of warriors in one sweep. Samuka felt them slowing around him as horses were killed, or hemmed in too close by dying enemies. He reached for an arrow, but found nothing and threw down the bow as he drew his sword once more.

He could see Ho Sa fighting for every step as the warriors were pushed back. Samuka grunted and hacked with all his strength to reach him, but more and more men came rushing round the city after him and he felt as if he were being swallowed in a dark and roaring sea.

The sun was dipping toward the west. Samuka realized he had been fighting for hours, but it was not long enough. The second gate was a hundred paces away and no flames burned there. He could see horsemen coming out and they did not join the others. Samuka cried out in rage and despair as they streamed away in a ragged column. Even a small number of cavalry hitting the khan’s rear could mean the difference between life and death.

Samuka blinked blood out of his eyes as he kicked a man away from his right stirrup. Of the men Khasar had left him, just a few hundred still lived. They had killed many more than their own number, but this was the end. Somehow, Samuka had thought he would survive it, despite the odds. The image of his body cooling on the ground was beyond his imagination.

Samuka shouted Ho Sa’s name across the swarming heads and hands of men clutching at him. He could feel their fingers tugging at his legs, and he kicked wildly and slashed with his sword as Ho Sa saw him. Perhaps for a moment, the Xi Xia officer thought he was calling for aid, but Samuka gestured with his sword after the fleeing cavalry. As Ho Sa turned to follow the gesture, Samuka saw him gashed across the neck, blood gushing as he collapsed.

Samuka howled in fury as he brought his blade down on fingers digging into his thighs. Bearded faces clustered so thickly around him that his horse came to a halt, and Samuka felt a sudden calm, mingling with surprise. Khasar had not come back. He was lost and alone and all his men were dying.

Hands gained purchase on some part of his armor, and to his horror, Samuka felt himself begin to slip. He killed another man with a wild swing, but then his arm was trapped and the sword torn from his hand. His horse lurched with unseen wounds and the men around him were so close that he could see their red throats as they yelled. Samuka slid into the mass, still flailing. The setting sun vanished as he fell at the feet of stamping, stabbing men. The pain was worse than he had feared. He told himself that he had done all he could, but it was still a hard death and the garrison of Otrar was out.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EVEN OVER THE NOISE OF GALLOPING HOOVES, Tsubodai could hear the crackle of feathers at his ear as he drew his bow. He rose from the saddle and sighted on the front legs of an elephant that was coming at him like a landslide. On every side, his men copied the action, and when he released, a black blur of arrows snapped out. None of the warriors had to think about their actions. They had trained for it ever since they had been tied to a sheep and taught to ride at two or three years old. Before the first arrows hit, they had a second on the string. Powerful cords of muscle swelled in their right shoulders as they pulled back again.

The elephants bellowed and reared in pain, swinging their heads from side to side. Tsubodai saw shafts sink into the massive gray legs, catching them in full stride and breaking the rhythm of the charge. Half of the enormous animals stumbled as a leg buckled. Others raised their trunks and showed yellow tusks in enraged challenge. If anything the speed increased, but the second wave of arrows cracked out and the elephants shuddered with the impacts. Arrows snagged between their legs, wrenching at wounds.

Tsubodai reached automatically for another arrow, but his fingers closed on an empty quiver. He was almost at the Shah’s cavalry by then, and he dropped his bow back into the stiff leather fold on his saddle and raised his sword over his right shoulder, ready to chop down.

The men around him loosed one last shaft at the approaching lines, and Tsubodai stood in his stirrups as he saw the closest elephants rear on their hind legs, wild with pain. Their handlers screamed, beating wildly as they were spun around. His heart seemed to slow as he saw one of them plucked off a broad back and thrown to the ground with appalling force. The elephants turned in agony from the line of galloping warriors, knocking down horses and men.

Tsubodai shouted in triumph as the massive animals retreated blindly into the Shah’s ranks. They cut lines through the advancing soldiers as if they waded through thick grass, using their tusks to toss aside fully grown men. Nothing could stop them in their madness. In just moments, Tsubodai faced broken front ranks, dazed and bloodied by the passing beasts. Some of the Arabs recovered quickly enough to send their own arrows whirring from double-curved bows. Mongol warriors and horses were cut down, but the others showed their teeth and rode. In the last instants before the forces met, Tsubodai picked his man and guided his pony with knees alone.

The Mongol warriors went over the first line into chaos. Tsubodai took the head of one soldier, then almost lost his seat as another aimed a blow at him and he ducked under it. As Tsubodai rose, he held out his blade and his shoulder wrenched at the impact against armor. His low stance and weight kept him in the saddle as an Arab fell and Tsubodai found himself in one of the bloody tracks the elephants had left. He could still see them charging away, tormented and blind to the destruction in their wake. Tsubodai silently thanked the monstrous animals as he looked around for another enemy.

The Shah’s ranks had been shocked into immobility by the rampaging elephants. Arab archers scattered, dying as they bawled orders in fear while the Mongols came in hard, taking wounds without a sound while they hacked and chopped. Good blades were ruined on Arab armor, but their arms rose and fell without respite, and if a shield stopped one strike, they whipped another in above or below, cutting legs and throats. They were faster than those who faced them. Tsubodai clashed with a huge, bearded Arab, fighting in a mindless frenzy. Tsubodai could smell the man’s sweat as he used his pony’s shoulder to knock him off balance. In the instant before he was past, Tsubodai saw the curved sword had no guard and let his blade slide, cutting three fingers cleanly so that the weapon spun away. The Shah’s men were large and Tsubodai wondered if they had been picked for their strength more than skill. Their blows hammered at his warriors, but again and again, Mongols ducked or swayed away, cutting back where they could and moving on. Many of the Shah’s soldiers took three or four wounds before blood loss felled them.

Tsubodai saw hundreds of foot soldiers gather around a horseman riding a black stallion. Even at a distance, he could see the animal was very fine. Its rider was yelling orders and men formed up with him, making a wedge. Tsubodai braced for a counterattack, but instead they raised shields and began a fighting retreat back to the main lines.

The Mongol general did not have to give new orders. His minghaan officers were on their own and four of them sensed the withdrawal and raced to attack. Arrows would have slaughtered the retreating soldiers, but there were none left and the Arab ranks stayed together in good order, leaving hills of the dead behind them.

In the distance, Tsubodai heard scout horns moaning across the land. He looked up and saw the tumans of Genghis riding in. The khan had entered the field at last and Tsubodai wiped his eyes of sweat, filled with a terrible pleasure.

His men had shattered those sent against them, but Tsubodai still chafed. The orderly withdrawal had done its work, preventing him from collapsing the lines in on themselves and cutting the head from the Shah’s main army. He and his men milled around on the edge of the battle, some still engaged in fighting the last few knots of weary infantry. Tsubodai wondered who the young officer had been who had prevented a complete rout. The man had held his soldiers together in the fire of battle, and Tsubodai added the knowledge to what he knew of the enemy. The Shah had at least one competent officer under his command, it seemed.

The minghaans re-formed in a landscape of broken men, littered armor and weapons. Some of them dismounted to yank precious arrows out of flesh, but only a few were good enough to be used again. Tsubodai felt his heartbeat settle and took in the battlefield, judging where he was needed. The Shah’s army was out of the passes and he could see the tumans of Jebe and Jochi cutting them bloody in the rear. The sun was deep in the west and he thought Genghis would hardly have time to attack before the light faded.

Tsubodai nodded to himself. He could see the last of the Shah’s infantry were back on the flank, staring out balefully at the Mongol warriors milling amongst the bodies. Most of the elephants had vanished, though some lay kicking where they had been hit with more arrows from the Shah’s own ranks, rather than letting them smash through. Tsubodai was tired and he ached in a dozen places, but the battle was far from over.

“Form on me!” he shouted, and those who heard responded. As the Shah’s ranks marched past, fresh foot soldiers came under Tsubodai’s cold gaze. He could hardly believe it, but the Shah’s soldiers were so determined to reach Otrar that they pressed on regardless of the attacking forces.

Tsubodai shook his head. The generals had shown the strength of mobile forces, with the officers acting on their own. Yet the Shah’s army lumbered on, holding to a single command no matter what faced them. Tsubodai thought the Shah as ruthless as Genghis himself in the way he spent his men.

As Jelme’s men formed with his into columns, Tsubodai saw frightened faces turn toward him in the Shah’s army. They knew what was coming, even as he made the decision. He watched them bend their bows and make ready.

Tsubodai reached for the scout’s horn at his neck, only to find it in two pieces, cut by a blow he could not remember. He swore to himself, blind to the grins his words produced in those close by.

“With me!” he bellowed. To his left, Jelme’s men dug in their heels and rode.

Genghis had pushed hard for twenty miles to be in that place, changing to fresh mounts when the battle was in sight. He saw the Shah had come clear of the hills, but there was no help for that. He looked along the lines to where his son Chagatai galloped and further to Khasar. Fully fifty thousand men rode at his back, with a great tail of spare horses riding behind them. Yet they faced an army that stretched further than he could see. Tsubodai’s flags were barely visible on his left, attacking the flanks. Behind the Arab host, dust clouds roiled and raged. Genghis thought Samuka and Ho Sa would be dead by then, but Otrar was far away and its garrison could not reach the battle that day. He had done all he could, but this was the final fling of the bones. It came to this and he had no other plan except to hit the Shah’s column and envelop it in horns.

Genghis snapped an order to a bannerman and heard the fluttering as a gold flag went up. All along the line, thousands of bows creaked. The Shah’s army tried to brace for the impact, though their officers urged them on. No one wanted to face these grim warriors again, but there was nowhere to go. They screamed defiance as the gold flag dipped and the air blackened.

The Mongol lines struck at full speed, roaring, the sheer pace as dangerous as the weapons they carried. The wide Mongol horns spilled around the head of the Shah’s army, racing along the flanks and cutting in. The light was already gray as the armies met, the sun sinking over the west. The evening was clear and perfect as the Mongols flung themselves at the host of their enemy.

Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed cried out in shock as a line of Mongols cut right through to him. His mounted guard slaughtered them to a man, but he was surrounded on all sides and half his army could not bring their weapons to bear. The Shah was close to panic as he looked in every direction. It would be dark very soon and yet the Mongols still fought like madmen. They did not make a sound, even when life was ripped from them. The Shah could only shake his head at such a display. Did they not feel pain? His son Jelaudin believed they were more like dumb animals than men, and he could have been right.

Still, the Shah’s army moved, staggering as they fought the desire to run from this enemy. Ala-ud-Din saw bright columns of his men being smashed to pieces on the flanks, and always the rumble of the Mongols in the rear drove them on.

More and more of the khan’s warriors died as they tried to fight their way to the center. The Shah’s soldiers held formation and cut them to pieces as they came galloping through. They could not match the Mongol speed, but their shields stopped many of the arrows and those who came in were hacked and slashed as they went, sent reeling back time and again. As the light faded, Ala-ud-Din exulted in the enemy dead as his elephant passed over them.

Darkness came and for a time it was a vision of hell. Men cried out as they struggled in a heaving mass of shadows and knives. The Shah’s army seemed to be surrounded by a growling djinn, the thunder of hooves in their ears. Marching soldiers jerked around as they struggled on, terrified that the noise of riders was coming straight at them. Above their heads, the stars were clear and bright as the crescent moon rose slowly.

The Shah thought that the Mongol khan might continue right to dawn, and he prayed constantly as he gave his orders, hoping that he would survive the dark hours. Once again his guards had to fight off a stray column of raiding warriors, killing eighty or so men and sending the rest galloping away to be cut down by others. The sons of the ancient houses were enjoying themselves, Ala-ud-Din could see. Their teeth flashed as they mimed good cuts to their friends. The army around them was being battered to pieces, but such noble sons would not count those losses. Allah gave and took away as he pleased, after all.

Ala-ud-Din thought dawn would reveal a bloody tatter of the host he had commanded. Only the thought of his enemy suffering as much kept him resolute.

He did not notice the sound dwindle at first. It felt like he had lived with the thump of hooves in all directions forever. When it began to fade, he was still calling for his sons, for fresh reports. The army marched on and Otrar would surely be somewhere close before dawn.

At last one of the Shah’s senior men shouted that the khan had withdrawn. Ala-ud-Din gave thanks for his deliverance. He had known horsemen could not attack at night. With hardly any light from the moon, they could not coordinate their blows without crashing into one another. He listened to news as his scouts came in, estimating their distance from Otrar and passing on every detail they had seen of the khan’s position.

Ala-ud-Din prepared to make camp. Dawn would bring an end to it and the cursed Mongols would have left their arrows behind in the bodies of his men. With Otrar in sight, he would widen his lines and bring more swords to bear on their stinging attacks. In the last hour, they had lost as many men as he had, he was certain. Before that, they had gutted his host. He looked around at the marching lines, wondering how many had survived the fight through the mountains. He had once seen a hunting party follow a wounded lion as it dragged itself away from their spears. The animal had left a trail of blood as wide as itself as it crawled on its torn belly. He could not escape the vision of his own army in just such a state, the red smear bright behind them. He gave the order to halt at last, and he could hear the massed sigh of thousands of men allowed to rest. The Shah began to dismount, but as he did so, he saw lights begin to spring up to the east. He knew the pinpoints of an army’s fires well, and he stayed on the back of the elephant as more and more sprang into existence until they looked like distant stars. There was his enemy, resting and waiting for the dawn.

Around Ala-ud-Din, his own men began to make fires with wood and dried dung from the camel backs. The morning would see an end to it. The Shah heard voices calling the faithful to prayer and nodded fiercely to himself. Allah was with them still and the Mongol khan was bleeding too.

As the moon crossed the black sky, Genghis gathered his generals around a fire. The mood was not jubilant as they waited for him to speak. Their tumans had slaughtered many of the Shah’s men, but their own losses were appalling. In the last hour before darkness, four thousand veteran warriors had been killed. They had cut their way almost to the Shah himself, but then the Arab swords had gathered against them and dug them out.

Jebe and Jochi had come into the camp together, greeted by Kachiun and Khasar while Genghis merely stared. Tsubodai and Jelme rose to congratulate the two young men, having heard the story of the long ride as it spread through the camp.

Chagatai too had heard the news and his expression was surly as he watched Jelme clap his older brother on the back. He could not understand why they seemed so pleased. He too had fought, following his father’s orders rather than disappearing for days at a time. He, at least, had been where Genghis needed him. Chagatai had hoped to see Jebe and Jochi humiliated for their absence, but even their late arrival at the Shah’s rear ranks was being treated as a stroke of genius. He sucked his front teeth, looking to his father.

Genghis sat cross-legged, with a skin of airag on his hip and a bowl of sour cheese curds on his lap. The back of his left hand was caked in blood, and his right shin was bound tightly but still seeped. As Chagatai turned his face from the foolish praise of his brother, Genghis cleaned the bowl with a finger and chewed the last of it. Silence fell as he put the bowl aside and sat perfectly still.

“Samuka and Ho Sa must be dead by now,” Genghis said at last. “The garrison at Otrar cannot be far away, and I do not know how many survived the fire and arrows.”

“They won’t stop for darkness,” Kachiun said. “Perhaps they will walk their horses, but they’ll still reach the Shah before dawn.” As he spoke, Kachiun stared out into the night, to where they could expect the garrison to arrive. Further still, he could see the fires of the Shah’s camp, and even after so much death, there were still hundreds of the pinpoints of light, just a few miles away. No doubt Arab scouts were already riding back to join with the Otrar garrison and lead them in. The darkness would hide them well enough.

“I have scouts out in a ring around us,” Genghis said. “If they attack tonight, there will be no surprises.”

“Who attacks at night?” Khasar said. His thoughts were with Samuka and Ho Sa and he barely looked up from the dry goat meat he forced between his lips.

In the light of the flames, Genghis turned a cold gaze on his brother.

“We do,” he said.

Khasar swallowed the meat faster than he had intended, but Genghis went on before he could reply.

“What choice do we have? We know where they are and the arrows are all gone anyway. If we strike from all sides, we will not foul each other’s lines.”

Khasar cleared his throat and spoke thickly. “The moon is weak tonight, brother. How could we see flags or know how the battle is going?”

Genghis raised his head. “You will know when they break, or when you are killed. It is the only choice left to us. Would you have me wait until a garrison of twenty thousand men joins them at dawn—fresh men who have not fought as we have?” In the firelight, he looked around at his generals. Many of them moved stiffly and Jelme’s right arm was wrapped in bloody cloth, still wet.

“If I know Samuka, there won’t be half that number,” Khasar muttered, but Genghis did not reply.

Tsubodai cleared his throat and Genghis’s eyes slid over to the young general.

“My lord khan, the flying columns worked well when we had arrows. In the night, each attack would be met by men with shields in solid ranks. We could lose them all.”

Genghis snorted, but Tsubodai went on, his quiet voice calming the others.

“One column could cut its way in, but we saw that today. They do not run from us, these Arabs, not easily. Every step brings more and more men onto the flank of the charge until it is overwhelmed.”

“You have an alternative?” Genghis snapped. Though his voice was hard, he was listening. He knew Tsubodai’s sharp mind and respected it.

“We need to confuse them, lord. We can do that with a false second attack, circling around. They will send men to hold and we will roll them up from our side.”

Genghis shook his head, considering. Tsubodai pressed on.

“What if we had a small number of men drive horses at the Shah’s left wing, lord? Have them take all the spare mounts and make as much noise as they can. When the Shah commits his soldiers there, we attack the right with everything we have. It might make a difference.”

He waited as Genghis thought it through, unaware that he was holding his breath.

“It is a good plan,” he began. All the men at the fire stiffened as they heard a scout’s horn sound in the night. Almost in response, a roar sounded in the distance, coming toward them. While they talked and ate, the Shah had attacked their fires.

As one, the generals surged to their feet, keen to get back to their men.

“This is simpler, though, Tsubodai,” Khasar said as he passed.

Tsubodai grinned at the insolent tone. He had already planned for such an attack, and the warriors were ready.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AS HE TROTTED THROUGH THE DARKNESS, Jelaudin stared at the fires ahead of him. The men running at his stirrups were exhausted, but he had pressed his father for one more massed charge, knowing that their best chance lay in catching the Mongols asleep. He seethed at the thought of his father’s precious guard still barely blooded. The Shah had refused his demands to have them accompany him, just when they would have justified their existence. Jelaudin cursed his father and Khalifa too, for losing the cavalry, then pressed away his anger to concentrate. Just one sweep through the enemy camp could be enough to break them at last. The moon was hidden by clouds and Jelaudin rode slowly over broken ground, waiting for the uproar that would follow.

It came sooner than he expected, as enemy scouts blew warning notes before they were cut down. Jelaudin drew his sword and risked his neck with a faster pace. The running men fell behind as he aimed his mount at the Mongol fires.

The khan had made only a rough camp after days of fighting. Jelaudin saw the left flank was a mass of lights, revealing the presence of many men. The nights were cold and they would be clustered close to the flames. On the right, the night fires were more widely spaced, dwindling to just a few points of light on the furthest edge. It was there that he led his men, racing to take revenge for the battering they had suffered.

He heard the Mongols rise against the attack, howling in their mindless anger. Jelaudin shouted a challenge into the night, echoed by his men. The fires came closer and suddenly there were men on all sides and the forces met. Jelaudin had time to shout in surprise before his stallion was cut from under him and he went flying.

Tsubodai waited with Jochi, Jebe, and Chagatai. It had been his idea to arrange the fires to draw in a careless enemy. Where the lights were thick, he had just a few men tending them. On the dark right flank, veteran tumans clustered with their ponies, far from warmth. They did not heed the night cold. For those who had been born on the frozen plains of home, it was nothing to them. With a great shout, they charged the Arab ranks coming in.

As the two forces came together, the Arabs were sent reeling, smashed from their feet by men who had fought and trained from the earliest years. Their right arms hardly tired as they punched through the enemy and rocked them back. Tsubodai bellowed orders to advance and they trotted forward, shoulder to shoulder, their mounts stepping delicately over dying men.

The moon rose above them, but the attack was broken quickly and the Arab force sent streaming back to their main camp. As they ran, they looked over their shoulders, terrified that the Mongols would ride them down. Not half of their number made it clear, though Jelaudin was one of them, humiliated and on foot. He staggered back to his father, still dazed from the chaos and fear. In the distance, the Mongols finished off the wounded and waited patiently for the dawn.

Shah Ala-ud-Din paced his tent, glaring at his eldest son as he turned. Jelaudin stood nervously, wary of his father’s anger.

“How did they know you would attack?” the Shah snapped suddenly. “There are no spies in the ranks, not here. It is impossible.”

Still smarting from his failure, Jelaudin did not dare to reply. Privately, he thought the Mongols had merely prepared for the possibility of an attack, not known of one, but he could not seem to praise them while his father raged.

“You see now why I did not give you my personal guard?” the Shah demanded.

Jelaudin swallowed. If he had ridden in with five hundred horsemen, he did not think the rout would have been so easy or so complete. With an effort, he strangled a retort.

“You are wise, Father,” he said. “Tomorrow they will take the fight to the enemy.” He fell back a step as his father rounded on him and stood close enough for the bristles of his beard to touch his son’s face.

“Tomorrow you and I are dead,” the Shah snarled. “When the khan sees how many men I have left, he will fall on us and make an end to it.”

Jelaudin was relieved when he heard a throat cleared at the entrance to the tent. His father’s body servant, Abbas, stood in the lamplight, his eyes flickering from father to son and judging the mood within. Jelaudin made an impatient gesture for the man to leave, but Abbas ignored him, coming in and bowing to the Shah. Jelaudin saw he carried a sheaf of calfskin vellum and a pot of ink and he hesitated before ordering the man out.

Abbas touched his forehead, lips, and heart in respect to the Shah before placing the writing materials on a small table to one side. Jelaudin’s father nodded, his fury still evident in his clenched jaw and flushed skin.

“What is this?” Jelaudin said at last.

“This is vengeance for the dead, Jelaudin. When I have put my name to it, this is an order for the assassins to rid my land of this khan.”

His son felt a weight lift from his shoulders at the thought, though he repressed a shudder. The sect of Shia fanatics had a dark reputation, but his father was wise to bring them in.

“How much will you send them?” he said softly. His father bent over the thick parchment and did not reply at first as he read the words Abbas had prepared.

“I do not have time to negotiate. I have offered a note for a hundred thousand gold coins, to be redeemed from my own treasury. They will not refuse such a sum, even for a khan’s head.”

Jelaudin felt his hands grow clammy at the thought of so much gold. It was enough to build a great palace or begin a city. Yet he did not speak. His chance to break the Mongols had been wasted in the night.

Once the Shah had signed the note for gold, Abbas rolled the thick sheets together and bound them with a strip of leather, tying the knot expertly. He bowed very low to the Shah before he left the two men alone.

“Can he be trusted?” Jelaudin said as soon as he was gone.

“More than my own sons, it seems,” the Shah replied irritably. “Abbas knows the family of one of the assassins. He will see it safe to them and then nothing will save this dog of a khan who has shed so much of my people’s blood.”

“If the khan dies tomorrow, will the gold be returned?” Jelaudin asked, still thinking of the vast wealth his father had given away in just a moment. He sensed the Shah walk to him and turned his head from looking at the tent’s entrance.

“Unless Allah strikes him down for his impudence, he will not die tomorrow, Jelaudin. Do you not understand even now? Did you not see as you came back to my tent?” He spoke with a flat intensity that Jelaudin could not understand, and the younger man stammered as he tried to reply.

“See… what? I…”

“My army is finished,” the Shah snapped. “With the men you lost tonight, we have hardly enough left to hold one of his damned generals in the morning. They have reduced us to less than thirty thousand men, and even if the Otrar garrison appears at this moment, we have lost. Do you understand now?”

Jelaudin hadn’t and his stomach tightened in fear at his father’s words. They had fought for days and the slaughter had been terrible, but the field of battle was vast and he had not known how bad the losses had been.

“So many dead?” he said at last. “How is it possible?”

His father raised a hand and for a moment Jelaudin thought he would strike him. Instead, the Shah whirled to pick up another sheaf of reports.

“Do you want to count them again?” he demanded. “We have left a trail of corpses for a hundred miles and the Mongols are still strong.”

Jelaudin firmed his mouth, making a decision.

“Then give command to me, for tomorrow. Take your noble guard and travel back to Bukhara and Samarkand. Return in the spring with a fresh army and avenge me.”

For an instant, the Shah’s furious expression faded. His eyes softened as he stared at his eldest son.

“I have never doubted your courage, Jelaudin.” He reached out and gripped his son’s neck, pulling him into a brief embrace. As they parted, Ala-ud-Din sighed.

“But I will not throw away your life. You will come with me and next year we will bring four times as many warriors to root out these godless invaders. I will arm every man who can hold a sword, and we will bring fire and bloody vengeance on their heads. The assassins will have killed their khan by then. For so much gold, they will move quickly.”

Jelaudin bowed his head. In the darkness outside the tent, he could hear the noises of the camp and the moaning of wounded men.

“We leave tonight then?”

If the Shah felt the sting of dishonor, it did not show.

“Gather your brothers. Hand command to the most senior man left alive. Tell him…” He trailed off, his eyes growing distant. “Tell him that the lives of our men must be sold dearly if they are to enter paradise. They will be frightened when they find I have gone, but they must hold.”

“The Mongols will track us, Father,” Jelaudin replied, already thinking of the supplies he must take. He would have to gather his father’s mounted guard as quietly as possible, so as not to alarm those they left behind.

The Shah waved a hand irritably. “We will go west, away from them, then cut north and east when we are clear of Otrar. The land is vast, my son. They will not even know we are gone until tomorrow. Gather what we need and come back here when you are ready.”

“And Otrar?” Jelaudin said.

“Otrar is lost!” the Shah spat. “My cousin Inalchuk has brought this disaster on us, and if I could kill the fool myself, I would.”

Jelaudin touched his forehead, lips, and heart with his head bowed. His dream of riding at the head of a victorious army had been crushed, but he was his father’s son and there would be other armies and other days. Despite the humiliation and horror of the battles against the Mongols, he thought nothing of the lives given for his father. They were the Shah’s men and any one of them would die to protect him. As they should, Jelaudin thought.

He worked quickly as the moon passed overhead. Dawn was not far away and he needed to be well clear of the battle and the Mongol scouts by the time it came.

Genghis waited in the moonlight, dark ranks of men at his back. Khasar was with him, but neither brother spoke as they stood ready. The scouts had warned them of the Otrar garrison coming in. Even then it had been barely in time to beat back the night attack on their camp. Behind him, Genghis had given command to Tsubodai, the most able of his generals. He did not expect to get any sleep before the morning, but that was common enough to the warriors around him, and with meat, cheese, and fiery black airag, they were still strong.

Genghis cocked his head at a sound from the gloom. He clicked with his tongue to alert the closest men, but they too had heard. He felt a pang of regret at the deaths of Samuka and Ho Sa, but it passed quickly. Without their sacrifice, he would have lost it all the day before. He turned his head left and right, searching for more sounds.

There. Genghis drew his sword, and all along the line, the front rank readied lances. They had no arrows with them. Tsubodai had spent much of the night collecting the final shafts into full quivers, but they would need them when dawn came. Genghis could hear walking horses ahead and he rubbed tiredness from his eyes with a free hand. At times, it seemed as if he had been fighting all his life against these dark-skinned madmen.

With Jelme, he had chosen a spot to wait just under a low rise. Even in the moonlight, he would not be seen, but his scouts kept moving, leaving their horses and running in the dark to keep him informed. One of them appeared at his stirrup and Genghis dipped his head to hear the soft words, grunting in surprise and pleasure.

When the scout had gone, Genghis nudged his horse close to Khasar.

“We outnumber them, brother! Samuka and Ho Sa must have fought like tigers.”

Khasar nodded grimly. “It’s about time. I am tired of riding against their vast armies. Are you ready?”

Genghis snorted. “I have been waiting forever for his garrison, brother. Of course I am ready.”

The two men parted in the darkness, then the Mongol line surged forward over the rise. Against them, the remnants of the garrison of Otrar were making their way south to join the Shah. They came to a shocked halt as the Mongol lines appeared, but there was no one to save them as the lances came down.

Shah Ala-ud-Din reined in as he heard the sounds of battle echo back from the hills. In the moonlight, he could see distant smudges of fighting men, but he could not guess what was happening. Perhaps the cursed Mongols had attacked again.

With only four hundred surviving riders, he and his sons had abandoned the army and ridden hard. The Shah glanced at the east and saw dawn was coming. He tried to fill his mind with plans for the future, numbing it to regrets. It was difficult. He had come to smash an invader and instead seen his best men bleeding out their strength. The Mongols were tireless killers and he had underestimated them. Only the thought of Abbas riding to the assassins’ stronghold in the mountains gave him satisfaction. The men of shadows never failed and he only wished he could see the face of the khan as he felt their soot-blackened knives plunging into his chest.

Kokchu could smell fear in the camp, thick in the warm night air. It showed in the lamps that hung from posts at every intersection in the maze of gers. The women and children were afraid of the dark, with imagined enemies all around them. For Kokchu, the simmering terror was intoxicating. With the maimed warriors, Genghis’s brother Temuge, and Yao Shu, he was one of very few men left among thousands of frightened women. It was hard to hide his arousal at their flushed faces. He saw them prepare as best they could for an attack, stuffing clothes and armor with dried grasses before tying them to spare mounts. Many of them came to him each day, offering whatever they had so that he would pray for their husbands to come back safe. He guarded himself rigidly at those times, forcing himself to remember that the warriors would return and ask their wives about the time alone. As young women knelt and chanted before him in his ger, their pathetic offerings lying in the dust, he sometimes placed his hand on their hair and grew flushed as he led them in their entreaties.

The worst of them was Genghis’s sister, Temulun. She was lithe and long-legged, an echo of her brother’s strength in her frame. She had come three times to ask for his protection over Palchuk, her husband. On the third time, the smell of sweat was strong on her. While small voices screamed warnings in his head, he had insisted on placing a charm on her skin, one that would extend to all those she loved. He felt himself grow hard at the memory, despite his misgivings. How she had looked to him with hope in her eyes. How she had believed! Having her in his control had made him reckless. He had told her of a most potent charm, one that would be like iron against enemy swords. He had been subtle in his doubts and in the end she had begged him for its protection. It had been hard to hide his excitement then as he bowed to her need.

She had removed her clothes at his order, standing naked before him as he began the chant. He recalled the way his fingers had shook as she closed her eyes and let him daub her body in a web of sheep blood.

Kokchu stopped his meandering path and swore to himself. He was a fool. At first she had stood proud and still, her eyes closed as he drew lines with a finger pressing into her flesh. He had marked her in wavering red until her stomach and legs were crisscrossed with patterns. His lust had been overwhelming and perhaps he had begun to breathe too hard, or she had seen his flushed face. He winced at the thought of her feeling him press against her thigh as he leaned close. Her eyes had snapped open from the trance, looking through incense smoke and suddenly doubting him. He shuddered as he recalled her expression. His hand was lingering over her breasts, marking them in shining blood, the scent of which filled his nostrils.

She had left in a rush then, gathering her clothes even as he protested the charm was unfinished. He had watched her go almost at a run, and his stomach had clenched at what he had dared to do. He did not fear her husband, Palchuk. There were few men who would even dare to speak to the shaman, and Kokchu did not doubt he could send the man away. Was he not the khan’s own spirit-talker, the one who had brought Genghis victory after victory?

Kokchu bit his lip at the thought. If Temulun told Genghis her suspicions, of a hand too intimately on her thighs and breasts, no protection in the world would save him. He tried to tell himself she would not. In the cold light of day, she would admit she knew nothing of the spirits, or the manner of calling them. Perhaps he should consider daubing one of the maimed men in the same way, so that the news of the ritual would get back to her. He considered it seriously for a moment, then cursed his lust again, knowing that it had put everything in danger.

Kokchu stood at a crossroads, watching two young women lead ponies by the reins. They bowed their heads as they passed, and he acknowledged them graciously. His authority was absolute, he told himself, his secrets safe. Many of the women in the camp would not have men coming home to them. He would have his pick of them then, as he consoled them in their grief.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BEFORE DAWN LIT THE PLAIN, the remains of ten tumans left the ashes of their fires and assembled. Not one was intact and the worst were reduced to just a few thousand men.

Those warriors too injured to fight remained at the makeshift camp, bloodied and bandaged, or simply left to die with their companions. The shamans who might stitch and heal them were all far away. Many of them asked for a clean death and were given it with a single blow from a sword, in all honor.

In the gloom, Genghis listened to a tally of the dead as a fresh breeze across the plain made him shiver. There were too many names to hear them all, but he bowed his head as each officer was recalled, especially senior men like Samuka and Ho Sa.

Twenty-three thousand had been killed, maimed, or lost in the battles against the Shah. It was the worst tally he had ever known and a terrible blow for the nation. Genghis felt a slow rage building whenever he looked for faces and found them missing in the ranks. His sister’s husband, Palchuk, was among the dead, and he knew there would be rivers of grief when he returned at last to the camp.

Genghis looked up and down the lines as they formed. As well as his own tuman of ten thousand, he noted the banners of Khasar and Kachiun, Jebe and Tsubodai, Chagatai, Jelme, and Jochi. He had given orders for broken tumans to fill the places of the dead, and eight tumans had formed out of the ashes. From the youngest boys of fourteen, they were veterans. He knew they would not fail him.

Genghis reached down to touch his lower leg and grimaced at the sick feeling and wetness he found. He had taken the wound the day before, but he could not remember how it had happened. He could not stand on it, but he had tied the foot into the stirrup so that he could still ride. Some of his warriors had lost part of their armor to arrows or sword blows, suffering gashes that they bound with strips of dirty cloth. Others had taken a fever through the wounds and poured with sweat in a dawn breeze that could not cool them. They sat their horses in grim anger, waiting for dawn and first sight of the enemy. No one had slept the night before and they were all bone tired, but there was no give in them, no weakness. They had all lost friends or relatives. The days of battle had burned away everything but a cold desire to avenge the fallen dead.

When there was enough light to see, Genghis stared out at the Shah’s army. He heard distant horns blow an alarm as the Shah’s scouts caught sight of the host waiting for them, but the Arabs were sluggish in their movements. The sight of the Mongol army unnerved them, and Genghis could see them mill aimlessly, all order gone.

He gave the command to trot and his tumans moved with him. His entire front rank of two thousand men weighed lances in their hands, feeling the strain on tired, torn muscles. The rest readied swords and the distance closed.

Genghis saw two men running out ahead of the forming lines, holding banners of white cloth. He wondered if they meant to surrender, but it did not matter. The time for mercy was long gone. Many of those who had died had been known to him, and he had only one answer to give, only one they would approve if their spirits still saw the world below. The men with white banners were killed as the Mongol line swept past them, and a low moan came from the rest as they saw and tried to brace for the charge.

Forty elephants were brought to the front, but Tsubodai ordered his archers to shoot for the legs and sent them rampaging back into the Arab army, causing more destruction than they ever could have against mounted men.

The great line of lances hit almost as one, and Genghis shouted the order for horns. His son Chagatai swept forward on the right, while Jochi matched him on the left. The Mongol warriors began the slaughter as the sun rose over the east. They could not be held. They could not be thrown back.

Chagatai’s tuman pinched in against the right flank, their speed and ferocity carrying them to the very center of the Arabs. In the chaos and noise, there was no calling him back. Jochi’s wing spilled along the left flank, carving dead men out of living lines. Across the battlefield, he saw Chagatai had plunged too far into the mass of terrified men. He could see him only a few hundred paces away before the Arab ranks seemed to swallow him. Jochi cried out. He dug in his heels and led his men like a spear thrust into the jerking body of the Arab army.

The front ranks were hit so hard by Jebe and Tsubodai that they bowed right back in a bloody cup. No one had taken command and in the chaos, the tumans of Chagatai and Jochi sliced through them until the brothers were separated by just a few struggling, panting men.

The Arabs broke, terrified by the khan’s warriors. Thousands threw down their weapons and tried to run, but none of the generals hesitated. Those who turned their backs were cut down without mercy, and by noon the army of the Shah was a morass of desperate, flailing groups. The slaughter continued without pause. Some of the Shah’s men knelt and prayed aloud in shrieking voices until their heads were taken by galloping men. It was butcher’s work, but the Mongols were willing. Many of them broke their swords in huge swings and had to pick up one of the curved sabers that littered the ground. Lances were snapped in Arabs too dazed to step out of the way.

In the end, just a few hundred remained. They had no weapons and held their arms high to show empty palms. Genghis grunted a final order and a line of lancers accelerated. The Arabs cried out in terror, then were silent as the riders rolled over them and returned, dismounting to hack the dead men into small pieces, until their fury and spite were spent.

The Mongol tumans did not cheer the victory. From the first light, there had been no fight in the Arab army, and though they had taken a savage pleasure in the killing, there was no more glory in it than a circle hunt.

The ground was soft with blood as individual warriors looted the dead, cutting fingers for rings and stripping the bodies of good boots and warm clothing. Flies gathered in great swarms, so that the Mongols had to bat them away from where they landed on lips and eyes. The buzzing insects crawled intimately over the dead, already beginning to corrupt in the heat.

Genghis summoned his generals and they came to him, bruised and battered, but with satisfaction in their eyes.

“Where is the Shah?” he demanded of each one. They had found camels laden with tents of silk, and Jebe’s men had discovered a cache of jewels and already gambled or exchanged half of them.

When Genghis asked Tsubodai, the general shook his head thoughtfully.

“His horsemen are gone, Lord Khan,” he replied. “I did not see even one.”

Genghis swore, his weariness vanishing. “Get the scouts out looking for tracks. I want him hunted down.”

Those scouts who heard jumped back into their saddles and raced away, while Genghis simmered.

“If he left last night, he has had almost a day to get away. He must not escape! The Arab merchants talk of armies five times the size of this one, more. Have your men join the scouts. Nothing is more important than this, nothing.”

Riders went in all directions and it was not long before two men of Jochi’s tuman came racing back. Genghis listened to the report and paled.

“Tsubodai! Horses traveling west,” he said.

Tsubodai stiffened. “His cities are in the east,” he said. “He will turn north or south. May I ride to protect the camp, lord?”

Genghis swore under his breath. “No. Take your tuman and get after the Shah. If he reaches a city and finds fresh reinforcements, we are all dead.”

Jebe was at the khan’s side when he gave the order. He had seen the Shah’s army when it was bright and strong. The thought of facing as many again was sickening. He turned to Tsubodai and raised his head.

“With my lord khan’s permission, I will come with you,” he said.

Genghis waved a hand and Tsubodai nodded as he dug in his heels. Tsubodai shouted an order to the closest officer, but did not pause as the man raced to gather Tsubodai’s Young Wolves.

As the news spread, Jochi came riding up to his father. He bowed low in the saddle as he reined in.

“Is the camp in danger?” he asked. Genghis turned his pale gaze on the young general, noting the tiger skin draped across his pony. All of them had family there, but he bristled anyway. It had been his order to leave the camp undefended. There had been no other choice.

“I have sent Jebe and Tsubodai to hunt the Shah,” Genghis replied at last.

“They are good men, the best you have,” Jochi replied. His father’s face was cold, but he went on carelessly, thinking of his mother.

“May I take my tuman and bring the families back here?”

Genghis considered grudgingly. He did not like the thought of Jochi announcing the victory to the women and children. No doubt the young man was already thinking of a hero’s welcome. Genghis felt his stomach twist at the thought.

“I need you at Otrar,” he said. “Give Chagatai the order.”

For an instant, Genghis saw anger flash in Jochi’s eyes. The khan leaned forward in his saddle, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. Even in that, he felt swelling bitterness, as Jochi carried the wolf’s-head sword on his hip. The lapse was quickly masked and Jochi bowed his head and trotted away to speak to his younger brother.

Chagatai was at the center of a riotous group of young warriors. He did not see Jochi approach at first and was in the middle of laughing at some comment when he stiffened. The men with Chagatai took their lead from him, and Jochi walked his pony through their hostile stares.

Neither brother spoke a greeting. Jochi let his hand drop to the tiger skin at his pommel, his fingers toying with the stiff fur. Chagatai waited for him to speak, raising one eyebrow, so that his companions chuckled.

“You are to take your tuman back to the camp and bring them to the land around Otrar,” Jochi said when he tired of the game.

Chagatai frowned. He did not want to nursemaid women and children while Otrar trembled for the first sight of them.

“Whose order is this?” he replied. “Whose authority?”

Jochi controlled his temper at the insolent tone. “Genghis bids you go,” he said, turning his mount to ride away.

“So you say, but who listens when a rape-born bastard speaks?” Chagatai spoke knowing he was surrounded by his own men, all waiting for such a barb that they could repeat with relish at the campfires.

Jochi stiffened in the saddle. He should have left the grinning fools, but nothing in the world brought him to anger as easily as his younger brother’s blustering arrogance.

“Perhaps he feels you are a fitting companion for the women after the way you knelt to me, brother,” he replied. “I cannot know his mind.”

With a tight smile, Jochi held his mount to a walk. Even with armed men at his back, he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him urge his pony to a trot.

He heard the sudden rush of hooves and his hand fell automatically to the wolf’s-head hilt before he snatched it away. He could not draw a blade on Chagatai in front of so many witnesses. It would be the end of him.

Jochi glanced back as unconcernedly as he could. Chagatai was closing the gap between them, with his tail of followers trotting behind. His brother was red faced with rage and Jochi had barely opened his mouth to speak again when the young man launched himself from the saddle, taking Jochi down hard.

As they hit and rolled, Jochi lost his temper and struck out, his blows thumping uselessly. They came apart and both of them leapt up with murder in their eyes. Even then, old habits were strong and they did not reach for their swords. Chagatai came at Jochi with his fists high, and Jochi kicked him as hard as he could between the legs.

Chagatai collapsed in agony, but his fury was so all-consuming that to Jochi’s amazement, he struggled to rise and staggered into him again. By then his companions had dismounted and they pulled the two generals apart. Jochi wiped a smear of blood from his nose and spat contemptuously on the ground at Chagatai’s feet. He watched as his brother recovered some semblance of calm, and only then did he glance over to Genghis.

The khan was pale with rage, and as his eyes met Jochi’s, he dug in his heels and trotted closer. Not one of the warriors dared look up as they froze in his presence. His temper was legendary in the families and the youngest men were suddenly aware that their own lives might hang on a word or a gesture.

Only Chagatai seemed unaffected. As his father approached, he stepped forward and tried to backhand Jochi across the face. His brother ducked instinctively and was off balance when Genghis kicked Jochi hard between the shoulder blades, sending him sprawling.

Even Chagatai became still at seeing that, though his sneer remained. Genghis dismounted slowly, his fists tight on the reins until he forced them open.

When he turned to his sons, his anger was clear enough to make Chagatai step back. It was not enough. Genghis placed his hand on Chagatai’s chest and pushed him flat to join Jochi on the ground.

“Are you children still?” Genghis said. He shook visibly at the young fools who dared to brawl while their men looked on. He wanted to take a stick and beat sense into them, but the last thread of his control held him back. If he thrashed them, they would never again command the respect of his warriors. Sly whispers would follow them the rest of their lives.

Neither Jochi nor Chagatai responded. Finally aware of the danger they were in, they chose to say nothing.

“How can you command…?” Genghis stopped before he destroyed them both, his mouth working soundlessly. Kachiun had galloped across the makeshift camp as soon as he heard, and his approach allowed the khan to break off his glare.

“What would you do with young fools like these?” Genghis demanded of Kachiun. “With all the enemies we still face, with our own camp in peril, they fight like boys.”

His eyes pleaded silently with Kachiun to find a punishment that would not be the end for them both. If it had been Jochi alone, he would have ordered his death, but it had been Chagatai he had seen leaping off his horse to roll his brother in the dust.

Kachiun’s face was stern, but he understood the khan’s dilemma.

“It is almost twenty miles to Otrar, Lord Khan. I would have them make the journey on foot, before dark.” He looked at the sun, judging the time. “If they cannot, perhaps they are not fit to lead their men.”

Genghis breathed out slowly in relief he could not show. It would do. The sun was merciless and such a run could kill a man, but they were young and strong and it would serve as a punishment.

“I will be there to watch you come in,” he said to the dumbfounded pair. Chagatai glared at Kachiun for the suggestion, but as he opened his mouth to object, Genghis reached down and picked him up in one smooth motion. His father’s fist rested just under his chin as he spoke again.

“Remove your armor and go,” he said. “If I see you fighting again, I will make Ogedai my heir. Do you understand?”

Both brothers nodded and Genghis stared at Jochi, incensed that he had thought the words were also for him. His temper flared again, but Kachiun deliberately chose that moment to call the men into ranks for the ride to Otrar, and Genghis let Chagatai go.

For the benefit of all those who could hear and repeat the words a thousand times, Kachiun forced a smile as Jochi and Chagatai began to run in the vicious heat.

“You won such a race when we were boys, I remember.”

Genghis shook his head irritably. “What does that matter? It was long ago. Have Khasar bring the families back to Otrar. I have debts to settle there.”

Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed reined in as he saw the thin trails of cooking smoke rising from the Mongol camp. He had ridden slowly west before taking a wide route north around Otrar, covering many miles since the first gray light of predawn. As the sun rose to burn off the morning mist, he stared at the filthy gers of the Mongol families. For an instant, the urge to ride among the women and children with his sword was overwhelming. If he had known the khan had left them so vulnerable, he would have sent twenty thousand to kill them all. He clenched his fists in frustration as the light grew. Warriors clustered on the edges, the heads of their ponies peacefully snuffling the dusty ground for grass. For once, there were no warning horns blown from the cursed Mongol scouts.

With a snarl, the Shah began to turn his mount away from the camp. They bred like lice, these Mongols, and he had only his precious four hundred to see him safe in the east. The sun was rising and his guards would soon be seen.

One of his men shouted something and Ala-ud-Din turned his head. The sun’s light revealed what the shadows had hidden, and he grinned suddenly, his mood lifting. The warriors were no more than straw dummies tied to the horses. The Shah strained his eyes as the light grew, but he could not see a single armed man. Around him, the news spread and the noble sons laughed and pointed, already loosening their swords in the scabbards. They had all taken part in punishment raids on villages, when the taxes had been late. The sport was good in such places and the desire for revenge was strong.

Jelaudin did not share the men’s laughter as he rode to his father.

“Would you have the men waste half a day here with our enemies so close?”

In response, his father drew a curved sword. The Shah glanced at the sun.

“This khan must be taught the price of his arrogance, Jelaudin. Kill the children and burn what you can.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

SLOWLY, almost ritually, Chakahai wrapped her hand in a length of silk, tying it to the hilt of a long dagger. Borte had told her to beware of the shock of impact, that a woman’s hand could be jarred loose or sweat enough to slip. The process of winding the silk around her fingers and biting one end to hold a knot was somehow calming as she looked out through the gers at the Shah’s riders. The knot of terror in her stomach was not under her control.

She, Borte, and Hoelun had done what they could to prepare the camp. They had been given little warning and the more elaborate traps were still unset. Still, they had weapons and Chakahai murmured a Buddhist death prayer as she readied herself. The morning was cold, though the air seemed heavy and promised another day of heat. She had hidden her children as best she could in the ger. They lay in perfect silence under piles of blankets. With a vast effort, Chakahai put her fear for them aside, leaving it in a separate place so that her mind was clear. Some things were fate, what the Indian Buddhists called karma. Perhaps all the women and children would be killed that day, she could not know. All she desired was the chance to kill a man for the first time, to fulfill her duty to her husband and her children.

Her bound right hand was shaking as she raised the blade, but she enjoyed the feeling of holding the weapon and took strength from it. Genghis would avenge her, she knew. Unless he too had been killed. That was the thought she tried most to crush as it reared in her mind. How else could Arabs have come to the camp if not over a dead nation and the body of her husband? If Genghis still lived, he would surely have moved mountains to protect the camp. For a Mongol, the families were everything. Yet there was no sign of the khan on the horizon, and Chakahai struggled against despair, seeking a calm that came and went in flashes.

At the last, she took a deep breath and felt her heart settle to a slow, heavy thump, her limbs strangely cold as if her blood had chilled in her veins. The riders were trotting toward the city of gers. Life was just a restless fever dream, a short breath between longer sleep. She would reawaken and be reborn without the agony of memory. That, at least, was a blessing.

The herds of Mongol ponies stirred nervously as the Shah rode in with his men. He could see ripples running through the animals, and in the strange silence, he felt a sense of foreboding. He looked to the others to see if they too had a premonition of danger, but they were blindly eager for the hunt and leaned forward in their saddles.

Ahead, threads of cooking smoke lifted lazily into air. It was already growing warm and the Shah felt sweat trickle down his back as he reached the first gers. His guards spread themselves into a wide line as they rode into the maze, and the Shah felt his nerves tighten. The Mongol homes were high enough to conceal anything behind them. Even a mounted man could not see what lay beyond the next, and that made him uneasy.

The camp seemed deserted. If not for the cooking fires, Ala-ud-Din might have thought the place empty of life. He had intended to ride through in one great sweep, killing anyone who ran across his path. Instead, the lanes and paths were silent and the Arab horses drove deeper and deeper without seeing a living soul. Far above his head, an eagle circled, its head twitching back and forth as it searched for prey.

He had not appreciated the sheer size of the Mongol encampment. Perhaps twenty thousand gers were in that place, or even more, a true city sprung from nothing in the wilderness. They had claimed the land on the banks of a nearby river, and Ala-ud-Din could see drying fish tied to racks of wood as he passed. Even the flies were quiet. He shrugged to himself, trying to throw off the dark mood. Already some of his men were dismounting to enter the gers. He had heard the older men talk of threatening the children to make the women more pliable. The Shah sighed in irritation. Perhaps Jelaudin had been right. Once they were in the gers, the morning would be lost. The Mongols could not be far behind and he did not intend to be caught in that desolate place. For the first time, he wished he had simply ridden past the camp.

Ala-ud-Din watched as one of his son’s friends ducked low to push open the door to a ger. The entrance was almost too small for his massive shoulders. The Arab soldier stuck his bearded face through the opening, squinting into the gloom. Ala-ud-Din blinked as the man suddenly shuddered, his legs quivering as if he had begun a fit. To his astonishment, the soldier dropped to his knees, then fell flat into the ger, his body still twitching.

As he took a breath to give orders, Ala-ud-Din caught a movement out of the corner of his eye and brought his sword round in a sweeping blow. A woman had been creeping up on him and the tip caught her across the face, gashing her jaw and breaking teeth. She fell back with blood pouring from her mouth, then to his horror, leapt at him and sank a dagger into his thigh. His second blow took her head off cleanly, then the silence shattered into chaos all around him.

The gers erupted and his warriors were instantly fighting for their lives. Ignoring the pain from his wound, the Shah spun his horse in place and used its bulk to shoulder down a woman and young boy who raced toward him, screaming and brandishing heavy knives. His men were veteran cavalry, used to defending their mounts from men on foot. Yet the Mongol women seemed to have no fear of death. They ran in close and cut either the horse or a man’s leg before vanishing behind the nearest ger. Ala-ud-Din saw more than one hacked down, then stagger in before death took them, using their last breath to plunge a blade into flesh.

In heartbeats, every man of his four hundred was fending off more than one, sometimes four or five different women. Horses bolted wildly as their haunches were cut, and men cried out in fear as they were pulled from their mounts and stabbed.

The Arab guards held their nerve. More than half of them rode without care to surround the Shah, and the rest drew into close formation, each man watching for attacks on the others. The women darted at them from the side of every ger, appearing and disappearing like ghosts. The Shah felt hemmed in, but he could not ride free and let the khan tell the world he had run from women and children. One ger had collapsed as a horse crashed into it, and he saw an iron stove broken open. He snapped an order to his manservant, Abbas, watching eagerly as the man tore a great strip of felt and lit it from the scattered fire.

The attacks became more desperate, but his men had the rhythm by then. The Shah could see some wild fools had dismounted to rape a young woman on the ground, and he rode furiously to them, using his horse to knock them aside.

“Have you lost your minds?” he roared. “Get up! Up! Fire the gers!” In the face of his fury, they drew a knife across the throat of the struggling woman and stood, abashed. Abbas already had one ger aflame. The closest guards took up pieces of the burning material in their hands, riding away with them to spread the terror as far as they could. Ala-ud-Din coughed as he breathed in thick gray smoke, but he exulted at the thought of the khan coming back to a field of ashes and the cold dead.

Jelaudin was the first to spot the running boys. They darted through the gers near the river, weaving between paths, but always coming closer. Jelaudin could see hundreds of the devils, running bare-chested with their hair flying. He swallowed nervously when he saw they carried bows, like their fathers. Jelaudin had time to shout a warning to his men, and they raised their shields and charged down the paths at this new threat.

The Mongol boys held their ground as the Arabs thundered toward them. Jelaudin’s men heard a high voice shout an order, then the bows bent and arrows were flying in the breeze.

Jelaudin yelled a curse as he saw men knocked down, but it was just a few. The boys were as accurate as the adults, but they did not have the power to batter shafts through armor. The only deaths came from an arrow in the throat, and those were good odds. As Jelaudin drew close, the boys scattered before his men, vanishing into the labyrinth. He cursed an arrangement that meant they had to turn only one corner to be lost to view. Perhaps that was how the Mongols had intended it when they laid out their camps.

Jelaudin cantered around a ger and found three of the boys in a huddle. Two loosed a shot as soon as they saw him, the arrows passing wide. The other took a heartbeat longer and released his shaft just as Jelaudin’s horse crashed into him, shattering the boy’s ribs and tossing him away. Jelaudin roared in pain, looking down in disbelief at the arrow that had ripped along his thigh under the skin. It was not a bad wound, but he raged as he drew his sword and killed the dumbfounded pair before they could react. Another arrow whirred past his head from behind, though when he spun his mount round, he could see no one.

In the distance, smoke rose in thick billows as his father’s men set fires. Already the sparks would be landing on other gers, burying themselves deeply in the dry felt. Jelaudin was completely alone, yet he sensed movement all round him. When he had been a very young boy, he had once been lost in a field of golden wheat, the crop taller than he was. All around him, he had heard the scuttling, whispering movement of rats. The old terror surfaced. He could not bear to be alone in such a place, with creeping danger on all sides. Yet he was not a boy. He roared a challenge to the empty air and hammered along the closest path, heading for his father and where the smoke was thickest.

The Shah’s men had killed hundreds of the Mongol women, yet they still came and died. Fewer and fewer of them managed to draw blood from the guards, now that they were prepared. Ala-ud-Din was astonished at their ferocity, as fierce as the men who had ravaged his armies. His sword was bloody and he burned with the need to punish them. He breathed heavy smoke and choked for a moment, delighting in the destruction as the fire spread from ger to ger. The center of the camp was aflame and his men had developed a new tactic. As they saw a Mongol home burn, they waited outside the door for the inhabitants to come rushing out. Sometimes the Mongol women and children cut their way through the felt walls, but more and more were slaughtered as they rushed armed and mounted men. Some were already on fire and chose to die on swords rather than burn.

Chakahai ran on bare feet toward a warrior with his back to her. The Arab horse seemed huge as she approached, the man on its back so far above her that she could not see how to hurt him. The crackle of flames hid the sound of her steps as she raced across the grass. Still he did not turn, and as he shouted to another man, she saw he wore a leather tunic decorated in plates of some dark metal. The world slowed as she reached the hindquarters of his mount and he sensed her. He began to turn, moving as if in a dream. Chakahai saw a glimpse of flesh at his waist, between his belt and the leather armor. She darted in without hesitation, ramming the blade upwards as Borte had told her to do. The shock of it thrilled along her arm and the man gasped, his head snapping back so that he stared at the sky. Chakahai yanked the blade and found it had wedged in him, trapped in flesh. She pulled at it in a frenzy and did not dare look at the Arab as he brought his sword arm up to kill her.

The blade came loose and she fell backwards, her arm covered in his blood. The Arab slumped and fell almost beside her, so that for an instant, their eyes met. She struck out again in panic, but he was already dead.

She stood then, her chest heaving as she was filled with a dark pleasure. Let them all die in such a way, with their bowels opening and their bladders darkening the ground! She heard galloping hooves and looked up dazedly as another Arab stallion came to smash her from her feet. She could not move in time and the exhilaration of the kill left her to be replaced by a vast weariness.

Facing the Arab soldier, she saw Yao Shu before he did. The Buddhist monk shot across the face of the horse, aiming a heavy stick at a foreleg. She heard a crack and the animal went down hard. As she watched in a daze, it turned right over in front of her, crushing the man on its back. Chakahai could only stare at the kicking legs, seeing that one of them hung at a vicious angle. She felt Yao Shu’s hands pulling her between gers and then the world came back in a rush and she began to retch weakly.

The little monk moved as jerkily as a bird, looking for the next threat. He caught her staring at him and only nodded, raising the stick he had used in salute.

“Thank you,” she said, bowing her head. She would reward him, if they survived it, she promised herself. Genghis would honor him before them all.

“Come with me,” he said, letting his hand rest briefly on her shoulder before he led the way through the gers away from the fire. Chakahai looked at the blood staining the wrap on her right hand and felt only satisfaction at the memory. Genghis would be proud of her, if he still lived.

Ala-ud-Din turned his head as he heard a series of short, hard sounds. He did not understand the words, only that men were coming. His stomach twisted in panic that the khan had tracked him down already. He bawled new orders for his men to leave the gers and face the enemy. Many of them were lost to him in an orgy of destruction, their faces wild with fanatic madness. Yet Jelaudin heard as he raced in, and two more of his sons repeated the orders, shouting until they were hoarse.

The smoke was thick and at first Ala-ud-Din could see nothing, hear nothing but approaching hooves. The sound echoed through the encampment and his mouth went dry. Surely there were thousands coming for his head?

Out of the smoke, horses came at full gallop, the whites of their eyes showing clearly as they ran. They had no men on their backs, but in that confined place, they could not stop for the Shah’s men. With Jelaudin, Ala-ud-Din was fast enough to dodge behind a ger, but others reacted too slowly. The horses ran like a river bursting its banks through the camp, and many of his guards were knocked down and trampled.

Behind the Mongol mounts came the maimed men. Ala-ud-Din heard their battle cries as they raced by in the host of horses. They were both young and old, many without limbs. One of them turned to kill the Shah, and Ala-ud-Din saw the man carried only a heavy stick in his left hand. His right was missing. The Mongol warrior died swiftly under Jelaudin’s sword, but some of them held bows and the Shah shuddered at the song of arrows in the air once more. He had heard it too often over the previous month.

The smell of blood and fire was in the air, too thick to breathe as more and more gers took flame. Ala-ud-Din looked for his officers, but they were all defending themselves. He felt surrounded, helpless in the confining maze of gers.

“With me! To your Shah! With me!” he roared, digging in his heels. He had barely been able to hold his horse in place. Released, the animal moved like it had been shot from a bow, careering across the camp and leaving the smoke and terror behind.

Jelaudin repeated his order and the survivors followed, as relieved as their master to be away from the fighting. The Shah rode blindly, standing high on his stirrups for some sign that he was heading the right way. Where was the river? He would have given a second son for an elephant’s height to let him see his way out. Even as his men fought free of the stampeding horses and the maimed men, he saw lines of children, boys and girls alike, rushing along the gers on either side. Arrows flew at his men and knives were thrown, but none fell and he did not stop until the river was in sight.

There was no time to look for a fording place. The Shah plunged into the freezing water, the shock of it numbing him as spray spattered on all sides. Allah be thanked it is not too deep! he thought as his horse surged across to the far bank. He almost fell from the saddle as the animal struggled up through mud worn smooth by the river. At last he had firm ground under him and he rested, panting and looking back at the burning camp.

Kokchu cowered in the shadow of a ger as Arab warriors raced past, unaware of him. The maimed warriors pursued them with guttural yells, and they were fearsome to behold. Kokchu had tended many of their wounds and cut limbs from screaming men as helpless as babies, but those who had lived had nothing left to lose. Men who could not walk could yet ride, and many of them gave their lives willingly, knowing that they would never again have a chance to fight for the khan. Kokchu saw one who was missing his right leg to the knee. His balance was all wrong, but when the Arabs slowed on the narrow paths, the warrior caught a straggler and threw himself at him, sending them both to the ground. The warrior held on tightly, desperate to kill before his enemy regained his feet. They had fallen next to Kokchu and the shaman saw the warrior’s gaze fall on him, desperate for help.

Kokchu stood back, though he fingered his knife nervously. The felled Arab plunged a knife into the warrior’s side and ripped it back and forth with savage strength. Still the man fought on, his arms iron strong from years supporting his weight. One of them was around the Arab’s throat and it tightened convulsively, the fingers crushing. The Arab choked and stabbed in a frenzy as he grew purple.

Kokchu darted forward and used his knife to slit the Arab’s throat, gashing the warrior’s fingers as he did so. Blood poured as both men died together, but Kokchu stepped in, his fear vanishing in rage at a helpless enemy. As the Arab fell back, Kokchu jammed in the knife again and again, keening mindlessly to himself until he was chopping at dead meat.

He rose panting, his hands on his knees as he sucked great lungfuls of warm air. In the gloom of a nearby ger, he saw Genghis’s sister Temulun staring at him and wondered what she thought she had seen. She smiled then and he relaxed. He could not have saved the maimed warrior, he was almost sure.

The flames around Kokchu seemed to heat his blood, perhaps also the wildness that came from feeling death pulse under his hands. He felt strong as he took three strides to the ger and pushed his way in with her, yanking the door closed behind them. The thought of her golden skin taut with lines of dried blood filled his mind, maddening him. She was not strong enough to resist as he pulled her deel from her shoulders, exposing her to the waist. The lines he had drawn were still there, pathetic proof of her faith. He began to devour them, licking off the bitter taste. He felt her hands striking at him, but they were distant and brought no pain. He told himself she felt the same passion as he pushed her back on the low bed, ignoring the desperate cries that no one else would hear. Part of him screamed that it was madness, but he was lost for a time as he moved in her, his eyes like black glass.

Tsubodai and Jebe had seen the smoke from afar and arrived at the camp in the early evening, their horses lathered and exhausted. Almost ten thousand gers had been burned and the stink of it was sour on the breeze. Even then, there were hundreds of women and children roaming the camp with leather buckets, pouring river water on anything that still smoldered.

Dozens of the Shah’s guard lay dead on the ground to be kicked and abused by children as they passed by. Tsubodai came across the bodies of five girls lying sprawled between a ger. He dismounted and knelt with them for a time, saying quiet words of apology that they could not hear.

When he rose, Jebe was there and both men shared a complete understanding. The Shah would not escape them, no matter where he ran.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE NATION HAD GATHERED AROUND OTRAR, holding it in a fist. In normal times, the idea of the khan’s sons running a race would have been an event for the warriors. They would have wagered fortunes on which brother would be first to touch the walls of the city. In the end, when Jochi staggered in with Chagatai some way behind, their arrival went almost unnoticed. The nation waited for news that the camp was safe, and every man there had parents, wives, or children. Jochi’s tuman had not met his eyes when he caught sight of the tiger skin draped across his horse. The beast’s dried head had been roughly hacked from it, the sole sign that Genghis had not forgotten his sons fighting in front of the ranks. Jochi had fingered the torn skin in silence for a time, then turned away.

When the first riders came a day later, the tumans reeled at the news, everything they had feared. For a time, they were left with hope that their families might have been spared, but Khasar arrived with the survivors and the dead. Warriors ran to each cart as it came in, searching for their wives and children. Others waited in silent agony as the weary women passed them, desperate for a face they knew. Some were rewarded by a sharp cry and an embrace. Most were left standing, alone.

It took more than a month to collect every fallen warrior on the path back through the hills in the south. The Arabs were left to rot, but those who had fought for Genghis were brought in and treated with honor. Their bodies were stripped of armor and wrapped in soft white felt before being taken on carts to the highest peaks they could see and laid out for the hawks and eagles of that realm. The women who had died were tended by their sisters and mothers, with Chakahai, Borte, and Hoelun overseeing the grim work.

Genghis had come to view the dead face of his sister when she was brought in. She had been found naked, with her throat cut in one great slash. His grief had been terrible to see. It was one more crime to bring to the feet of the Shah. His mother had aged overnight at the news, so that Hoelun seemed constantly dazed and had to be taken by the arm wherever she went. She had lost a son many years before, and ancient wounds bled again, leaving her ruined with tears. When Genghis turned his gaze on Otrar, those who saw knew the city would be reduced to dust in a hot wind.

The catapults had been destroyed on their hill, deliberately set on fire as the Otrar garrison broke out and raced away to their own destruction. Twelve good men had been found around the charred timbers, cut down as they held their posts to the last. Genghis had merely grunted when that news reached him and set his Chin artisans to making more with Koryon lumber. The end of summer was quiet as they rested and recovered, with simmering rage always close to the surface. The city waited for them and no one came to the high walls anymore, still marked with soot from the burning oil Samuka had sent against them.

Ho Sa and Samuka had been found among the heaped dead and been honored for the enemies they had taken with them. The storytellers wove their tale into ballads for the evenings, while the empty flesh was taken with the rest, with no more ceremony than the lowest warrior of the tribes. In the distance, the peaks were covered with the dead, and birds of prey hung like a dark cloud above them, feasting.

Winter in that place was a weak thing compared to the bitter cold they knew in the north. Genghis could not know the mind of the governor of Otrar, but the onset of colder months seemed to bring agitation to the city while the Mongols waited for the catapults to be rebuilt. There was no sense of urgency in the tribes. They did not need to move to live, and one place was as good as any other. The city would fall, and if the inhabitants suffered as they waited, that too was well deserved.

As the days grew shorter, Genghis could sometimes see distant figures on the walls, pointing and talking. Perhaps they could see the frames growing on the hill outside the city. He did not know or care. At times, he was almost listless, and even after the catapults were finished, he did not give the order, preferring to stay in his ger and drink through a black depression. He did not want to see accusation in the eyes of those who had lost their families. It had been his decision and he tortured himself with grief and fury, sleeping only when the drink made him pass out.

The gates of Otrar opened without warning on a day of gray clouds and threatening rain. The Mongol army sent up a storm of sound, beating spears and bows on shields, showing their anger in the discordant clashing. Before Genghis or his remaining generals could respond, a small group of men came walking out and the gates closed swiftly behind them.

Genghis was talking to Khasar when he heard the howl of the warriors. He walked slowly to his horse and climbed stiffly into the saddle, staring at Otrar.

Just twelve men had left the protection of the walls. As Genghis watched, he saw his warriors riding hard at them, their swords bared. He might have stopped them, but he kept his mouth firmly shut.

The twelve Arabs bore one of their number trussed between them, his feet dragging on the dusty ground. They cowered back from the warriors swirling around them and held up their free hands to show they were unarmed. To the Mongols, that too was a provocation. Any man fool enough to venture among them without a blade or bow just excited their lust to kill.

Genghis watched impassively as the warriors galloped across the face of the men’s progress. Closer and closer they rode until one of them clipped an Arab with his horse’s shoulder, sending him spinning.

The small group paused in sudden terror and Genghis could see them calling to their fallen companion as he tried to struggle up. More warriors forced them on, yipping and urging as they might a lost sheep or goat. The man was left behind and warriors dismounted to finish him.

The sound of his screams echoed from the walls of Otrar. The group of Arabs moved on, glancing back in horror. Another was knocked down with a blow from a sword hilt, so that a flap of his scalp was torn and blood covered his face. He too was left behind in a welter of kicking, stabbing men. Genghis sat his horse in silence as he observed their progress.

Two Mongol women approached one of the Arabs and pulled him away from the others. He yelled something in his strange language and held both hands out and open, but they laughed at him and held him back from his companions. When they had passed, the man began to scream and this time he did not die quickly. The sounds grew in intensity, going on and on.

When there were just six left of the group, Genghis held up his hand, sitting straight backed in the morning sun. Those who had watched for his signal pulled away from the bloodied Arabs and allowed a path to the khan. The group staggered on, pale with what they had seen. When they reached Genghis, they fell to the ground, abasing themselves before him. Their prisoner writhed in the dust, the whites of his eyes showing.

Genghis watched coldly as one of the Arabs lifted his head and spoke in the Chin language, his words slow.

“My lord, we have come to discuss peace!” he said. Genghis did not reply and only looked back at Otrar to where the walls were once again black with small figures, watching. The man swallowed the dust in his throat and tried again.

“The city council has voted to hand over our governor to you, lord. We were led into war against our will and we are innocent. We beg you to spare us and take only Governor Inalchuk, who is the author of our troubles.”

The man settled back to the dust now that the words were spoken. He could not understand why he and his companions had been attacked. He was not even sure if the khan had understood his words. Genghis gave no sign of it and the silence lengthened.

The governor had been gagged as well as tied. Genghis heard the moan of muffled words and gestured to Khasar to cut the gag. His brother was not gentle and the blade sliced across Inalchuk’s lips as the cloth parted, making him cry out and spit blood.

“These men have no power over me!” Inalchuk said through his pain. “Let me negotiate for my life, Lord Khan.”

Genghis had learned only a few words of Arabic and could not understand. He waited patiently while an Arab merchant was brought, one of those who spoke many tongues. The merchant arrived looking as nervous as the others lying in the dust. Genghis gestured for the governor to speak again and listened patiently to the translation into the Chin language. It occurred to him that he had better set Temuge to training more men in the task if he intended to stay long in Arab lands. It was hard to make himself care.

When he understood Inalchuk, Genghis chuckled cruelly, waving away a fly that buzzed around his face.

“They have tied you like a sheep for slaughter and delivered you to your enemy, yet you say they have no power over you?” he said. “What other power is there?”

As the interpreter stumbled through the reply, Inalchuk struggled into a sitting position and touched his bound hands to his bleeding face, wincing.

“There is no council in Otrar, lord. These are mere traders of my city. They do not speak for one appointed by the Shah himself.”

One of the Arabs began to spit an answer, but Khasar lunged at him, kicking him onto his back.

“Be silent!” Khasar snapped. He drew his sword and the battered Arabs followed the movement with nervous eyes. No interpretation was needed and the man did not try to speak again.

“Spare my life and I will have six thousand oka of silver delivered to you,” Inalchuk declared. The interpreter hesitated over the sum and Genghis looked over to him. Under that yellow gaze, the shaking Arab merchant lowered himself to the ground with the others.

“Lord, I do not know the word in the Chin tongue. It is a term of weight used by gold-and silversmiths.”

“No doubt he offers a great deal,” Genghis replied. “He has set the value of his own life, after all.”

The interpreter nodded where he lay. “The weight in silver of many men, lord. Perhaps a hundred, or even more.”

Genghis considered, glancing up at the walls of Otrar that still loomed over his army. After a time, he cut the air with his hand.

“These others will be given to the women, to use as they see fit. The governor will live for now,” he said. He caught Khasar’s surprise out of the corner of his eye, but did not respond to it.

“Fetch Temuge to me,” Genghis went on. “They are watching us on the walls of Otrar. I will give them something to see.”

His brother Temuge came quickly at the summons, barely glancing at the bloody dust, or the governor who still sat with his eyes darting from man to man.

“How much silver do we have in the camp, Temuge?” Genghis asked.

“Perhaps a hundred carts of it, my lord khan,” Temuge replied. “I have accounted for every coin, but I would have to bring my records if—”

“Bring me the weight of a man in that metal,” Genghis said. He sensed Inalchuk staring at him and smiled slowly.

“And one of the moving forges Tsubodai brought back. I want the silver to run like water before sunset. Do you understand?”

“Of course, Lord Khan,” Temuge replied, though he did not understand at all. He hurried away to do his brother’s bidding.

The population of Otrar crowded onto the walls of the city to see what would become of the governor they had sent out to the Mongol army. They had suffered through the battle between the garrison and Samuka’s men. When the garrison had broken out at last, their mood had been jubilant. The Shah was coming to relieve the city and they would be saved. Instead, the Mongol army had come back unchallenged from the south to surround them. They did not know if the Shah still lived, but how could the khan sit outside their walls if he did? It had taken months for the merchants to form a council and days of secret talks before they had surprised Inalchuk in his bed and trussed him to be handed over. The Mongols had no grudge against the citizens of Otrar, only the man who had provoked them. Families stood together on the walls and prayed that they would be saved.

Before the sun set, Genghis had Inalchuk brought to within arrow shot of the walls. It was a dangerous thing to do, but he guessed rightly that the people within would not dare risk a shot at the one man who could choose to spare them. Just a hundred yards from the iron gates, he had Inalchuk kneel with his hands freshly tied in front.

The sight of the smoking forge had not been lost on the governor of Otrar. It too had been wheeled close to the walls of his city, and he could smell the tang of hot metal on the breeze. He doubled his offer and then doubled it again, until Genghis told the interpreter to hold his tongue or lose it.

They made a strange group, standing alone before the city. Three burly men worked the forge bellows under Temuge’s direction. Genghis stood by the prisoner with Khasar, but the rest of the Mongol army stood back in silent ranks, watching.

At last the forge workers nodded that the silver coins were molten, held in a cauldron of black iron. One of them dipped a stick into the liquid within. It charred on contact, while drops of silver hissed and spat. Two of the men ran long wooden poles through the cauldron handles and lifted it clear of the iron box and the white heat of charcoal and bellows.

Inalchuk moaned in terror as he saw them bring it out, heating the air to a haze above the simmering contents.

“One hundred thousand oka of silver, lord,” he said, sweating. The interpreter glanced up but did not speak, and Inalchuk began to pray aloud.

As the carriers came forward, Genghis stared into the bowl of liquid silver and nodded to himself.

“Say these words to him in his own tongue,” he said to the interpreter. “I have no use for silver or gold.”

Inalchuk looked up in desperate hope as the interpreter spoke.

“What is he doing, my friend? In the name of Allah, tell me if I am to die!”

The interpreter held his breath for a moment, staring in sick fascination at the silver as it slopped against the sides of the iron and coated them.

“I think that you are,” he admitted. “It will at least be quick, so prepare your soul for God.”

Oblivious to the exchange, Genghis went on. “Accept this gift from me, Governor of Otrar,” he said. “You may keep what you can hold.”

Genghis turned to Khasar, his face cold.

“Have him hold out his hands, but be careful you are not burned.”

Khasar knocked Inalchuk down with a blow to his head that left him dazed. He mimed holding out his hands and the governor began to yell, refusing. Even a sword held to his throat would not make him raise his hands. In growing anger, Khasar took him by the elbow and shoulder and snapped a bone with his knee, as if breaking a stick. Inalchuk screamed, still struggling. Genghis nodded and Khasar walked round to break the other arm.

“Do as they want, brother!” the interpreter snapped. “You may live!”

Inalchuk heard through his madness and, sobbing, held out the bound hands, one supporting the other as it hung limp. Genghis nodded to the forge men and they tipped the cauldron, slopping silver toward the edge.

A flood of bubbling metal covered the governor’s hands so that for a moment it looked as if he held shining rain. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. His fingers were welded together in the heat, the flesh dissolving.

He fell backwards, jerking away and landing on his face, drool spilling from his mouth as his lips made a paste of dust. His eyes were blank as Genghis came to stand over him, looking with interest at hands that seemed twice their usual size.

“You brought me to this dry land,” Genghis told the shuddering figure. “I offered you peace and trade and you sent me the heads of my men. Now I have given you your precious silver to hold.”

Inalchuk said nothing, though his lips worked soundlessly.

“Do you have no words to thank me?” Genghis went on. “Is your throat too dry? Accept this drink from me to slake your thirst. Then you will know a small echo of the pain you have caused.”

The interpreter was silent in horror, but Inalchuk was past hearing. The khan did not bother to watch as the forge men brought up their pot and poured the rest of the metal over the governor’s face. His oiled beard ignited and the open mouth filled, but Genghis only stared at the people on the walls. Many of them turned away, understanding at last that death would come for them.

“The catapults are finished, Khasar,” Genghis said, still staring up at the city. “You will begin breaking the walls tomorrow at dawn. I want each stone removed from every other. Otrar will not be rebuilt when we have gone. This city will be swept from the face of the world, with every living thing in it.”

Khasar shared the depths of his brother’s hatred. He bowed his head.

“Your will, my lord khan.”

The Old Man listened at a tiny grill set high in the wall of the cell. He could see only bare outlines in the gloom, but he heard the sounds of a young body stirring as it rose from drugged sleep. He was patient as he waited. How many times had he guided a boy through the ritual of awakening? He had shown the garden to his new recruit, with its glory enhanced by the drug in wine sweetened almost to syrup. He had shown him paradise and now, in the darkness, he would see hell.

The Old Man smiled to himself as he heard a voice cry out below in horror. He could imagine the shock and confusion, recalling how he had felt himself so many years before. The smell of dead flesh was strong in that little cell, the bodies greasy with loose flesh as they lay over the young warrior. The Old Man heard him whisper and sob as he struggled with the limp limbs covering him. It would seem as if only moments had passed since he sat in a place so beautiful that it was almost painful. The Old Man had perfected the garden and chosen the women well, down to the last detail. They were exquisite creatures and the drug had inflamed the young man so that every light touch on his skin had driven him almost to madness. Then he had closed his eyes for an instant and woken with the stinking dead.

The Old Man strained his eyes to see into the gloom. He could see flailing movement as the boy cast around him. He would feel soft matter under his hands in the darkness, perhaps feel the movement of maggots in the meat. The boy moaned and the Old Man heard him vomit. The stench was appalling and the Old Man pressed a pouch of rose petals to his nose as he waited. The moment was always delicate, but he was a master of his art.

The boy was naked in that place of the slippery dead. The Old Man saw him plucking at shreds of glistening skin where they had clung to his own. His mind would be fragile, his heart racing to the point of death. The Old Man thought only the very young could survive such an experience, but even they were haunted by it ever after.

The boy yelled suddenly, his attention caught by a shifting mass of rotting flesh. The Old Man smiled at his terrified imaginings and readied the shuttered lamp at his feet, where no stray glow could spoil the lesson. Below him, the boy prayed to Allah to deliver him from his stinking pit of hell.

The Old Man threw open the door to the cell, his lamp shattering the gloom, so that the boy was blinded and fell back with hands over his eyes. To the Old Man’s pleasure, he heard the spatter of hot urine as the boy’s bladder gave way. He had judged the moment well. Tears streamed below the clasped hands.

“I have shown you paradise,” the Old Man said. “And I have shown you hell. Shall I leave you here for a thousand lifetimes, or shall I take you back to the world? Which one awaits you depends on how well you follow me. On your soul, speak truly. Will you dedicate your life to me to spend as I see fit?”

The boy was fifteen years old. As he knelt and wept, the last traces of sticky hashish faded from his young body, leaving him shaking and weak.

“Please! Anything you ask! I am yours,” he said, sobbing. Still, he did not dare open his eyes, in case he found the vision gone and was left alone once more.

The Old Man pressed a cup to his lips and let him smell the resin that was said to give courage. The boy gulped at it, the purple wine running down his bare chest and arms. The Old Man grunted in satisfaction as the boy slumped back, his senses spinning away.

When the boy awoke, he lay on clean sheets in a bare stone room, somewhere in the fastness that was the Old Man’s sanctuary from the world. Alone, he wept at what he had seen, unaware that he was still observed. As he swung his legs over and tried to rise, he was filled with determination never to see the demons of the dead room again. He shuddered to remember the way the bodies had moved and stared at him, each memory more vivid and terrifying than the last. He thought he would have gone insane if the garden had not remained also in his mind. Its peace had protected him, even in hell.

The wooden door to the room opened and the boy took a deep breath as he stood before the man of power who had brought him out of that place. The Old Man was short and burly, his eyes fierce in a face as dark as mahogany. His beard was oiled and perfect, but his clothes were simple as always, suited to one who refused all the tawdry trappings of wealth. The boy threw himself full length on the cool stone, prostrating himself for his deliverance.

“You understand at last,” the Old Man said softly. “I have taken you by the hand and shown you both glory and failure. Which will you choose when the time comes?”

“I will choose glory, master,” he said, shaking.

“Your life is just a bird’s flight through a lit room. You pass from infinite darkness into endless night, with only a short time in between. The room does not matter. Your life does not matter, only how you prepare for the next.”

“I understand,” the boy said. He could feel the oily touch of dead limbs on his skin even then and he shuddered.

“Pity those who do not know what comes after death. You can stand strong among them, for you have seen both heaven and hell and you will not falter.” The leader of the assassins raised the boy to his feet with a gentle hand.

“Now you may join your brothers. Men like you, who have been allowed to press their eye to a crack in the walls of reality. You will not fail them, or me, when you bring a perfect death to the feet of Allah.”

“I will not, master,” the boy replied, more certain than he had ever been in his young life. “Tell me whom I must kill. I will not fail.”

The Old Man smiled, always touched by the earnest faith of the young warriors he sent out into the world. He had been one of them once, and when the nights were dark and cold, he still sometimes ached for the garden he had been shown. When death took him at last, he could only hope the real thing was as wonderful as the one he had created. Let there be hashish resin in paradise, he thought. Let him be as young and lithe as the boy before him.

“You will travel with your brothers to the camp of the Mongol khan, he who calls himself Genghis.”

“Amongst the infidel, master?” the boy stammered, already feeling unclean.

“Even so. Your faith will keep you strong. For this and only this you have trained with us for five years. You have been chosen for your skill with languages. You may serve Allah well with his gift.” The Old Man rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his palm seeming to radiate heat. “Get close to the khan, and when the moment is right, tear his life from him with a single thrust to the heart. Do you understand the price of failure?”

The boy swallowed painfully, the pit fresh in his mind.

“I will not fail, master. I swear it.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

THERE WAS NO BREEZE IN THE SUMMER HEAT. The air was still and the sun emptied the streets for hours around midday. The city of Almashan was not much more than a walled fortress, ancient and dusty, though a shining river ran along its flank. There were no women and children out on the riverbanks that day. Almashan was shut tight, packed with people and animals from the farms all around. The marketplaces smelled of fear and cesspools that oozed their filth through to the surface and could not be emptied.

In the distance, the city merchants could hear a whispering thunder, growing all the time. Those on the ground could only look up to the guard posts on the walls and pray for deliverance. Even the beggars had ceased their calls for alms.

“Be ready!” Ibrahim called to the men at the gate below. He stared out over the wall, his heart thumping in his chest. Almashan was surrounded by thin soil, too poor to farm well. Yet they had never depended on crops for their wealth.

In the heat haze, a black line of riders approached at frightening speed. They were the reason Ibrahim’s beloved city was packed with strangers. Merchants and trading caravans had raced inside the walls for safety. Ibrahim had levied a tax on all of them, fully half of the goods they sought to protect. None of them had dared complain. If they survived the Mongol attack, Ibrahim knew he would be an extremely wealthy man, but he was not confident.

His little city had stood for seven hundred years on the banks of that river. Its merchants had traveled as far as Chin lands and Spain, bringing back treasures and priceless knowledge, yet never so obviously that they excited the interest of kings and Shahs. The elders of Almashan paid their taxes on time while they made fortunes on the backs of infidel slaves. The little city had built its walls and granaries on those profits, becoming a hub for the sale of flesh. Farmland would not have brought Ibrahim the wealth he already enjoyed, or even a small piece of it.

He strained his eyes against the brutal glare, his splayed hands gripping dark stones that had been part of a fort more ancient than anyone could know. Before even that, the city had once been just a place for slave traders to rest by the river before heading south or east to the great markets. Almashan had risen from the ground and claimed them for its own.

Ibrahim sighed to himself. From what he had heard, the Mongols did not understand trade. They would see only an enemy city. His turban soaked up sweat, but he still wiped his hand across his face, leaving a dark patch on the cool white cloth of his robe.

Ahead of the Mongol riders, a lone Bedouin raced, looking back over his shoulder as he galloped. Ibrahim could see he rode a fine black horse, the animal’s size and speed barely keeping him ahead of his pursuers. Ibrahim drummed his fingers on the rough stone as he considered whether to open the small door set into the gate. Clearly the desert warrior thought he was running to safety, but if the gates remained closed, perhaps the Mongols would not attack. If the man was allowed to enter, how long would Almashan withstand the assault that would surely follow?

Indecision racked Ibrahim as he turned and looked down. The souks and bazaars still chattered with news of the Shah’s defeat, and he was desperate for fresh news, but not at the cost of his city. No. Ibrahim decided to keep the gate closed and let the man die. His mind filled with anger at the thought of the infidels snatching a Moslem right before the city, but Ibrahim had many families looking to him for their safety. Perhaps the Mongols would pass by once they had shed blood. Ibrahim would pray for the man’s soul.

The Mongol line had come close enough for Ibrahim to see individual mounts. He shuddered at the sight of the fierce warriors who had undone Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed and broken his great host in sight of Otrar. Yet he saw no catapults or carts, no sign of the great raiding nation that had spilled out of mountains to the east. Perhaps three thousand men rode toward his city, but mounted men alone could not trouble Almashan. The stone under his hands reflected the wealth of centuries of slaving. The walls kept that wealth safe, as well those who lived there.

Ibrahim’s heart was bitter as he watched the Arab rider rein in before the city gate. The man gestured desperately, spinning his horse in place as he yelled to those who watched.

“Let me in!” he yelled. “See those behind me!”

Ibrahim felt the gaze of other men rest on him. He stood very straight as he shook his head. The Mongols were just half a mile away and he could hear the rumble of their hooves. Almashan was independent and always had been. He could not risk the anger of this foreign khan.

The Arab below gaped, darting a glance back at the warriors running him down.

“For the love of Allah!” he roared. “Would you leave me to be killed? I have news you must hear!”

Ibrahim clenched his fist, shaking. He saw the man’s horse was laden with saddlebags. Was he a messenger? What news could be so important? The Mongols, the infidels, were just heartbeats away. Ibrahim could hear the snorting mounts and the guttural calls of their men as they bent their bows. He cursed to himself under his breath as he looked away. What was one life in comparison to a city? Almashan would survive.

Below his feet, Ibrahim heard raised voices and he stepped back from the parapet to peer below at the source. To his horror, he saw his brother smash a guard across the face with his hand. The man fell and though Ibrahim cried out in anger, his brother lifted the locking bar and a beam of solid sunlight lit the gloom below. Before Ibrahim could shout again, the door closed and the panting Bedouin was safe inside. Red with rage, Ibrahim raced down the stone steps to the street below.

“You fools!” he roared. “What have you done?” The guards would not meet his eyes, but his brother only shrugged. The door in the gate shook suddenly, making them all jump. The bar rattled under an impact, and above, someone fell back from the wall with an arrow in his shoulder. Ibrahim winced as, outside, Mongol riders howled their frustration.

“You have killed us all,” Ibrahim said in fury. He felt the cool gaze of the man who had entered Almashan and ignored it. “Send him back out to them and they may yet spare us.”

His brother shrugged. “Inshallah,” he murmured. Their fate was in God’s hands. He had acted and the man was inside their city. The noise from outside increased in volume, making them all sweat.

The messenger was panting at his narrow deliverance. He stood for a moment with his hands on his knees, and Ibrahim saw that he had brought the saddlebags with him.

“My name is Yusuf Alghani,” he said as he recovered. He had not missed the exchange between the two brothers, and his eyes were very cold as he addressed Ibrahim. “Do not fear for your city. The Mongol animals have no siege weapons. Your walls are safe from them. Be thankful that you did not earn Allah’s displeasure with your cowardice.”

Ibrahim crushed his rage and frustration to reply. “For you alone, my brother has put us all in danger. We are a trading city and only our walls keep us safe. What news is so important that you risked your life to come to Almashan?”

Yusuf smiled, showing very white teeth in his sun-darkened face. “I have news of a great victory, but not for your ears. Take me to the Shah and I will raise his heart.”

Ibrahim blinked in confusion, looking to his brother and back to this confident young man.

“Shah Mohammed is not in Almashan, brother. Is that what you thought?”

Yusuf grinned, unabashed. “Do not play games, my friend. He will want to hear what I know. Take me to him and I will not mention how you nearly let me die before your walls.”

Ibrahim spluttered in confusion. “Truly, he is not in Almashan. Is he coming here? Let me have drinks and food brought for you. Tell me what you know and I will pass it on when the Shah arrives.”

The messenger’s smile faded slowly as he understood, replaced by a great weariness.

“I had hoped he would be here,” he muttered to himself. Ibrahim watched as the young man tapped the fingers of one hand on the leather saddlebags, as if the contents had grown too hot to hold comfortably.

“I must leave,” Yusuf said suddenly. He bowed to Ibrahim, though the gesture was formal and stiff. “My words are for the Shah alone, and if he is not in this place, I must travel to the next city. Perhaps they will not make me wait until the very last moment to let me in.”

Ibrahim would have replied, but the noise at the gate ceased as suddenly as it had begun. With a nervous glance at his idiot brother, he raced back up the stone steps to the walls. The other men followed him and together they gazed out.

The Mongols were riding away. Ibrahim breathed in relief and thanked Allah for his city. How many times had the council complained of the cost when he had reinforced and repaired the crumbling walls? He had been right and a thousand times right. The Mongols could not assault his home without their stone-throwers, perhaps not even then. Almashan scorned their swords and bows. Ibrahim watched in delight as the enemy warriors rode clear without looking back.

“They are clever,” Yusuf said at his shoulder. “It could be that they seek to lull us. I have seen it before. Do not trust them, master.”

Ibrahim’s confidence had grown and he was expansive as he replied.

“They cannot break our walls, Yusuf. Now will you take cool drinks in my house? I am curious to know the messages you carry.”

To his frustration, the young man shook his head, his attention still on the Mongol riders.

“I will not stay here. Not when the Shah is close by. He must be told. Greater cities than this one depend on me reaching him.” Before Ibrahim could reply, the man leaned over the parapet, looking down.

“Did they kill my horse?” he asked.

Ibrahim’s brother cleared his throat. “They took it,” he said. Yusuf swore as he went on. “I have a good mount, a mare. You could have her.”

“I will buy her from you,” Yusuf replied.

Ibrahim’s brother bowed his head, though he was relieved at the offer. “She is very strong. For the Shah’s man, I will give you an excellent price,” he said.

Ibrahim could only stand with his fists clenched as his brother sent a man to bring his second-best mare to the gate. The young messenger strode back down the stone steps, and Ibrahim was forced to follow with the others. He could not help glancing at the bulging saddlebags once more, silently considering whether the contents would be worth cutting a man’s throat. As the thought formed, Yusuf seemed to sense it and smiled again.

“There is nothing of value in my bags, master,” he said. He reached up and tapped his head. “My messages are all in here.”

Ibrahim colored, flustered that the young man had guessed his thoughts. When the mare came, the messenger inspected the animal with the eye of one who knew horses. At last he was satisfied and paid Ibrahim’s brother more than he had asked, honoring him. Sourly, Ibrahim watched the young man check the belly strap and reins. Above their heads, the guards called that the way was clear.

“I would pay well to hear those messages,” Ibrahim said suddenly. To his surprise, the messenger hesitated. “In gold,” Ibrahim went on, sensing the first weakness.

“Very well, master,” Yusuf replied. “I need funds to continue my search for the Shah. But it must be quick.” As Ibrahim fought to hide his pleasure, the messenger passed the reins to a guard and followed him to the nearest house.

The family within made no protest when Ibrahim told them to leave. In just moments, he was alone with the messenger, almost quivering to hear the news.

“The gold you promised?” Yusuf said softly.

In his excitement, Ibrahim did not hesitate. He took a full pouch from under his robe, still warm and damp from his skin. The younger man hefted it, glancing at the contents with a wry smile before making it disappear.

“This is for you alone, master,” Yusuf said, his voice almost a whisper. “My poverty forces me to speak, but it is not for all ears.”

“Tell me,” Ibrahim urged. “It will go no further.”

“Bukhara has fallen, but the garrison at Samarkand achieved a great victory. The khan’s army was shattered in the field. For this year alone, they are weak. If the Shah returns to lead his loyal cities, he will have all their heads. If he comes, master. That is why I must find him quickly.”

“Allah be praised,” Ibrahim whispered. “I see now why you cannot delay.”

The messenger pressed his hands to his forehead, lips, and heart in the ancient gesture.

“I am the Shah’s servant in this, master. The blessing of Allah on you and your honorable house. Now I must ride.”

Ibrahim moved quickly then, striding with more confidence back to the gate. He felt the eyes of all his men on him, and even his foolish brother stared as if he might discern what the messages had been.

Once more the small door in the gate opened to let in sunlight and air to that stifling place under the walls. The messenger bowed to Ibrahim and then led his mount through the gap. The door was shut and barred behind him, and he dug in his heels, riding hard across the dusty ground.

It was sunset before Yusuf caught up with the tuman of Tsubodai and Jebe. He rode into the makeshift camp they had made, acknowledging the calls of warriors. He was nineteen years old and more than pleased with himself. Even Tsubodai smiled at the young Arab’s confidence as he dismounted with a flourish and bowed before the two generals.

“Is the Shah there?” Tsubodai asked.

Yusuf shook his head. “They would have told me, General.”

Tsubodai pursed his lips in annoyance. The Shah and his sons were like wraiths. The Mongols had chased the man and his guards right through to the end of summer and still he evaded them. Tsubodai had placed his hopes on him going to ground in the city on the river, its walls too high for an assault.

“He is a slippery fish, that old man,” Jebe said. “But we will catch him in the end. He cannot get past our lines without someone seeing him, even with the men he has left.”

Tsubodai grunted. “I wish I could be so certain. He had the wit to send his men on a false trail. We almost lost him then and it is much harder to track just a few.” He rubbed his arm where one of the Shah’s guards had surprised him. It had been a well-laid ambush, but the guards had been vastly outnumbered. Though it took time, Tsubodai and Jebe had slaughtered them to the last man. They had checked the face of every dead Arab, but they had all been young and strong. Tsubodai bit his lip at the memory. “He could hide himself in a single cave and scrub out his tracks. We could have ridden past him already.”

“They know nothing in the city, General,” Yusuf said. “The Shah did not stop for supplies anywhere near here. The slavers would have heard and told me.” He had expected to be congratulated on the success of his subterfuge, though it had been Tsubodai’s idea. Instead the two generals were back to their discussions as if it had been nothing. He did not mention the pouch of gold he had won with a few lies. They had noticed the new mare he had brought back and would consider that enough of a reward for his work. The Mongol generals did not need to know everything.

“The scouts report a dozen villages and towns further west of here,” Jebe replied after glancing at Yusuf. “If he has passed through, someone will remember an armed group and an old man. He cannot run forever.”

“He has managed this far,” Tsubodai snapped. He turned to Yusuf, who still stood there, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “You did well, Yusuf. Now leave us.”

The young man bowed deeply. It was a good thing they paid well, these Mongols. If the Shah could evade them until winter came again, Yusuf would be a rich man. As he walked back through the camp, he nodded and smiled to some of the warriors he knew. They were quiet as the evening came, as wolves were quiet when there was no prey in range. He saw them sharpening their swords and repairing arrows, slow and steady in their work. Yusuf shuddered delicately. He had heard of the attack on their women and children. He would not like to see what happened when they finally caught the Shah and his sons.

Jelaudin rubbed his eyes, furious at his own weakness. He could not let his three brothers see his air of confidence fade, not when they looked to him every day with fear and hope.

He winced in the darkness at his father’s laboring breath, in and out in a slow wheeze that seemed to go on forever. Every time it ceased, Jelaudin listened in despair, not knowing what he would do if the silence stretched and stretched around him.

The Mongols had brought the old man down, just as if they had struck him with one of their shafts. The pursuit across plains and mountains had never allowed the Shah to rest and recover. Damp ground and torrential rain had meant they all suffered colds and aching joints. At more than sixty years of age, the old man was like a bull, but the damp had seeped into his lungs and torn the strength right out of him. Jelaudin could feel tears spring fresh to his eyes, and he rubbed them too hard, digging the heels of his hands into the sockets so that the pain would ease his anger.

He had never been hunted before. In the first month, it was like a game to him. He and his brothers had laughed at the Mongols on their trail, coming up with ridiculous plans to lose them. As the rains had come, they had laid false trails, split their force, then split it again. They had ordered men to their deaths in ambushes that barely seemed to slow the implacable enemy who streamed after them.

Jelaudin listened as his father’s breath crackled in the dark. His lungs were full of thick muck and he would wake soon, choking on it. Jelaudin would pound him on the back as he had so many times before until the old man’s skin lost its waxy look and he could rise for one more day on the run.

“Curse them all to hell,” Jelaudin whispered. The Mongols must have had men who could follow the path of a bird in flight. Four times Jelaudin had risked turning his father back to the east. On each occasion, they had seen a distant line of scouts, spread wide and watching for just such an attempt. On the last, they had been forced to run to exhaustion, losing themselves at last in a city market. Jelaudin had barely escaped with his life and his father’s coughing had started two nights later, after sleeping on wet ground.

It had hurt the brothers to send the last guards away. It was just too easy to track large groups of men, or even the last few dozen who had stayed doggedly with the Shah they had pledged to serve. Now only Jelaudin remained with his three younger brothers to tend their father. They had changed their clothes and horses too many times to recall. They had only a little gold left for food and supplies, and when that was gone, Jelaudin truly did not know what would happen. He touched a small pouch of gems, hidden under his robe, taking comfort from the glassy click as he rolled them against each other. Away from the moneylenders in the great cities, he was not sure how he could sell even one safely. It was infuriating. He and his brothers could not live off the land the way the Mongols could. He had been born to silk, with servants to answer his slightest whim.

His father choked in the gloom and Jelaudin reached to him, helping him sit up. He could not remember the name of the small town where they had stopped. Perhaps the Mongols were riding into the outskirts even as the Shah heaved for breath.

Jelaudin shook his head, despairing. One more night on the ground would have killed his father, he was sure of it. If it was Allah’s will that they be taken that night, at least it would be in dry clothes, with a meal inside their shrunken bellies. Better that than to have the wolves fall on them as they slept in fields like lambs.

“My son?” his father called, his voice querulous. Jelaudin pressed a cool hand to his father’s forehead, almost recoiling from the heat there. A fever was raging through him and he was not certain the old man even knew him.

“Shh, Father. You will wake the stableboys here. We are safe for the night.”

His father tried to say something else, but a coughing fit broke the words into meaningless bursts of sound. The Shah leaned over the edge of the bed to hawk and spit weakly into the bucket. Jelaudin grimaced at the sound. Dawn was close and he had not slept; could not sleep with his father needing him.

The Caspian Sea was more than a hundred miles west of that shabby little town in the middle of moonlit fields. Jelaudin had never traveled beyond it. He could hardly imagine the lands or the people there, but he would be hiding among them if the Mongol line continued to sweep them further and further from home. He and his brothers were desperate to break through those who herded them, but how could it be done? He had even left three men hidden under wet leaves, so that the Mongols would pass them by. If they had survived, they would have brought help as winter came, surely? Every noise in the night was terrifying to the Shah and his sons, and there were no smiles anymore at the enemy who would not stop, would not ever stop until they ran them into the ground.

Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed sank back exhausted onto the straw pallet Jelaudin had found for him. His sons would sleep in the filthy stable and still it was better than anything they had known for months. Jelaudin listened to his father’s breathing become quieter and silently cursed the old man for his illness. They seemed to travel a shorter distance each day, and Jelaudin doubted the Mongols moved as slowly.

As his father slept, Jelaudin considered going to ground, as he had all through the hot months. He had needed the horses while there was a chance of breaking through, but if they sold or killed the animals and entered a city as a group of travelers, how could the Mongols ever find them? They were only men, for all the fiendish skill of their trackers. He had urged the Shah to stop at the ancient slave city of Almashan, but the old man would not hear of hiding like beggars. The very idea seemed to wound him. It had been hard enough to stop his father announcing their presence to the city elders and defying the Mongols from the walls.

To stop was to die, Jelaudin was certain of it. The army chasing his father brought terror with them, and few cities would sacrifice their own families for the Shah and his sons. The moment the Mongols surrounded a city, Jelaudin knew he would be handed over or murdered in his sleep. He had few choices left. Jelaudin stared through the darkness at the man who had given orders all his life. It was a hard thing to accept that the Shah was too frail to know best how to avoid the animals on their trail. Though Jelaudin was the oldest son, he did not feel ready to scorn his father’s will.

“We will stop, Father,” he whispered suddenly. “We will hide the horses and ourselves in a town. We have enough money to live simply while you recover your strength. They will pass us by. Let them be blind, Allah. If it is your will, let them pass us by.”

His father could not hear through his delirium, the fever working its way into his lungs and leaving less and less each day to draw breath.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF THE TOWN OF NUR, Genghis strolled with his wives and brothers behind a cart drawn by camels. Though the days were short in winter, the breeze barely carried a chill. For those who had known ice and snow every year of their childhood, it was almost a spring day. His mind was clear and calm for the first time in months, and he looked with pride as little Tolui managed the animals with a slap of the reins. His youngest son was barely fourteen, but the wedding ceremony had come at the demand of the girl’s father. Two years older than Tolui, she already nursed a baby boy in her ger and was pregnant with another child. It had taken a word from Borte to Genghis to make the marriage happen before one of the girl’s relatives was reluctantly forced to declare blood feud on the khan’s son.

The girl was already showing her second pregnancy, though her family had tried their best to conceal it with voluminous robes. No doubt her mother was looking after the firstborn boy, Genghis mused as he walked. Tolui and the girl, Sorhatani, seemed besotted with each other, if careless with the laws of the tribes. It was not uncommon for young girls to get themselves pregnant, though Sorhatani showed unusual spirit in binding Tolui to her without her father’s consent. She had even come to Borte to ask that Genghis name the first son. The khan had always admired that sort of brazen courage and he was pleased with Tolui’s choice. He had called the boy Mongke, meaning “eternal,” a fitting name for one who would carry his blood. As Genghis walked, he considered declaring all children legitimate, whether they were born after marriage or not. It would save trouble in the future, he was certain.

“When I was a boy,” Genghis said a little wistfully, “a young man might have traveled for days to reach his bride’s tribe.”

Khasar snorted at the idea. “I have four wives, brother. If I had to do that each time I wanted a new one, I’d never get anything done.”

“I am amazed any of them put up with you,” Borte said, smiling sweetly. She made a gesture with her little finger to Chakahai, causing her to giggle.

Genghis grinned at his first wife. It lifted his spirits to see her smile, standing tall and strong, her bare arms tanned from the sun. Even Chakahai’s pale skin had taken a golden hue in the hot months, and both women glowed with health. He was pleased to catch Borte’s wink as she noticed him looking her over. She and Chakahai seemed to have reached an understanding after the Shah’s attack on the families. At least he did not have to watch them too closely when they were together, in case they erupted like cats in a bag. It was peace of a sort.

“The nation does need children, Borte,” he replied. Khasar chuckled lasciviously in response, making Borte and Chakahai roll their eyes at each other. Khasar had fathered seventeen children that he knew of and was justly proud of having fourteen of them live. With the exception of Temuge, Genghis’s brothers had done their part in swelling the nation with squalling brats to run wild among the gers. Temuge too had married, but the union had produced no children as yet. Instead, his youngest brother filled his days with the administration of tribal disputes. Genghis glanced at him, but Temuge was ignoring Khasar and watching Tolui step down from the cart. For once, Genghis felt mellow toward his youngest brother. Temuge had created his own little empire within the nation, with a staff of eighty men and women working for him. Genghis had heard he even taught them reading and writing. It seemed to work and Genghis was pleased his brother did not come to him with the problems he faced each day. In contrast to the long strides of his warrior brothers, Temuge walked in short, fussy steps and wore his long hair tied in a Chin style. He washed far too often and Genghis could detect a scent of perfumed oil about him as the breeze blew. There had been a time when Genghis had been ashamed for him, but Temuge seemed content and the tribes had slowly accepted his authority.

The bride’s family had made their small camp to the west of Nur, setting out their gers in the traditional style. Genghis saw Tolui hesitate as armed men came racing out to intercept him. The blue robe and gold tunic his son wore were unmistakable even at a distance.

Genghis smiled as the men of the family put on their show. They seemed unaware of the thousands who had come to witness the union and waved their swords as if genuinely affronted. Tolui bowed deeply to Sorhatani’s father. Genghis could not help but wince. Tolui was the son of the Great Khan, after all. With Sorhatani already a mother, her father would hardly have sent Tolui away for showing less respect.

Genghis sighed to Borte, knowing she understood. Tolui was a good son, though he seemed to lack the fire of his father and uncles. Perhaps it was growing up in the shadow of Jochi and Chagatai. Genghis slid a glance to his right, where those two young men walked with Ogedai. His two oldest sons had not put aside their differences, but that was a problem for another day.

The bride’s father relented at last, letting Tolui into his gers to greet his wife-to-be. Genghis and his wives walked closer to the family gathering as Kokchu blessed the land and threw drops of black airag into the air for the watching spirits.

“He is a fine son,” Kachiun said, clapping both his brother and Borte on the back. “You must be proud of him.”

“I am,” Genghis replied. “Though I doubt he could lead. He is too soft to hold men’s lives in his hands.”

“He is young yet,” Borte said immediately, shaking her head in reproof. “And he has not had your life.”

“Perhaps he should have. If I had left the boys to survive in the winters of home instead of bringing them here, perhaps they would all be khans.” He could sense both Jochi and Chagatai listening, though they pretended not to.

“They will be yet, brother,” Khasar said. “You’ll see. The lands we have taken need men to rule them. Give him a few years and set him up as Shah of one of these desert kingdoms. Leave a tuman to support him and he’ll make you proud, I do not doubt it.”

Genghis nodded, pleased at the compliment to his boy. He saw Temuge turn with sudden interest at Khasar’s words.

“That is a good thought,” Temuge said. “In the Chin lands, we often had to take the same city more than once. Some resisted even after a second raid and had to be destroyed. We cannot just ride over them and expect them to remain defeated.”

Genghis grimaced slightly at that “we.” He did not recall Temuge riding against cities, but on such a day, he let it pass. His youngest brother went on blithely.

“Give me the word and I will have good men left behind in every city we take from this absent Shah, to rule in your name. In ten years or twenty, you will have an empire to match the Chin and Sung combined.”

Genghis recalled an old conversation with a tong leader in the Chin city of Baotou. The man had suggested something similar then, all those years ago. It was a difficult concept for him. Why would a man want to rule a city when the plains were open and empty? Yet the idea intrigued him and he did not scorn his brother’s words.

The bride’s family could not possibly have fed so many, but Temuge had ordered every stove in the camps lit for the wedding feast. Vast mats of felt were unrolled on the dusty ground and Genghis sat with his brothers, accepting a skin of airag and a steaming bowl with a dip of his head. Around them, the mood was light and songs began to issue from throats as they celebrated the union of his youngest son. In that place, with the town of Nur having surrendered only two days before, Genghis felt more relaxed than he had for many months of war. The destruction of Otrar had not lanced the corruption from his rage. Instead it had grown. He had pushed them all hard, but with the Shah still alive, Genghis felt driven to wreak devastation on the man’s lands. A line had been crossed in the attack on the women and children, and in the absence of the Shah himself, Genghis had punished his people in the only way he knew.

“I do not like the idea, Temuge,” he said at last. His brother’s face fell before Genghis went on. “But I do not forbid it. I do not want these Arabs to come creeping back when we have passed by. If they live, it will be as slaves.” He struggled not to let anger surface in him as he went on. “Ruling a city would be a good reward for old warriors, perhaps. A man like Arslan might be renewed by the challenge.”

“I will send scouts to find him,” Temuge replied instantly.

Genghis frowned. He had not meant Arslan himself. Yet, he still missed the old man and he could not find a reason to object.

“Very well, brother. But send for Chen Yi in Baotou as well, if he is still alive.”

“That little criminal!” Temuge said, spluttering. “I did not mean to give power to just anyone. He has the city of Baotou already, brother. I can name a dozen men more suited to the work I have in mind.”

Genghis waved a hand impatiently. He had not wanted to begin the discussion, and now it threatened to overwhelm him and spoil the day.

“He understood the sort of thing you mean, Temuge, which makes him valuable. Offer him gold and power. He may still refuse, I do not know. Do I have to repeat myself?”

“Of course not,” Temuge said. “We have spent so long at war, it is hard to think of what must come after, but…”

“You haven’t spent much time at war,” Khasar said, poking him with an elbow. “You have spent your time with sheaves of paper, or playing the khan with your servant girls.”

Temuge colored instantly and would have replied, but Genghis held up a hand for peace.

“Not today,” he said, and both men subsided, glowering at each other.

Near the city, Genghis saw a group of his warriors surge to their feet. He rose instantly, suddenly wary as three of them trotted through the lively crowd toward him. Whatever disturbed their meal had not yet spread to the rest, and more than one family cursed aloud as the warriors jumped over or darted around them. Many had brought dogs to the feast and those animals barked excitedly.

“What is it?” Genghis demanded. If one of the young idiots had started a fight on his son’s wedding day, he would have his thumbs.

“There are people coming out of the town, lord,” the warrior replied, bowing low.

Without another word, Genghis, Kachiun, and Khasar strode through the crowd to the edge facing the city. Though they were on foot, they were all well armed in the habit of men who always had a blade or a bow in easy reach.

The men and women coming out of Nur did not look dangerous. Genghis watched curiously as perhaps sixty men and women walked across the ground between the wedding ceremony and Nur. They were dressed in bright colors that were the match of Tolui’s marriage robe, and they did not seem to be carrying weapons.

The wedding crowd had fallen silent and many more men had begun to drift toward their khan, ready to kill if the need arose. By the time the group drew close, they faced a line of fierce veterans, men Genghis had honored with the invitation. The sight of such warriors made them falter in their steps, but one of them called to the others in their strange language, clearly steadying their nerves.

When they were close enough to speak, Genghis recognized some of the town elders who had surrendered to him. He brought Temuge forward to interpret.

His brother listened to the leader from Nur, then nodded to himself before speaking.

“They have brought gifts to the khan’s son, on his wedding day,” Temuge said.

Genghis grunted, half tempted to send them back to their homes to leave him alone. Perhaps because of the conversation he had just had, he relented. Enemies were to be destroyed, of course, but these had declared for him and done nothing to make him suspicious. He was aware that having an army encamped around a town made peace talks run surprisingly smoothly, but in the end he nodded.

“Tell them they are welcome, just for today,” he told Temuge. “They can give the gifts to Tolui when the feast is over.” His brother spoke a guttural stream and the group relaxed visibly as they joined the Mongols on the felt mats and accepted tea and airag.

Genghis forgot about them as he saw little Tolui come out of his father-in-law’s ger and grin at the crowd. He had taken tea with the family and been formally accepted by them. He led Sorhatani by the hand, and though her robe showed a bulge at the front, no one commented on it with Genghis watching. Kokchu was ready to dedicate the union to the sky father and earth mother, bringing blessings on their new family and asking for fat, strong children to fill their gers.

As the shaman began to chant, Chakahai shivered and looked away from the man. Borte seemed to understand and laid a hand on her arm.

“I cannot look at him without thinking of poor Temulun,” Chakahai murmured. At the name, Genghis’s mood soured on the instant. He had lived with death all his life, but the loss of his sister had been hard. His mother had not even left her self-imposed seclusion for the wedding of her grandson. For that alone, the Arab cities would rue the day they had ever scorned his men and forced him to come to their lands.

“This is a day for new beginnings,” Genghis said wearily. “We will not speak of death here.”

Kokchu danced and spun as he chanted, his voice carrying far on the breeze that dried their sweat. The bride and her family remained still, with their heads bowed. Only little Tolui moved as he set about his first task as a husband. Genghis watched coldly as Tolui began to erect a ger from the piles of wicker lattice and thick felt. It was hard work for one who was barely a man, but his son was quick-fingered and the dwelling began to take shape.

“I will avenge Temulun and all the rest,” Genghis said suddenly in a low voice.

Chakahai looked at him and nodded. “It will not make her live again,” she said.

Genghis shrugged. “It is not for her. The suffering of my enemies will be a feast to the spirits. When I am old, I will remember the tears they have shed and it will ease my bones.”

The light mood of the wedding had vanished and Genghis watched impatiently as the bride’s father stepped in to help little Tolui raise the central pole of the ger, white and new. When it was complete, his son opened the painted door to usher Sorhatani into her new home. In theory they would seal the marriage that evening, though it was clear that particular task was already accomplished. Genghis wondered idly how his son would procure a bloody rag to show her virginity had been taken. He hoped the boy would have the sense not to bother.

Genghis put aside a skin of airag and stood, brushing crumbs from his deel. He could have cursed Chakahai for spoiling the day, but it had been a short break in the bloody work he faced. He felt his mind begin to fill with the plans and stratagems he needed, settling into the cold rhythms that would take cities and scour the sands clean of all who resisted them.

Those with him seemed to sense the change. He was no longer the devoted father. The Great Khan stood before them once more, and not one of them met his calm gaze.

Genghis looked around the camp, at those who still lay and ate or drank, enjoying the warmth and the occasion. For some reason, their indolence annoyed him.

“Get the warriors back to the camp, Kachiun,” he ordered. “Have them work off the winter fat with a long ride and archery practice.”

His brother bowed briefly, striding away and scattering men and women with barked orders.

Genghis breathed deeply and stretched his shoulders. After Otrar, the Shah’s city of Bukhara had fallen almost without a blow being exchanged. Its entire garrison of ten thousand had deserted and still lurked somewhere in the hills, terrified of him.

Genghis clicked his tongue to make Jochi look up.

“Take your tuman to the hills, Jochi. Find that garrison and destroy them.”

When Jochi had gone, Genghis felt a slight relief. The Shah was held in the far west by Tsubodai and Jebe. Even if he evaded them and returned, his empire would be reduced to ashes and rubble.

“Temuge? Have your scouts ride to Samarkand and bring back every detail they can learn of the defenses. I will lead the attack, with Chagatai and Jochi when he returns. We will make dust of their precious cities.”

Jelaudin stood with his back to the door of the rooms they had rented in the town of Khuday, shutting out the noise and stench of the souk. He hated the grubby little place on the edge of a great expanse of sand where nothing but lizards and scorpions lived. He shuddered. He had known beggars before, of course. In the great cities of Samarkand and Bukhara, they bred like rats, but he had never had to walk among them, or suffer their diseased hands tugging at his robe. He had not stopped to press coins into their palms, and he still seethed at their curses. In other days, he would have ordered the town burned for the insult, but for the first time in his life, Jelaudin was alone, stripped of power and influence that he had barely noticed before it vanished.

Jelaudin jumped when a knock sounded right by his head. He cast a desperate glance around the tiny room, but his father was lying down in the other and his brothers were out buying food for the evening meal. Jelaudin wiped sweat from his face with a sharp gesture, then opened the door wide.

The owner of the house stood there, peering suspiciously inside as if Jelaudin might have sneaked half a dozen others into the tiny hovel he had rented. Jelaudin dipped with the owner, blocking his view.

“What is it?” he snapped.

The man frowned up at the arrogant young tenant, his breath pungent with spices. “It is noon, sir. I have come for the rent.”

Jelaudin nodded irritably. It seemed a mark of distrust to pay each day rather than by the month. He supposed the town did not see too many strangers, especially since the Mongols had come to the area. Still, it rankled for a prince to be treated like a man who might run from his debts in the night.

Jelaudin found no coins in his pouch and had to cross the room to a rickety wooden table. He found a small pile there, placed and counted the night before. It would not keep them for more than another week, and his father was still too ill to be moved. Jelaudin took five copper coins, but he was not quick enough to prevent the owner from coming inside.

“There,” Jelaudin said, pressing the money into his hand. He would have ordered him out, but the man seemed in no hurry to leave and Jelaudin was aware that his manner was wrong for one reduced to such poor lodgings. He tried to look humble, but the owner remained where he was, passing the greasy coins from one hand to another.

“Is your father still unwell, sir?” the man said suddenly. Jelaudin took a step to stop him seeing into the other room as he went on. “I know a very good physician. He is expensive, but he was trained in Bukhara before he returned to his family here. If you can pay?”

Jelaudin looked again at the small pile of coins. In his hidden pouch, he had a ruby the size of his thumb joint. It would buy the house he stood in, but above all else, he did not want to bring attention on his family. Their safety lay in anonymity.

In the back room, he could hear his father’s wheeze and he nodded, giving in.

“I can pay. I will need to find a jeweler first, one who will buy.”

“There are many such men, sir. May I ask if there are other claims on the jewel you wish to sell?”

For a moment, Jelaudin did not understand what was being asked. When he did, he flushed in outrage.

“It is not stolen! I… inherited it from my mother. I want an honest man who will give me a good price for it.”

The owner dipped his head, embarrassed at the insult he had given. “My apologies, sir. I have suffered through hard times myself. I recommend Abbud, who has the red stall in the souk. He deals in gold and valuable items of all kinds. If you say his brother-in-law sent you, he will give you a fair price.”

“And then a doctor?” Jelaudin continued. “Have him come this evening.”

“I will try, sir, but there are few men as educated in Khuday. He is very busy.”

Jelaudin was not used to bargaining, or paying bribes. A long moment went by and the owner of the house had to glance deliberately at the pile of coins before understanding dawned. The young prince swept the pile off the table into a hand and gave it to the man, trying not to recoil as their hands touched.

“I will tell him it is a favor to me, sir,” the man replied, beaming. “He will come at sunset.”

“Good. Now get out,” Jelaudin replied, his patience dissolving. This was not his world. He had hardly even seen coins before manhood and then only to use for gambling with his father’s officers. He felt tainted by the trade, as if he had indulged in some intimacy. As the door closed again, he sighed to himself, despairing.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THE JEWELER ABBUD weighed the man before him almost as carefully as he had the ruby he had brought. Both of them made him suspicious, though his brother-in-law had a nose for profit that equaled Abbud’s own.

The man who claimed to be a merchant’s son had no experience of trade, that much was obvious. The way he had gawked and stared at the stallholders as he made his way to Abbud’s place of business was very odd indeed. What sort of man had never before visited a souk? Then his arrogance brought the hairs on Abbud’s neck standing upright, every instinct warning of danger. He had survived forty years of trading in three cities, and he trusted his senses. The man had sword-hardened hands for a start. He looked more like a soldier than a merchant and strode through the market as if he expected others to get out of his way. Abbud had watched in amusement as they failed to do so and the young man had stumbled over two market bullies selling chickens. If not for the sword on his hip, they might have followed their jeering with blows.

The sword too was very fine. Abbud itched to hold the blade and could only wonder at the stupidity of a man carrying such a thing in the souk. Judging by the worked silver of the scabbard, it was worth even more than the ruby he had laid on the stall’s outer bench for all to see. Abbud had covered the gem with his hand and beckoned him inside before the fool got them both killed, but the sword might achieve that anyway. Lives were cheap in Khuday and such a blade would be worth the risk to a few young devils with knives. It would feed their families for a year if they sold it to the right man. Abbud sighed to himself, wondering if he should warn his customer. The chances were that he would be offered the sword himself before the day was over, perhaps with blood still on it.

None of his thoughts showed as he brought Jelaudin to the rear of his little stall. He had a table there, away from the prying glances of the market. He tapped a chair for Jelaudin as he sat himself and held up the gem to a candle, looking for flaws before weighing it with great delicacy on a tiny pair of brass scales.

Was it stolen? He did not think so. A thief would not have tumbled it onto the cloth so openly. The man owned it, certainly, but still the itch of worry would not leave Abbud. He knew the reason he was successful lay in his ability to read desperation in those who came to him. He had already been told about the man’s need for a doctor. He suspected he could have the gem for a fraction of its worth, but laid it down as if it scorched him. There were too many things wrong about the man and his ruby. Abbud told himself he should send him away. He would have if the gem had been less perfect.

“I cannot sell such a jewel in Khuday,” he said reluctantly. “I am sorry.”

Jelaudin blinked. Was the old man turning him down? “I don’t understand,” he said.

Abbud spread his hands. “My business is in taking a cut on fine items of gold. Khuday is a poor place and no one here is likely to give me more than I could give you. I would have to send the jewel with a caravan to Bukhara or Samarkand, or perhaps Ashgabad or Mashhad in the south.” He rolled the gem with a finger as if it were just a bauble. “Perhaps Kabul would have a buyer, but the cost of taking it so far would equal the profit I could make. As I say, I am sorry, but I cannot buy it.”

Jelaudin was at a loss. In his entire life, he had never bargained for anything. He was not a fool and he recognized the man was probably toying with him, but he had no idea what to offer. In a sudden flush of anger, he thought of snatching it up and leaving. Only the thought of his father’s physician arriving at sunset held him in his seat. Abbud watched him closely, hiding his own delight at the young man’s transparent emotions. He could not resist twisting the knife and he pushed the jewel across the table as if ending the meeting.

“May I have tea brought?” Abbud suggested. “I do not like to turn a man away without even refreshment.”

“I must sell this,” Jelaudin said. “Can you not recommend someone else who will take it tonight and give me a good price?”

“I will send for tea,” Abbud replied as if the question had not been asked. He ignored the warning voices that had troubled him at the beginning. I must sell this? Let Allah bring him a queue of fools like this one, and he would retire to a palace blessed with cool breezes.

As his servant boy brought tea in a silver pot, Abbud took note of the way the customer checked the sun outside. His naïveté was intoxicating.

“You are in need, my friend,” Abbud said. “I would not like it said that I took advantage of that need, do you understand? My reputation is everything.”

“I understand, of course,” Jelaudin replied. The tea was very good and he sipped the hot drink in confusion, wondering what to do. The old jeweler leaned forward and dared to pat him on the arm as if they were friends.

“My brother-in-law told me your father is ill. Should I turn away a good son? Never in this life. I will make you an offer for the gem, enough to pay the physician at least. If I keep the ruby, perhaps I will find a buyer in years to come, no? My business is not all about quick profit. There are times when I must think of my soul.” Abbud sighed audibly. He thought he might have overdone it with the last sentiment, but the young man brightened and nodded at him.

“You are very kind, sir,” Jelaudin said, his relief painfully obvious.

“Will we not all be judged?” Abbud said piously. “My stall has not been profitable of late, with all this talk of war.” He paused then, observing a tightening in the young man’s face.

“Have you lost someone, my friend? Allah gives and he takes away. All we can do is endure this life.”

“No, it is nothing,” Jelaudin said. “I have heard of great battles in the east.”

“Indeed. These are hard times.” The prickle of warning was back in force and once more Abbud considered sending the man away. The ruby gleamed on the table and his eyes were drawn to it again.

“For you, my friend, I will offer you four gold coins. It is not what the gem is worth, nor half of it, but it will cover your debt to the physician. I cannot offer more.”

He settled back for the negotiation, but to his amazement, Jelaudin stood up.

“Very well. You are a good man,” he said.

Abbud covered his startled confusion by rising as well and taking the outstretched hand. Could it be possible? The stone was worth forty times what he had offered!

Abbud hid his delight as best he could as he passed four small coins over. The sword scabbard shone brightly in the gloom and he had to drag his eyes away from it. He owed the fool something.

“My friend, I will give you a piece of cloth to wrap that blade you carry. There are thieves in the souk, though it grieves me to admit it. They may have already marked your arrival here. If you have friends, let me send for them to walk with you back to your place of lodging.”

Jelaudin nodded uncertainly. “That is kind, sir. More than I could have hoped in such a place.”

Abbud chuckled. “I have sons myself. I will pray for your father’s quick recovery.”

It took almost until sunset for Abbud’s servant boy to fetch three men from his brother-in-law’s house. They were as haughty and strange as the one with the gem, and Abbud wondered if he should set a watch on their house. If they had other gems to sell, he did not want them going to one of his competitors. They would pick such innocents clean to the bone. Yes, it would be good to have forewarning if there was going to be trouble. Something about the four young men told him that trouble was very close indeed.

Jelaudin was elated as he strode back through the crowds with his brothers. It was almost sunset and the doctor would be on his way. He had traded and come away with gold in his pouch. It was a giddy feeling and he did not see his brothers’ nervous expressions at first. They walked quickly beside him and the sight of their stern faces was enough to warn off a pair of skinny young men who loitered near Abbud’s stall, staring rudely. As they closed on the tiny house where they had taken rooms, Jelaudin noticed the tension in his brothers at last.

“What is it?” he muttered.

They exchanged glances. “The Mongols, brother. We saw them in the markets. They are here.”

The physician pressed his long fingers into the Shah’s belly, manipulating the organs beneath. Jelaudin watched in distaste as his father’s skin wrinkled and sagged as if it were no longer attached to the flesh. He could not recall seeing his father so exposed and vulnerable at any time in his life. The doctor seemed coolly professional, but Jelaudin was used to dealing with physicians of the court. Each of those had established a reputation before the Shah accepted them. Jelaudin sighed silently. For all he knew, this man was a charlatan.

The doctor massaged his patient’s flesh, peering closely and listening to the tortured breath. Jelaudin’s father was awake, though his eyes were yellow around the iris and his face was pale. Jelaudin could only watch as the man pulled his father’s lower eyelid down and tutted to himself.

The doctor murmured quick orders and his servant boy began to boil water and crumble herbs into it. It was a relief for Jelaudin to pass his father into the care of another, and for the first time in months, he did not feel completely helpless.

At last the inspection ended and the doctor rose.

“His liver is weak,” he said to Jelaudin. “I can give you something for that, but his lungs are the most urgent problem.”

Jelaudin did not point out that anyone could have made such a diagnosis. He was paying gold for this man’s attentions and he hung on every word. The physician took him by the arm to the brazier, where dark leaves leaped and bubbled in their liquor.

“Have your companions sit him up and drape a cloth over his head. These herbs give off a powerful scent that will help him to breathe.”

Jelaudin nodded to his brothers and they helped their father up. The wheezing became instantly worse.

“How quickly will it work?” Jelaudin asked.

The doctor blinked. “Not quickly at all, young man. Your father is very ill indeed. He must sit over the fumes until the liquid has gone cold, at dawn, noon, and evening. Give him beef broth for strength and make sure he drinks as much water as he can hold. In a week, I will come back to you and judge how far he has improved.”

Jelaudin winced at the thought of spending a week in the cramped rooms. Would the Mongols have passed on by then? Surely they would. He blessed his decision to hide in the town. Unless the Mongols destroyed it out of sheer spite, they were as safe in Khuday as anywhere.

With rolled blankets to support him, his father drooped over his outstretched legs. Jelaudin watched as another blanket was laid in the Shah’s lap to protect him from the heat. With metal tongs, the physician’s boy lifted the steaming pot from the brazier and set it in front of the old man. The wheezing became slightly muffled as Jelaudin’s brothers placed a cloth over his head. The Shah coughed twice at the acrid fumes, but then he settled into it and the wheezing did seem to ease.

The doctor listened closely before nodding to himself.

“I can leave you enough of the herbs for a few days. After that, you must buy your own supply in the markets.” He smiled slightly. “Ask for ‘bordi’ or ‘pala.’ They will not know its Latin name. For his liver, Silymarin, the milk thistle, will suit us well. Have him drink it with a little honey.”

“Thank you,” Jelaudin replied. He tried not to show his relief, but the doctor seemed to sense it anyway.

“Do not worry too much for your father. He is old, but strong. A month of rest and he will be back to his old self. I see you have no brazier of your own?”

Jelaudin shook his head. His brothers had been buying food from the hot coals of sellers in the souk.

“I will lend you this one, though you will have to get your own charcoal.”

Jelaudin bowed his head and watched as the physician gathered his materials and measured out portions of the bitter herbs, sealing them in waxed paper packets. It was left to the servant boy to hold out his hand for payment, and Jelaudin flushed at having to be reminded. He pressed four gold coins into the boy’s hands, noticing how clean they were in comparison to the urchins of the street.

As the money changed hands, the doctor straightened subtly, relaxing.

“Excellent. Do as I have told you and all will be well, inshallah.” He swept out of the tiny rooms into the bright sunshine, leaving the sons with their father.

“We have no more gold,” Jelaudin’s youngest brother said suddenly. “How can we buy the herbs and charcoal?”

Jelaudin winced at the thought of returning to the market, but at least he had a friend there. Half a dozen smaller rubies still remained, though at the speed he was burning through them, he doubted they would last. Still, he and his brothers were safe. In a month, the Mongols would certainly be gone, and with their father’s strength returned, they could head east at last. Let him just reach a loyal garrison and he would bring hell and destruction on the head of the Mongol khan. Far to the south, there were many men of Islam who would ride to his banner against the infidel. He had only to send word to them. Jelaudin prayed silently as his father choked and labored over the fumes, the skin of his neck red with heat and steam. There had been many insults to him, but they would yet be repaid.

By sunset two different men had come to take tea in Abbud’s red stall. It was unusual for him to delay rolling up the awnings and walking to the town’s small mosque as his final act of the day. As the last rays of the sun lit the alleys of the souk, he could hear the call to prayer echoing across the town. Abbud dismissed the last of the men, pressing coins into his hand as a gift for the information he had brought. Lost in thought, Abbud washed his hands in a small bowl as he prepared for the evening prayer. The ritual set his mind free to consider what he had learned. The Mongols had been asking questions. Abbud was pleased he had set a boy to watch the house of his latest customer. He wondered how much the information was worth.

All around him, the market was vanishing. Some of the stalls were loaded onto donkeys and camels, while more established businesses opened wooden doors set into the ground itself, that could be barred and locked until dawn. As he finished rolling the last bolt of cloth, Abbud nodded to the armed guard he had hired to sleep on the door. He was paid well to complete his prayers on his own, and Abbud left the man laying out his mat and scrubbing his hands symbolically with dust.

The sudden rush of activity that came with sunset seemed to surprise the Mongols wandering through the town. As the stalls were packed away, the strangers were revealed one by one, standing in small groups and looking around them like fascinated children. Abbud avoided catching their eye as he strode toward the mosque. His wife would be entering the decorated building through another entrance, and he would not be able to see her until the prayers were over. She would not approve of what he was considering. Women did not understand the business of men, he knew. They saw only the risks and not the rewards that came only with risk. As if to remind him, he felt the ruby bump against his thigh as he walked, proof of Allah’s blessing on his house.

Out of the corner of his eye, Abbud saw a tall young Arab standing with the Mongol warriors. The crowd heading to the mosque ignored them as if they were not there, a combination of contempt and fear. Abbud could not resist glancing at the Bedouin as he passed, noting the distinctive stitching of his robes that marked him as a desert dweller as surely as a sign on his chest.

The stranger missed nothing and he caught Abbud’s quick glance, stepping quickly to block his path. The jeweler was forced to halt or lose dignity in trying to dart around him.

“What is it, my son?” Abbud said testily. He had not had time to consider how best to use the information he had bought. The best profits never came from hasty action, and he had intended to use his time in the mosque to think it through. He watched in suspicion as the Bedouin bowed deeply. None of the desert folk could be trusted.

“My apologies, master. I would not disturb you on your way to prayer if the matter was not important.”

Abbud could feel the stares of the other traders as they passed by. He cocked his head to listen to the call to prayer, judging he had but moments.

“Quickly, my son, quickly.”

The young man bowed again.

“We are seeking five men, four brothers and their father. Do you know of any strangers who have come here in the last few days?”

Abbud held himself very still as he considered.

“All information can be bought, my son, if you are willing to pay the price.”

He watched as the young man’s face changed, his excitement showing. He turned and barked strange words to the Mongols who stood watching. The jeweler knew the leader before he spoke from the way the others deferred to him. It was strange to think of these men burning a trail of fire across the world. They did not look capable of it, though each man carried a bow, sword, and dagger, as if they expected war to break out in the souk itself.

The Bedouin’s chatter was met with a shrug from the leader. Abbud watched closely as the man untied a bag from his belt. He tossed it almost disdainfully to the jeweler and Abbud caught it. One glance at the gold inside was enough to cause new sweat to break out on his face. What had he walked into this day? He would need to hire armed guards at the mosque even to get home with such a fortune. No doubt dangerous eyes had seen the pouch and it would not be hard to guess the contents.

“I will meet you after prayers, in this place,” he said, turning to go. Like a desert snake striking, the Mongol leader caught his arm, holding him even as he growled at the Bedouin.

“You do not understand,” Yusuf said to Tsubodai. “He must leave to attend the prayers. Old as he is, he will fight us if we try to hold him here. Let him go, General. He cannot escape.” Yusuf pointed deliberately back to where Abbud’s guard sat on the trapdoor over his goods. The gesture was not wasted on the jeweler, though he felt a pang of anger that his foolish guard was not even facing them. The man could look for other work, he swore to himself. To have hands laid on him in an open street was bad enough, but to see the fool dreaming away his evening made the insult almost unbearable. Almost. The gold in his hand gave him that word a thousand times over.

With a sharp tug, Abbud shook his arm free, his heart hammering. He was tempted to hand back the gold and walk away with dignity, but in truth Khuday was a small town and he carried the profits of five years or more in one bag. He could even consider retiring and passing the business on to his son. Truly, God was good.

“My friend will not let you leave with the gold,” Yusuf said, his face flushed. “He does not understand the insult to your honor, master. I will be here, if you have the information we need.”

With great reluctance, Abbud passed back the bag, wishing he could count the coins first. He would know if they had lightened it by the time he returned, he told himself.

“Do not speak to anyone else,” Abbud said firmly. “I am the man you need.”

He caught the ghost of a smile on the young man’s face as he bowed a third time and Abbud passed between the twitchy warriors with their hands on their sword hilts.

As the jeweler left, Yusuf chuckled.

“They are here,” he said to Tsubodai. “I was right, was I not? This is the only town for forty miles and they have gone to ground.”

Tsubodai nodded. He did not like having to depend on Yusuf, but the language was still a confusion of sound to him, more like the song of birds than real speech.

“We will not have to pay this man if we find them ourselves,” he said. The streets had cleared around them and the market that had bustled all day had somehow disappeared. The ululating call from the mosque had ended to be replaced by a dim and muffled chant.

“You Arabs would not kill good horses, I think,” Tsubodai said. “They will be somewhere close by in stables. While they pray, we will search. How many good mounts can there be in this dirty little town? Find the horses and we find the Shah.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

JELAUDIN COULD NOT SLEEP as he lay in darkness, his mind tormenting him with bright images. It was hard not to give in to melancholy as he scratched fresh flea bites and pulled a thin blanket tighter around his shoulders for warmth. At least in the dark, none of his brothers were looking to him to tell them what to do, and his father’s once-piercing gaze could not find him. He retired as early as he could each night, seeking sleep as a release and willing each day away into nothingness. Yet sleep evaded him and his mind worked as if it were a separate thing, alive and twitching in his head. When he closed his eyes, he was tormented with visions of revelry in his father’s palaces, lit by a thousand candles and lamps. He had danced until dawn many times and never once thought of the cost of tallow or oil. Now their single candle needed to be eked out as much as food or charcoal. Running a household was a revelation to him, even one as poor and meager as the rooms in Khuday.

When Jelaudin opened his eyes in frustration, he could see moonlight through the cracks in the roof. The air was thick with the stench from a slop bucket. He had put it outside on his first night in Khuday, but it had been stolen in the morning and they had been forced to buy another. He had learned to pay a boy to carry it to a public pit outside the town, but of course his brothers had forgotten. Everything cost money in Khuday. Life was more complicated than he had realized, and at times, he wondered how poor merchants could afford to live.

Jelaudin jerked upright as a noise sounded and the small door shuddered in its frame. Someone was knocking and his heart thumped painfully in his chest as he reached for his sword.

“Jelaudin?” one of his brothers called fearfully.

“Be ready,” he whispered back, pulling on his clothes in the dark. The leggings stank of old sweat, but the water bucket was as empty as the other was full, without even enough to splash his face. The knocking sounded again and he took a deep breath as he drew his sword. He did not want to die in the dark, but if the Mongols had found them, he knew better than to expect mercy.

Jelaudin yanked open the door with his sword ready, his bare chest heaving. The moon was bright enough to see a small boy standing there, and relief flooded through the young prince.

“Why do you disturb our sleep?” he demanded.

“My master Abbud sent me while he went to the mosque for evening prayers, master. He said to tell you the Mongols know where you are staying. You must leave Khuday.”

The boy turned to go, his message delivered. Jelaudin reached out and grabbed him, making him yelp in fear. The life of a boy in Khuday was even more precarious than their own, and the little one squirmed in his grasp.

“They are coming here?” Jelaudin snapped. “Now?”

“Yes, master,” the boy replied, his fingers jerking at Jelaudin’s hand. “Please, I must run back.”

Jelaudin released the boy to stagger away. He faced the moonlit street for a moment, seeing enemies in every shadow. He gave a swift prayer of thanks for the old jeweler’s kindness, then turned inside, pulling the door shut as if it could hold back his fears.

His three brothers were dressed and ready, once more looking to him for leadership. Jelaudin grimaced at them.

“Light the candle and get our father into his clothes. Run to the stables, Tamar, and take our horses.”

“Do you have coins, brother?” Tamar replied. “The stable owner will want payment.”

Jelaudin felt as if a noose were tightening around his neck. He opened a pouch and handed a small ruby to his brother, leaving only five as the total of their worldly wealth.

“Give him this and tell him we are devout followers of the prophet. Tell him there will be no honor for any man who aids our enemies.”

His younger brother darted out onto the dark street, and Jelaudin began to help the others with his father. Shah Ala-ud-Din groaned as he was moved, and his wheezing became louder in the gloom. Jelaudin winced at the sick heat coming off the old man’s skin, but there was no help for it. His father murmured meaningless words, but none of them stopped to listen.

Once his father was dressed and the candle lit, two of his sons supported him and Jelaudin cast a last look around the infested little place that had been home for a time. As mean as it was, it had given them sanctuary. The thought of returning to their hunted lives wrenched at them all, but Jelaudin could not ignore the warning. The jeweler had done him this one favor and he would not waste it.

He cast his eye over the small brazier, but the doctor had left it in trust and Jelaudin would not steal for the first time in his life. Though he took the papers of bitter herbs, he left that behind. He had been consumed with the need to get out and hardly dared think of his father’s illness. It was wrong that an old man should be forced to run again. Jelaudin’s hopes withered in him as he stood there, replaced by a desperate rage. If he was granted just one chance to revenge himself on the Mongol khan, he would take it if it meant his own life. He prayed to be given that chance.

Jelaudin closed the door as he left with his father and brothers. He did not want thieves to steal the doctor’s brazier, though if anyone wanted the slop bucket, they could have it, contents and all.

The streets were not empty so early in the night. Jelaudin could see many men returning from the evening prayers to their families, looking forward to warmth and food. Only he and his brothers had tried to banish another night with sleep. The stables were some way away, a decision meant to protect them when he had made it. Their father stumbled as he walked between them, and Jelaudin did not know if the old man even understood what was going on. When he heard a slurred question from his father’s lips, Jelaudin shushed him softly.

“The men you seek are in there,” Abbud said. Tsubodai snapped orders and the warriors moved instantly, kicking open the door and vanishing inside.

Abbud waited, sweating, listening to strange noises. The warriors came back almost as quickly and he did not miss the looks of anger they turned on him. The young Bedouin took Abbud by the arm, his grip almost painful.

“Old man, this is not a night for games, do you understand? I have searched stables for half a night waiting for you. Now you have led me to an empty house. It will be hard for me to stop them killing you.”

Abbud winced, but he did not try to pull away.

“They were here! It is my brother-in-law’s house and he talked of them in the markets. Four young men and an old one who was very sick. That is all I know, I swear it.”

In the moonlight, the Bedouin’s eyes were covered in shadow, making him frightening. He let Abbud’s arm fall, then exchanged a flurry of words with Tsubodai that Abbud could not understand.

The one Abbud had marked as leader stared at the old jeweler for a long moment of silence. Then he gave new orders. Abbud could only stand and watch as the warriors kicked in other doors and the night was broken with screams. A struggle started in a house nearby and Abbud cried out in shock as one of the warriors drew his sword and killed a young man with a thrust to his heart, stepping over him to search his home.

“There is no need for this!” Abbud shouted. “They are not here!”

The Bedouin turned to him and to Abbud’s astonishment seemed to be smiling.

“I cannot stop them now, old man. They will search every house in the street, perhaps the whole town. Then they will burn Khuday down around you.”

It was too much for the jeweler.

“There are stables nearby. If they have gone anywhere, it is there.”

“Take me there, old man,” the Bedouin said. “If you are right, perhaps Khuday will not be destroyed.”

Jelaudin brought his horse to a clump of straggly bushes on the crest of a hill. The air was sweet with the scent of lemon leaves, and his heart was heavy as he looked back at the town that had sheltered them. On his right hand, the North Star shone in the heavens, the air clear and bright.

To the east, far away, he could see the fires of the Mongol camp as a dim glow. To the west, the Caspian Sea waited, a final barrier to his fleeing family. He knew he could not ride along its banks for a hundred miles with the Mongols searching for them. They would be caught as easily as running hares. He felt the east as a hunger, desperate to return and seek out the cities he had known as a boy.

The night was still and his father’s tortured breath hurt him to hear. Jelaudin and his brothers had tied the old man to his saddle and led his horse out of the town, heading across scrub wasteland and avoiding the eastern road.

If the Mongols had been certain they were in Khuday, they would have surrounded the city. As it was, the sons of the Shah had walked their horses away from the town and not seen a living soul. Yet escaping such a place was a small thing. If they could not turn east, the sea would trap them as surely as any net. As his father’s wheezing intensified, Jelaudin was overwhelmed for an instant. He was too tired to run again, too tired even to mount.

His brother Tamar heard the sound of his weeping and laid a hand on his shoulder.

“We must go, Jelaudin,” he said. “There is always hope while we live.”

Jelaudin nodded despite himself, rubbing at his eyes. He swung a leg into his saddle and took the reins of his father’s horse. As they moved away into the darkness, he heard Tamar gasp and looked back at Khuday.

The town gleamed in the night. At first, Jelaudin could not understand the strange light that flickered over the huddled streets. He shook his head as the light spread and knew the Mongols were burning the town.

“They will glut themselves on that place until dawn,” another of his brothers said. Jelaudin heard a note of triumph in the younger man’s voice and wanted to strike him for his foolishness. He wondered if Abbud and his servant boy would survive the flames they had brought to Khuday, as if the brothers trailed pestilence and destruction in their wake.

There was nothing to do but ride on to the sea. Though he felt his own death like dark wings beating at him, Jelaudin kicked in his heels and made his horse trot down the slope beyond.

The brothers led their father’s horse for four more days before they saw riders following them. They could not hide their tracks on the dusty ground, and Jelaudin had known they would be followed, though he had still clung to thin hopes that the Mongols would miss them. He had ridden to exhaustion through night and day until he could smell the salt of the sea ahead and hear the calls of gulls. For a time, the clean air had revived them all, and then he had seen dark figures in the distance, a mass of warriors on their trail, riding them down.

Jelaudin looked at his father’s waxy face. There had been no time to stop and make a fire for the bitter herbs, and the old man’s condition had worsened. More than once, Jelaudin had pressed his ear to his father’s lips, listening to see if he still breathed. He could not leave him to be torn apart by these hunting dogs of the khan, but his father slowed them all.

For a moment, Jelaudin wanted to roar out his hatred and terror at the distant lines of those hunting him. He hardly had the strength even for that, and he shook his head wearily, looking up as he and his brothers passed over a sandy dune and saw the shimmering blue vastness of the sea ahead. Darkness was coming and they would have one more night before the Mongols found and killed them. Jelaudin looked along the shore and saw just a few huts and fishing boats. There was nowhere to hide and nowhere they could run any longer.

He ached as he dismounted and his horse shivered as his weight was removed. The animal’s ribs were showing and Jelaudin patted the mount’s neck for its faithfulness. He could not remember when he had last eaten, and light-headedness made him stagger.

“Are we to die here, then?” one of his brothers asked plaintively. Jelaudin barely grunted in reply. He had set out strong and young, losing men and strength at every turn for the best part of a year. He felt old as he stood on the shore, taking a piece of gray rock and casting it into the salt water. The horses dipped their heads to drink and Jelaudin did not bother to pull them away. What did it matter if they drank salt when the Mongols were coming to kill the sons of the Shah?

“I will not stand here and wait for them!” Tamar was the next in age after Jelaudin. He strode up and down the sandy ground, straining his eyes for a way out.

With a sigh, Jelaudin eased himself down to the ground and dug his fingers into its dampness. “I am tired, Tamar,” he said. “Too tired to rise again. Let it end here.”

“I will not!” his brother snapped. Tamar’s voice was hoarse from lack of clean water, his lips cracked and lined with blood. Even then, his eyes were bright in the evening sun. “There is an island out there. Can these Mongols swim? Let us take one of the fishing boats and smash the others. We will be safe then.”

“Like trapped animals are safe,” Jelaudin said. “Better to sit and rest, brother.”

To his amazement, Tamar stepped close and slapped him hard across the face.

“Will you see our father butchered on this beach? Get up and help me put him in a boat, or I will kill you myself.”

Jelaudin laughed bitterly without replying. Nevertheless, he stood almost in a daze and helped his brothers carry the Shah to the shore. As he struggled through the damp sand, he felt some life come back to his limbs and some of the despair seep away.

“I am sorry, brother. You are right,” he said.

Tamar only nodded, still furious.

The fishermen came out of their driftwood huts, shouting and gesturing as they saw the young men hammering at their boats. The sight of drawn swords reduced them to sullen silence, standing in a knot of fury as they watched the strangers break the single masts, batter holes in the hulls and then push them into deep water so that they vanished in frothing bubbles.

As the sun set, the brothers pushed the last boat into the calm water, wading in after it and clambering over the sides. Jelaudin raised the small sail and caught the breeze, the moment strangely reviving to his spirits. They left their horses behind and the fishermen took the reins in astonishment, still yelling curses after them, though the animals were worth far more than the crude boats. As the breeze freshened, Jelaudin took his seat and pushed the rudder down into the water, tying off a rope that held it in place. In the last light, they could see the white line of breaking waves on a small island out on the deep. He looked down at his father as he set their course and felt numb calm steal over him as he left the land behind. He could not last much longer and it was true the old man deserved a peaceful death.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE NAME SAMARKAND MEANT “TOWN OF STONE” and Genghis could see why as he gazed on its buttressed walls. Of all the cities he had known, only Yenking was more of a fortress, and he could see the minarets of many mosques towering behind the walls. Built on the flood plain of a river running between huge lakes, it was surrounded by the most fertile soil Genghis had seen since coming to Arab lands. He was not surprised to find Shah Ala-ud-Din had made the place his jewel. There was no dust or sand there. The city was a crossroads for merchant caravans traveling thousands of miles, secure in the protection it gave them. In times of peace, they trundled across the plains, bringing silk from the Chin and collecting grain at Samarkand to take even further to the west. There would be no more of that trade for a time. Genghis had broken the line of cities that supported each other and grew rich. Otrar had fallen, then Bukhara. To the northeast, he had sent Jelme, Khasar, and Kachiun to batter other cities into submission. He was close to obliterating the spine of the Shah’s trade routes. Without trade and messages, each city was isolated from the others and could only suffer as they waited for his warriors. While the Shah still lived, it was not yet enough, nor even close to enough.

In the distance, Genghis could see white smoke rising into the air from the last of the trading caravans to have tried reaching Samarkand before he entered the area. No more would come now, not until the Mongols had moved on. Once again he considered Temuge’s words on the need to establish more permanent rule. The concept intrigued him, but it remained a dream. Yet he was no longer a young man, and when his back ached in the mornings, he would think of the world running on without him. His people had never cared for permanence. When they died, the troubles of the world slipped away from them. Perhaps because he had seen empires, he could imagine one lasting beyond his life. He enjoyed the thought of men ruling in his name, long after he had gone. The idea eased something in him that he hardly realized was there.

As Genghis watched, the tumans of Jochi and Chagatai rode back from the city walls, having spent the morning riding close enough to terrorize the population. They had raised a white tent before Samarkand when the siege was in place, but the gates had remained closed. In time, they would replace it with a red one and then the black cloth that signified the death of all those within.

With the Shah gone, the Arabs had no one to organize the defense of Khwarezm, and each of his cities fought alone. Such a state of affairs suited Genghis very well. While the cities sweltered in fear, he could bring two or three tumans to bear on a single point, breaking the resistance and moving on to the next with only death and fire behind them. This was war as he preferred it, the breaking of cities and small garrisons. His Arab interpreters claimed that half a million people lived inside the walls of Samarkand, perhaps more now that the farms were empty all around. They had expected him to be impressed, but the khan had seen Yenking and he did not let the numbers trouble him.

He and his men rode with impunity and those who lived behind stone could only wait and fear. It was hard to imagine choosing that sort of life over the ability to move and strike where he pleased, but the world was changing and Genghis struggled with new concepts every day. His men had ridden as far as the frozen wastelands in the north and Koryo in the east. He considered those lands conquered. Yet they were far away. They would rebuild and forget they owed tribute and obedience to him.

He pursed his lips at the thought of city dwellers making new walls and burying their dead. That thought did not sit well with the khan of the Mongols. When he knocked a man down, he stayed down, but a city could rise again.

He thought of Otrar then, of the wasteland he had left behind him. Not one stone had been allowed to sit on another, and he did not think there would be a city there again, even in a hundred years. Perhaps to kill a city, you had to dig the knife in deep and wrench it back and forth until the last breath escaped. That too was a prospect that pleased him.

As he rode slowly around Samarkand, Genghis’s thoughts were interrupted by the thin notes of warning horns. He reined in, jerking his head back and forth to hear the sound more clearly. Jochi and Chagatai had heard, he could see. Between Genghis and the city, they too had come to a halt to listen.

In the distance, Genghis could see scouts riding in at full gallop. The horns had been theirs, he was almost certain. Could there be an enemy in sight? It was possible.

As his mount reached down to wrench a mouthful of dry grass, Genghis saw the gates of Samarkand swing open and a column ride out. He showed his teeth, welcoming the overconfidence of the enemy. He had Jebe’s tuman as well as ten thousand of his own veterans. Between those and the tumans of Jochi and Chagatai, they would crush any army Samarkand could vomit at them.

The scouts reached Genghis, their horses almost dead under them from the manic ride.

“Armed men to the east, lord,” the first one called before two of his companions. “As many as three tumans of Arab warriors.”

Genghis swore softly. One of the other cities had responded to Samarkand after all. Jochi and Chagatai would have to meet them. He made his decisions quickly, so that his warriors saw only certainty in his responses.

“Ride to my sons,” Genghis said to the scout, though the young warrior still panted like a dog in the sun. “Tell them to attack this enemy to the east. I will hold against whatever Samarkand can bring to the field.”

The tumans of his sons moved quickly away, leaving Genghis with just twenty thousand men. His lines formed with the khan at the center of a shallow crescent, ready to move easily into enveloping horns.

More and more riders and men came out of the city, almost as if Samarkand had been a barracks for a wing of the Shah’s army. As Genghis moved his mount into a slow trot and checked his weapons, he hoped he had not sent too many warriors away to take the victory. It was possible, but if he attacked only one city at a time, it would be the work of three lifetimes to subdue the Arab lands. The cities of the Chin had been even more numerous, but he and his generals had taken ninety in a single year before reaching Yenking. Genghis had ridden against twenty-eight of them.

If Tsubodai or Jebe had been there, or even Jelme or one of his brothers, he would not have worried. As the plain blackened with roaring Arabs, Genghis laughed aloud at his own caution, making the warriors around him chuckle. He did not need Tsubodai. He did not fear such enemies, nor a dozen armies like them. He was khan of the sea of grass and they were just city men, soft and fat for all their bluster and sharp swords. He would cut them down.

Jelaudin sat cross-legged on a narrow beach, staring over the choppy waters of the Caspian at the black shore he had left earlier that day. He could see fires of driftwood burning there and moving shadows flickering around them. The Mongols had reached the sea and there was nowhere left to run. Jelaudin wondered idly if he and his brothers should have killed the fishermen and their families. The Mongols would not have known then where he had taken the Shah, and perhaps they would have given up the chase. Jelaudin grimaced at his own desperation. He did not doubt the fishermen would have fought. Armed with knives and sticks, the dozen boatmen would probably have overwhelmed his small family.

The island was barely a mile offshore. Jelaudin and his brothers had dragged the boat into the cover of straggling trees, but they might as well have left it. No doubt the fishing families had told the Mongols where they had gone. Jelaudin sighed to himself, more tired than he could ever remember before. Even the days in Khuday seemed a dim dream. He had brought his father there to die, and after that, he half suspected his own end would come quickly. He had never known an enemy as implacable as the Mongols who stayed on his trail through snow and rain, always coming closer until he could hear their horses in his sleep. Sound carried across the water between them and occasionally Jelaudin could hear reedy yells or voices raised in song. They knew they were close to the end of the hunt, after more than a thousand miles. They knew the prey had gone to ground at last, with all the hopelessness of a fox vanishing into its den, waiting in terror to be dug out.

Once again Jelaudin wondered if the Mongols could swim. If they could, it would not be with swords at least. He heard his brothers talking amongst themselves and could not summon the energy to rise and tell them again to be quiet. The Mongols already knew where they were. The final duty of the Shah’s sons was to watch him die, to allow him the dignity he deserved.

Jelaudin rose, his knees protesting as he unbent and cracked his neck. Though the island was tiny, it was covered in trees and thick foliage, so that he and his brothers had been forced to hack a path. He followed the route they had cut, using his hands to remove the slim branches that snagged his robe.

In a clearing formed by a fallen tree, his father lay on his back with his sons around him. Jelaudin was pleased to see the old man was awake to see the stars, though every catch and wheeze of breath made his chest shudder with effort. In the moonlight, he saw his father’s eyes turn to him, and Jelaudin bowed his head in greeting. His father’s hands gestured feebly and Jelaudin came close to hear the man he had always thought was too vital to fall. Those truths of his childhood had crashed around him. He knelt to listen and even there, so far from home, part of him yearned to hear his father’s old strength, as if his frailty could be banished by will and need. His brothers shuffled closer and for a time they forgot the Mongols across the deep waters.

“I am sorry,” the Shah said, gasping. “Not for me. For you, my sons.” He broke off to suck at the air, his face red and sweat running freely.

“You do not have to speak,” Jelaudin murmured.

His father’s mouth jerked slightly. “If not now,” he wheezed, “when?” His eyes were bright and Jelaudin ached at seeing the gleam of an old, dry humor.

“I am… proud of you, Jelaudin,” the Shah said. “You have done well.” The old man choked suddenly and Jelaudin rolled him onto his side and used his fingers to wipe a gobbet of phlegm from his lips. As he turned his father back, his eyes were wet. The Shah gave out a long breath, then filled his tortured lungs slowly.

“When I am gone …” the old man whispered. Jelaudin began to object, but his words died away. “When I am gone, you will avenge me,” he said.

Jelaudin nodded, though he had left his own hopes long behind him. He felt his father’s hand clutch at his robe, and he gripped it in his own.

“Only you, Jelaudin. They will follow you,” the Shah said. The effort of forcing out the words was hastening the end, and every breath came harder. Jelaudin wanted the old man to find peace, but he could not look away.

“Go to the south and call holy war on… this khan. Call the devout to jihad. All of them, Jelaudin, all.” The Shah tried to struggle up, but it was too much for him. Jelaudin gestured to Tamar and together they helped their father to a sitting position. As they did so, he breathed out completely and his mouth fell slack. His thin body jerked in their hands as it struggled for air, and Jelaudin wept as he felt the bristles of his father’s beard brush across his hand. The Shah threw his head back in a great spasm, but breath did not come and the shuddering became twitches and then nothing. Jelaudin heard a hiss of foul air as the old man’s bowels opened and his bladder released, pungent urine drenching the sandy ground.

Gently the two brothers laid the old man back and Jelaudin opened out the clawed fingers, stroking the hand as he did so. He watched as Tamar closed their father’s eyes, and they waited, hardly believing that he was truly gone. The chest remained still, and one by one, the sons stood and looked down at him. The world was quiet and the stars shone overhead. Jelaudin felt they should not, that there should be something more than the gentle lap of waves to mark the passing of a great man.

“It is over,” Tamar said, his voice catching.

Jelaudin nodded, and to his surprise and shame, he felt a great weight lifted from his shoulders.

“The Mongol animals will come here in the end,” he said softly, glancing back to where he knew they camped, though the dark trees hid them from sight. “They will find the … they will find our father. Perhaps it will be enough for them.”

“We cannot leave him here for them,” Tamar replied. “I have a tinderbox, brother. There is enough dry wood and what does it matter now if we are seen? We should burn the body. If we live to return, we will build a temple here to honor him.”

“That is a good thought, brother,” Jelaudin said. “Very well, but when the fire takes hold, we will leave this island and cross the sea beyond. The Mongols are not sailors.” He recalled the maps he had seen in his father’s library at Bukhara. The sea had not looked too wide to cross. “Let them try to follow us across the deep waters where we leave no trail.”

“I do not know the lands across the sea, brother,” Tamar replied. “Where will we go?”

“Why, south, Tamar, as our father told us. We will raise a storm with the Afghans and in India. We will return with an army to crush this Genghis. On my father’s soul, I swear it.”

Jochi and Chagatai caught up with the Arab army as it began to descend into a bowl of hills to the east of Samarkand. The scout’s estimate of numbers had been low if anything. As Jochi conferred quickly with his younger brother, he thought the best part of forty thousand men had come to the aid of the Shah’s jeweled city. He did not let the thought worry him. In Chin lands and Arab, Genghis had shown quality of men was more important than sheer numbers. Tsubodai was credited with winning against the best odds when he had routed a city garrison of twelve thousand with only eight hundred men on a scouting raid, but all the generals had proved themselves against larger forces. They were always outnumbered.

The bowl of hills was a gift and neither brother delayed long as they sighted the enemy. Veterans of mounted battles, they knew the extraordinary benefit of having the high ground. Arrows flew further and horses became unstoppable in a charge as they struck the enemy. Chagatai and Jochi talked briefly, their enmity put aside for the moment. Chagatai merely grunted his assent when Jochi suggested he ride around the bowl and hit the Arab formations on the left flank. It would be Jochi’s task to meet them head-on at the foot of the valley.

Jochi’s men formed under his orders into the widest line the land would allow, the rest assembling in a block behind the warriors with the heaviest armor. Jochi could see spears and bows ready in the Arab ranks, though he was disappointed they had not brought elephants with them. The Arab princes seemed very attached to the idea of elephants in warfare. In return, the Mongols enjoyed sending them wild with arrows, then delightedly watching them trample their own troops.

Jochi looked down into the valley, judging the steep slope he would descend. It was crisscrossed with wild goat tracks, but scrub grass grew and the horses would fare well charging on such soil. He glanced left and right along the lines as he took his position in the very center of the front rank. His bow would sound with the first volley, and he felt the swelling confidence of men around him as they stared down at the army marching stolidly toward them. The Arabs blew horns and crashed drums as they marched, their horsemen visibly nervous on the flanks. The sloping ground was already compressing them and Jochi thought they had to be led by some young fool promoted for his blood rather than talent. The irony of his own position amused him as he gave the signal to walk the ponies down the central defile. There could be very few sons of kings or khans who led despite their fathers rather than because of them.

As his tuman moved to a slow trot, Jochi constantly scanned the lines, looking for flaws. His scouts were out for many miles, as Tsubodai had taught him. There would be no ambush, no sudden appearance of reserves. Whoever led the force to relieve Samarkand had treated the Mongols too lightly and would pay for it. Jochi blew a single note on the horn around his neck and saw the heavy lances brought out of saddle cups, held now only by shoulders and arms trained to iron strength. As he increased the speed to a canter, Jochi nodded to a flag bearer and watched the order to widen the line stretch across them. For this moment, he had practiced and practiced until the men’s hands were bloody from shooting arrows at the gallop or punching lance points into straw targets a hundred times a day.

The army they faced loosed a volley of shafts on a barked order. Too early, Jochi thought, watching half of them fall short while the rest skipped uselessly off shields and helmets. He moved into a smooth gallop then and he could not have held back his men if he had wanted to. He put aside his nervousness and let the rhythm of his mount control his movement as he stood in the stirrups and placed a shaft on the cord.

All along the Mongol lines, men followed suit. The lancers began to dip the points, judging the moment when they would strike and kill.

Jochi released his arrow and six hundred more followed it on the instant. As they reached for another, the lancers dug in their heels and came together as an armored spike, lunging ahead of the rest. They hit at full speed and went through or over anything they touched, ripping a hole like a red mouth. Those behind could not stop and Jochi lost sight of falling men as he was carried deep into the enemy, bending his bow once more.

Ahead of him, his lancers threw down the shattered poles and drew swords as one. The archers behind them loosed another volley to the sides, widening the hole and driving men back as if burned. It was the best use of lances and bows Jochi had found and he exulted at the destruction they had wrought in just a few heartbeats. His rear lines rode out wide to overwhelm the wings, the tactic almost the reverse of his father’s favored horn maneuver. In just instants, the head of the enemy column boiled, all order lost as it fell back on itself.

Jochi drew his own sword as his mount came almost to a stop, unable to press any further through the ranks facing him. He could feel the moment was perfect for the flank attack and looked up for his brother. He had time only for a single glance at the steep left flank before he was defending desperately, knocking aside a spear point that threatened to sweep him off the saddle. He looked again, not believing, but Chagatai’s tuman remained where it was on the slope.

Jochi could see the figure of his younger brother quite clearly, sitting his horse with relaxed hands resting on the saddle horn. They had not arranged a signal to bring him into the flank, but Jochi blew his horn anyway, the note ringing over the heads of his men. They too saw their kinsmen standing still and those who did not understand gestured furiously for them to join the fight before it turned.

With a curse, Jochi let the horn fall loose, fury filling him so that the next two strokes seemed effortless, his strength surging in his right arm. He wanted it to be Chagatai as he caught a man in the joint between his armor and neck, gashing him terribly as he fell beneath the hooves.

Jochi stood in his stirrups once more, this time searching out a way to free his men from the crush. The odds were good that he could disengage, with the front ranks still embroiled in the horns of his finest warriors. If they had not been betrayed, they might have fought clear, but he sensed the shock running through his men and it cost them in lives. The enemy had no idea why a Mongol general would sit and do nothing, but they were quick to take advantage.

Jochi called orders in frustration, but the Arab cavalry widened its line, arcing heavy horse ranks up to the rising ground and then hammering back down against his beleaguered men. Even then, they did not dare to pass too close to the left flank, where Chagatai waited to see Jochi butchered. In breathless moments between blows, Jochi could see senior men remonstrating with his brother, but then he was swept back into the fight.

His own officers were looking to him to call for a retreat, but Jochi was filled with fury. His arm ached and his father’s sword had lost part of its edge on armored men, but he felt berserk rage fill him, and everyone he killed was his brother or Genghis himself.

His men saw that he no longer looked to the hills. The son of Genghis fought with his teeth bared, and his sword arm swung lightly as he dug in his heels and sent his pony over dead men. They grinned to see his lack of fear and followed with a howl. Those who were cut ignored the wounds, or did not feel them. They too were lost for a time as their blood responded. They had pledged their lives to Jochi and they had ridden an army into the ground. There was nothing they could not do.

His Chin soldiers fought with insane intensity, cutting their way deeper and deeper into the enemy column. As the Arab cavalry impaled them with spears, they grabbed the weapons, pulling the riders from their mounts and stabbing wildly as both men died. They would not turn from the swords and arrows of the enemy with their friends in ranks around them. They could not.

Under the relentless pressure of madmen who grabbed with bloody hands at swords that killed them, the Arabs turned and broke, their fear rippling even to those who had not yet joined the fight. Jochi saw one of his Chin officers wielding a broken lance as a club, stepping over dying men to smash it into the face of an Arab on a fine stallion. The Arab fell and the Chin soldier roared in triumph, calling a challenge in his own language to men who could not understand. The Mongols laughed to hear his bragging tone and fought on as their arms became leaden and wounds sucked at their strength.

More and more of the enemy turned from the ferocious attack, and Jochi was blinded for a moment by a spray of blood across his eyes. Panic filled him at the thought of being hit when he could not see, but then he heard Chagatai’s horns moaning across the valley, followed at last by the sound of thunder.

Chagatai’s tuman struck an enemy already desperate to get away from those who assailed them. Jochi watched panting as a space cleared around him and fresh shafts tore into the fleeing Arabs. He saw his brother again for an instant, riding like a king before he reached the foot of the valley and vanished from sight. Jochi spat hot phlegm, his battered body aching for the blow he wanted to land on Chagatai’s neck. His men knew what had happened. He would be hard pressed not to have them pick fights with those who had stood and watched in safety. Jochi swore to himself as he imagined Chagatai defending the delay, words like sweet grease in his mouth.

There were no enemies near Jochi as he ran a thumb along the edge of his sword, feeling the nicks in the steel. He was surrounded by bodies, many of them men who had ridden through the hills and destroyed the Shah’s best cavalry. Others looked to him with anger still fresh in their eyes. Chagatai was busy gutting the remainder of the Arab column, his horses trampling flags and banners into the bloody ground.

If he dealt with Chagatai as his brother deserved, both tumans would fight to the death, Jochi warned himself. His brother’s officers would not let him anywhere near Chagatai with a blade, not when they knew the reason for his anger. Their shame would not prevent them drawing swords, and then his own men would respond. Jochi struggled with a powerful desire to race across the battlefield and see his brother cut into pieces. He could not go to Genghis for justice. It was too easy to imagine his father pouring scorn on his complaints, dismissing them as a criticism of tactics rather than a charge of murder. His breath shuddered with frustration as the sounds of battle moved away from him, leaving him empty. Still he had won, even in the midst of betrayal. He felt pride for his men mingle with the hatred and impotence forced on him.

Slowly, Jochi wiped blood from the blade he had won from Chagatai. He had faced death that night against the tiger, and he had faced it again on that day. He could not simply let pass what had been done to him.

He flicked droplets of blood onto the ground and began to ride slowly to where his brother sat his horse. With grim glances at each other, his men followed, ready to fight again.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

SAMARKAND WAS AN ATTRACTIVE CITY. Genghis walked his pony along a wide street lined with houses, the unshod hooves clicking over uneven stones. Somewhere ahead, smoke hung in the sky and he could hear the sounds of fighting, but this part of the city was deserted and surprisingly peaceful.

His men were wary for him as they walked on either side with bows bent, ready to punish the slightest sign of movement. They had beaten the garrison back inside the city in an orderly retreat that would have done honor to his own tumans. Genghis was surprised to find they had prepared a second position within the city itself, but then Samarkand was a surprising place. As with Yenking, he had begun to think he would have to starve them out, but they had risked it all as soon as a relieving army was in reach. His reason for insisting on speed had borne fruit once again, facing an enemy who vastly underestimated the strength of the tumans.

If he stayed in the Shah’s lands, he suspected they would eventually communicate, with the most able officers working out ways to counter his attacks. He smiled to himself at the thought. By the time they ever did, the whole of Khwarezm would be under his control.

Trees grew along the edges of the streets, full grown but somehow neat. Genghis could see the fading white discs of pruning cuts as he passed as well as dark stains on the dusty roots where they had been watered just that morning. He shook his head in wonder at the labor involved. He supposed city men enjoyed the shade the trees cast in the summer, and he had to admit they gave off a pleasant scent in the warm breeze. Perhaps even city men needed to see a touch of green leaves from the stone balconies. Standing in the stirrups, Genghis could see an open bowl of bare earth ringed in tiered wooden benches. Samarkand had many strange things within the walls. It could have been a place where the Arabs gathered to hear speakers, or race horses even. His men were bringing prisoners there and it was already dark with a huddled mass of people, bound and numb with fear.

He passed a stone well at a junction of roads and dismounted to examine it. As he peered over the edge, he saw a dark circle of water far below. On impulse he took the leather bucket on its rope and dropped it in, just to hear the splash. When he pulled it up, he drank deeply, clearing the dust from his throat before passing it to one of his archers and getting back in the saddle. Samarkand was well placed, in its position in the bow of a river and lakes. On such soil you could grow anything and Genghis had seen empty markets full of fresh fruit and vegetables by the main gate. He wondered what the inhabitants did with their days if food and water were so plentiful. It was clear they did not spend it in practice of arms after the way the garrison had retreated. His tumans had simply followed them into the city, too close for them to shut the gates.

The sheer size of Samarkand was difficult to comprehend. Genghis was surrounded by roads and houses, large buildings and small. The Shah’s palace dominated the maze around it, but Genghis aimed his mount at a needle minaret to the west of the city, his curiosity aroused by such a strange structure looming over the rest. If anything, it seemed to grow taller as he approached.

The minaret stood over a large open square, surrounded by squat buildings with shuttered windows. Genghis hardly noticed as his officers kicked in doors and checked each one for enemies. Grunts and scuffles sounded, but the warriors knew their business and the noises did not last long. More prisoners were trussed and dragged back to the racetrack, some of them staring wildly at the man who stood alone at the foot of the minaret.

Genghis ran his hand along the base of the structure, enjoying the feel of the intricate tiles on the surface. Each one interlocked with the next and he was tempted to take his knife and work one loose just to look at it. The narrow tower shone in the sunlight and he had to crane his neck to see the top from where he stood. As he leaned back, the hat he wore suddenly tipped and fell at his feet. He smiled in amazement that men could build such a thing, then reached down to pick it up.

Genghis chuckled to himself as he placed the hat back on his head. One of the men heard the sound.

“My lord khan?” he asked, ready for any order.

“I was just thinking that I have never bowed to anyone since coming to these lands,” Genghis replied lightly. “Until this tower.” The man smiled to see his khan in so mellow a mood. Perhaps it was the open nature of the city they walked through. Chin towns were cramped in comparison and Genghis could not imagine ruling such places. Here, in the sun, it was possible. The citizens would have fresh water and food from the markets to feed their families. Farmers would bring it in each morning before dawn and take their payment in coins of bronze and silver. For an instant, Genghis saw the whole workings of a city clearly in his mind, from the merchants to the artisans, to teachers and scribes. Somehow it all worked, though he could not yet understand where all the coins came from in the first place. Were there mines nearby? And if there were, who made the metal into coins and gave them away to start the commerce of Samarkand? The Shah? It was confusing and complex, but he turned his face to the sun and felt at peace. He had won a battle that morning and sent his sons to break another army come to relieve Samarkand. It was a good day.

The smell of smoke came stronger into the square and Genghis put aside his wandering thoughts. His men roamed everywhere to collect prisoners, but the garrison fought on and he remounted to oversee the fighting. With his line of archers, he walked his horse to where gray smoke billowed over the stunned city. As he rode, he firmed his mouth. What was the point of wells and courtyards if you could not hold them? There were always hungry men willing to take what you had built. A ruler had to be a fool to let them peer into his cities and take what they wanted. Yet a city could be defended, Genghis knew. He had broken enough walls in his time to have a good idea what worked best against his catapults and wall hooks. He was tempted to test the idea with one of his generals the next winter, Tsubodai for preference. His favorite general would relish the challenge. If Tsubodai could hold a city against the tumans, perhaps Genghis would consider leaving them intact to be ruled by his own family. Otherwise, he might as well leave them staked out like the goats they used to catch wolves at home.

As he turned into a main street, Genghis saw sprawled bodies, most of them in the armor the Arabs of Samarkand favored. A doorway was splashed with drying blood, still bright in the sunlight, but with no sign of how it got there. The snap of bows was louder by then, and he passed two more streets before he reached the Shah’s palace grounds and the high wall around them. The smoke was thicker there, though it seemed to be limited to a few houses nearby. No doubt someone had knocked over a lamp in a struggle, or kicked a cooking fire as they rushed through. The flames were roaring away, making the day even hotter. His men milled around the Shah’s wall like furious ants, suddenly aware that the khan watched.

Genghis reined in to observe his men assault the home of Shah Ala-ud-Din. Beyond the wall, he could see a rising hill set with flower gardens, and on the crest a great palace stood. Whether by accident or design, the walls of the grounds came right down to the street itself, their length broken only by wide gates of heavy iron bars. Genghis looked up and down the long street that ran alongside. The houses were in deep shade, but looked cleaner than he had expected. Perhaps the people of Samarkand had cesspools running under the houses, or some system to carry the nightsoil away. There were problems in having so many people in one place, and Genghis was beginning to appreciate the intricate cleverness of Samarkand.

There was no room for catapults, even if his men had troubled to drag them through the streets to that place. Though the walls were barely ten feet high, the garrison had chosen a good place to defend to the death.

Genghis watched as the best archers stood back, sending shafts at any face that appeared over the high edge. Was there a platform on the other side? There must have been. Genghis could see armored men ducking back to it as arrows whirred past their heads. Not many survived at such a range, though they carried heavy shields and wielded their swords and bows from behind that protection. Genghis saw his shaman, Kokchu, exhorting the warriors to greater efforts. The man wore only a breechcloth around his waist, his body painted in lines of dark blue so that his skin seemed to writhe as he moved.

With the shaman and the khan present, the warriors worked themselves into a frenzy, using spiked poles to pull at the top edge of the wall, trying to bring it all down. They had already loosened part of it and Genghis saw a great crack appear in the brickwork. He had been about to give the order to stand down while catapults were brought. The closest houses could have been leveled to make a platform, and then the wall would have fallen easily. Seeing the crack, he relaxed. It would not be long.

Kokchu had spotted him, of course. Genghis could see the shaman watching out of the corner of his eyes. He remembered the first time they had met, when Kokchu had led the Naiman khan to the top of a hill away from a battle. Genghis had given him just a year of life, but many more had passed since then and he had grown in influence, part of the handful of loyal men who ruled under the khan. Genghis approved the shaman’s naked ambition. It suited him well to have his warriors in awe of the spirits, and who could really say if the sky father had blessed their khan? The victories had come and Kokchu had played his part.

Genghis frowned suddenly, his thoughts shifting to another memory. Something nagged at his mind as he played words over in his head, but it would not come clear. With a sharp gesture, he summoned one of his scouts, always watching for orders.

“Go to the camp outside the city,” Genghis told the fresh-faced young warrior. “Find my wife Chakahai, and ask her why she cannot look on Kokchu without thinking of my sister. Do you understand?”

The man bowed deeply, nodding as he memorized the question. He did not know why the khan should look so thunderous on a day when they had taken a new city, but his task was to obey and he did so without question, riding swiftly away and not even looking back when the wall tumbled outward, crushing two warriors who had not moved in time. Under the cold gaze of the khan, Kokchu capered like a painted spider and the warriors rushed in with a roar.

Chagatai watched his brother ride toward him. The bulk of his tuman were walking the battlefield, looting the dead or dispatching those who still moved. A core of warriors and officers remained with him, and he did not have to give them orders. They knew why Jochi approached, and moved subtly to surround their general. Many of the older men deliberately sheathed their swords rather than face a general with a bared blade, though Chagatai sneered at them and called out in anger as he saw it. Those closest to him were all young and confident. They kept their weapons high and visible, their faces arrogant. They did not care that Chagatai had left his brother to be killed. Their loyalty was not to the rape-born son, but the true one, who would one day inherit and be khan.

Even the young warriors became nervous at the sight of Jochi’s men. Chagatai’s personal guard had not fought that day, and those Jochi had with him were wet with blood, from their hair and spattered faces to the soaked cloth of their leggings. They stank of sweat and death and the sneers faded from the faces of Chagatai’s young warriors as they came close. This was not a game. Jochi shook with strong emotion and he had already killed that day.

He did not rein in as he reached the warriors with Chagatai. His gaze never wavered from his brother as his mount pushed two standing men aside even as they opened their mouths to warn him off. If he had paused even for a moment, they would have firmed their nerve and stopped him, but he did not. He passed two more men before a senior officer swung his horse in hard and blocked Jochi’s path to Chagatai.

The officer was one of those who had put aside his blade. He sweated as he came within reach of Jochi’s sword and hoped the general would not strike him down. He saw Jochi’s gaze pull away from his smiling brother and settle on the man in his path.

“Get out of my way,” Jochi said to him. The officer paled, but shook his head. Jochi heard Chagatai laugh and his hand tightened on the wolf’s-head hilt.

“Are you troubled, brother?” Chagatai called, his eyes bright with malice. “After such a victory as well? There are too many nervous hands around here. Perhaps you should return to your own men before there is an accident.”

Jochi sighed, hiding the flare of his anger well. He did not want to die in such a place, but he had been mocked too many times in his life. He had held his temper until his muscles knotted, but on this day, he would take his grinning little brother with him.

He dug in his heels and his mount leapt forward. Jochi backhanded the officer across the face, knocking him off his saddle as Jochi’s mount went past. Behind him, his men roared and attacked.

Jochi had the pleasure of seeing Chagatai’s face turn to shock before more men stood in his way. Warriors around them gaped at the sudden crash of arms and came rushing in. Jochi had known they would, but his own men were close enough to force a path and their blood was already up. They killed without compunction, feeling his rage as keenly as their own.

Chagatai’s young hotheads were not slow to respond. In heartbeats, they were struggling and stabbing men who hacked at them. Jochi felt his horse cut from under him and slid free, staggering as his leg buckled. His right leg was dark with blood from an earlier wound. He took another step forward, ducking under a wild swing and drawing his ragged blade across an armpit, cutting deeply.

Chagatai saw his wounded brother on foot and shouted, kicking his horse forward through his own men. The shoulders of the animal knocked them aside and suddenly he was there facing Jochi. He brought his sword down in a sweeping arc and Jochi almost fell under the hooves as he dodged, his leg giving way again. Chagatai gave up any pretense at style and swung wildly. He had been attacked among his own men and there had never been a better chance to remove the thorn that was his brother.

With a sickening jolt, Chagatai’s horse had its leg broken by a berserk warrior standing at Jochi’s side. The animal went down sideways and Chagatai could not free his legs from the stirrups. He screamed as his shin snapped and almost passed out from the pain. He felt his sword kicked roughly away from his hand, and when he looked up, Jochi was standing there, a terrible triumph on his face.

Chagatai’s tuman howled as they saw him go down. They lost all caution then, hacking at the last of Jochi’s men in berserk fury.

Jochi could feel his spattering blood leeching out his strength. He struggled to bring his sword up as he stared into Chagatai’s eyes. He did not speak as he chopped it down. He did not feel the arrow that took him in the chest, spinning him around before the blow could land. His awareness drained away and he did not know if he had killed the brother who wanted so desperately to kill him.

Chagatai yelled fresh orders and if anything, the fighting intensified as more and more of Jochi’s tuman flooded in. The fighting continued and hundreds died to revenge their fallen general, or save him. They did not know. A knot of Jochi’s men broke free with his flopping body held between them, the arrow still sticking out. As they pulled back, senior men blew the signal to disengage on both sides.

Snarling and in pain, the tumans wrenched apart and at last there was clear ground between them. Minghaan officers bullied and kicked their men away, using their sword hilts to knock down more than one who tried to dart around them. The chain of command reclaimed them and each jagun of a hundred, each arban of ten, had its officer growling at the men to hold.

The tumans stood panting, aghast at the dead and what they had done. The name of Genghis could be heard in whispers, and every man there feared what would happen when the khan heard. No one moved while Jochi was checked by his men, then a ragged cheer echoed across the bowl of hills. The arrow had not penetrated his armor. He lived yet, and when Chagatai heard, he spat on the ground in fury at the luck that followed the rape-born whelp. He endured his leg being splinted with a shard from a broken lance, biting his lip as the swollen flesh was bound to wood in three places between knee and ankle. His men helped him to mount and they echoed the cheer to see him alive, though it was muted and echoed in fear. The battle had been won and now they would leave the bowl of hills together, a blood feud begun that could only be bled or burned to see an end to it.

In the night, Chakahai walked her gray pony through dark streets, with darker men riding beside her. The air was warmer in the city than in the camp, as if the stones of the street kept the heat to breathe it out slowly in darkness. It was easy to be fanciful as she made her way to the palace on a hill, where Genghis waited for her. The city was full of birds, murmuring on every ledge and rooftop. She wondered if they had been disturbed by the movement of soldiers, or always came to sit on the warm tiles of Samarkand. For all she knew, it was a benign, natural thing, but she felt uncomfortable at their presence and could hear fluttering wings overhead.

Away on her right, a woman cried out, unseen. She could see the dim glow of torches as warriors without wives went to the racetrack and took young girls from the arms of their fathers and husbands, leaving the rest for Genghis’s judgment the following dawn. Chakahai winced at the thought, feeling for those who could expect rough hands in the dark. She had lived among the Mongols for many years and found much to love in the people of the sea of grass. Yet they still took women from those they conquered and thought nothing of it. She sighed to herself as she reached the broken wall that gave onto perfumed gardens. It was the tragedy of women to be lusted after and stolen in the night. It happened in her father’s kingdom, in Chin lands and Arab. Her husband saw nothing wrong in the practice, saying that raids for women kept his men sharp. Chakahai shuddered to herself as if a sudden chill touched her bare arms.

She could smell death over the scent of flowers in the Shah’s gardens. Bodies still lay in huge piles by the wall, already beginning to corrupt in the heat. The air there seemed boiled and old and could not refresh her as she breathed through her nose and tried not to think of the staring eyes of corpses. The odor carried disease, she knew. In the morning, she would make sure Temuge had them taken away and burned before some plague ripped through her husband’s army.

With the armed guards, her horse walked carefully up wide steps designed for men to the palace that loomed blackly on the crest of the hill. As she went, she mulled the question Genghis had asked and what it could mean. She did not understand it and could not shake a sick feeling in her stomach as a result. Surely Kokchu would not be there when she spoke to her husband. If he was, she would ask to see Genghis in private. The thought of the shaman’s fierce eyes boring into her made her illness worse. She sighed, wondering if she was pregnant again, or whether it was just the result of so much grief and anger around her for so long.

Her friend Yao Shu was no great hand with medicine, but he knew the principles of rebalancing. Chakahai resolved to seek him out when she returned to the camp. The Mongols did not seek inner peace and she thought the concentration on violence and hot blood was dangerous to maintain for long periods. There had to be rest and calm, though they knew nothing of the teachings of the Buddha.

Chakahai dismounted as the steps opened into a walled courtyard. Her guards handed her over to others waiting there, and Chakahai followed them through dark corridors, wondering why no one had bothered to light the lamps she saw. Truly, her husband’s race were a strange people. The moon rose outside, casting a gray light through the high arched windows, so that at times, she felt like a ghost walking with dead men. She could still smell the corpses on the sluggish air and struggled to remain calm.

Chakahai found Genghis on a throne in a great vault of a room. Though she wore soft slippers, her steps still echoed like whispers on all sides. The guards remained at the doors and she approached her husband, looking nervously around for sign of his shaman.

Genghis was alone in the Shah’s throne room, staring out over the city revealed to him through a great arch. The moon made Samarkand looked like an intricate model, stretching away in all directions.

Chakahai followed his gaze and stood for a time in silence, drinking it in. Her father had ruled from such a palace, and the view brought a surprisingly powerful pang of nostalgia. No doubt her husband would move on soon and she would return to a life in the gers, but here, for a time, she could remember the peace and beauty of a great palace and forget the dead who littered the ground around it.

“I am here, husband,” Chakahai said at last. Genghis turned to her, stirring from his reverie.

“Have you seen?” he said, gesturing to the moonlit city. “It is very beautiful.”

Chakahai smiled and nodded. “It reminds me a little of the Xi Xia and my father’s capital.”

Genghis nodded, but she could see he was troubled, his mind barely with her.

“You sent a man to ask me a question,” Chakahai prompted.

Genghis sighed, putting away his thoughts on the future. The day had begun so well, but it had ended with Jochi and Chagatai fighting in front of the men, ripping wounds in his army that even he would struggle to close. He turned weary eyes on his second wife.

“I did. We are alone here,” he said. Chakahai glanced at the guards still standing on the edges of the room, but Genghis did not seem aware of them as he went on. “Tell me why you cannot look on Kokchu without thinking of my sister. What did you mean by that?”

Chakahai stepped close to Genghis and placed her cool hands on his brow as he opened his arms in an embrace. He groaned softly at the touch, letting her ease him. “He found her, husband, after the attack on the camp. When I see him, I see the moment when he came from her ger. His face was wild with grief and it haunts me still.”

Genghis was like a statue as she spoke and she felt him withdraw from her. He took her hands and detached them gently, his grip almost painful.

“He did not find her, Chakahai. One of my men brought me the news when he checked the gers after the Shah had run.”

His eyes were cold in the moonlight as he thought through what she had said.

“You saw him?” Genghis whispered.

Chakahai nodded, a knot of horror stopping her throat. She swallowed it to answer, forcing the words out.

“It was as the fighting ended. I was running and I saw him come from her ger. When I heard she had been killed, I thought he must have carried the news to you.”

“No,” Genghis replied. “He said nothing to me, then or after.” He released her hands then and Chakahai staggered slightly, overcome with what she now understood.

“Say nothing, Chakahai,” her husband said. “I will deal with the shaman in my own way.” He cursed softly, tilting his head suddenly so that she could see the grief rising in him. “This has been an evil day.”

Once more she stepped into his arms, touching his face and smoothing away the pain.

“I know it, husband, but it is over now and you can sleep.”

“Not tonight, not after this,” Genghis said in a whisper.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

IT WAS ANOTHER THREE DAYS before Genghis summoned his sons to the audience chamber of the palace in Samarkand. On his orders, Kachiun, Khasar, and Jelme had returned with their tumans, leaving cities in ruins behind them.

The day had been hot and the smell of flames, sweat, and grease was strong in the confined space. Temuge too had been ordered to attend, and with him, almost seven hundred senior officers filled the echoing hall as they waited for Genghis. Yao Shu was there among them, perhaps the only man there who did not command others. The shaman Kokchu crouched at the foot of the throne facing the crowd, his empty stare fixed on the floor.

As the sun set and torches were lit on the walls, Genghis entered without fanfare or retinue, his eyes passing across the crowd and noting the faces of his brothers and his children, from Jochi, Chagatai, Ogedai, and Tolui down to the youngest girl his wife Chakahai had borne for him. The smallest ones stood with their mother and Borte, awed at the high ceiling. They had not seen a city before and they looked up nervously, wondering what prevented it from falling on their heads. One of Chakahai’s boys began to bawl, but it was Borte who picked him up and crooned to him. Other wives of senior men were also in attendance, though Genghis’s mother Hoelun was missing, still isolated in her grief for a lost daughter. Since Temulun had died, Hoelun had withdrawn from the affairs of the tribes, and both Chakahai and Borte felt the loss of her wisdom keenly.

The khan wore no armor that day. Instead, he had dressed in the simple clothes of one of his herdsmen. A deel robe covered tunic and leggings over soft leather boots. His skin was clean and gleaming with fresh mutton fat. His hair was tied back under a square hat, barely marked with decorative stitching. As the hall filled with yellow light, those closest to him could see gray at his temples, but he looked vital and alert, his presence enough to still the slightest movement in the crowd. Only Tsubodai and Jebe were missing with all their minghaan and jagun officers. Genghis might have waited for them, but there was no word of the hunt and matters pressed upon him, each more urgent than the next.

As he stood with the throne at his back, he met the eyes of Jochi and Chagatai, standing to the fore of the silent crowd. Both bore marks of the battle they had fought. Chagatai leaned heavily on a stick to favor his splinted leg and sweated visibly. Jochi’s face was badly bruised and he too limped when he moved, his cuts barely stanched and beginning to form scabs. They could read nothing from their father. He had adopted the cold face, and even those who knew him well could not judge his mood or guess why he had called them. As Genghis watched, Jochi raised his head, his expression the match for his father’s. He at least did not expect the gathering to turn out well, but he refused to show fear. He had spent three days waiting for some kind of summons. Now it had come, it was almost a relief.

Genghis let the silence grow as he faced them. He knew many of the men and women in the hall. Even those who were strangers were still his people. He knew their faults and weaknesses as well as his own, or better. He had brought them from the hills of home, taken the paths of their lives in his hands and wrenched them together. They were no longer tribes as they waited for the khan to speak. They were his, down to the last child. When he spoke at last, his voice filled the hall, his tone calmer than anyone there expected.

“Tonight I will name my heir,” he said. The spell held and no one moved, though Chagatai and Jochi exchanged a silent flicker of a glance, both very aware of the other.

“I will not live forever,” Genghis went on. “I am old enough to remember when each tribe was at the throat of the rest. I would not see those days return when I am gone. In this room, I have called every man and woman of power in the nation, barring the ones with Tsubodai and Jebe. I will speak to those separately when they come home. You have all pledged your lives and honor to me. You will do the same for my son.”

He paused, but no one dared to move. In the stifling air, some even held their breath. Genghis nodded to himself.

“I give thanks in front of you to my brother Kachiun, who took the burden of being my heir while my sons grew to manhood.” He sought his brother out and caught Kachiun’s fractional nod.

“Your children will not rule the nation, Kachiun,” Genghis said, knowing his brother understood the need to speak the words aloud. “They may come to rule other peoples and other lands, but the Great Khan will come from my choice and my seed alone. You will be the first to give an oath to my son, then my brothers Khasar and Temuge and every other man and woman here.”

He looked up again at them all, his yellow eyes seeming to strip them bare.

“We are nothing but the oath we give. If you cannot bend a knee to my son, you may leave and take your lives before sunrise. That is the only choice I will allow.” He paused again, closing his eyes for an instant when grief and anger threatened to break through.

“Step forward, Ogedai, my heir,” he said. All eyes turned to the sixteen-year-old warrior. He had grown almost to his father’s height in their time in Arab lands. The slim boy who had returned from a Chin city with Kachiun was barely visible in the hard planes of his face, but he looked very young, rocked by his father’s words. His eyes were as pale as the khan’s, wide and unblinking. He did not move and Borte had to nudge him forward so that he stepped through the packed room, older men making way. Only she and Chakahai had known it was coming. Both women had advised Genghis over the previous days, and for once, he had listened. Tears of pride brimmed in them both.

Genghis ignored the hot eyes of Chagatai and Jochi as he turned his stunned third son to face them.

“The man who leads the nation must not be weak,” Genghis said. “He must not be given to rash acts or spite. He must use his mind first, but when he does move, it must be as the snap of a wolf, without mercy. The lives of many rest on him and one wrong decision can destroy everything my brothers and I have built.”

Genghis showed a touch of his inner rage in his clenched fists as he took a deep breath.

“I am the khan of the sea of grass, the silver people. I have chosen my heir, as is my right. Let the sky father and earth mother destroy any man or woman who stands in the way.”

Heads bowed nervously in the crowd and Kachiun stepped through them to stand before Genghis and Ogedai. Genghis waited with his hand on his sword hilt, but Kachiun merely smiled. Seeing Ogedai was nervous, Kachiun winked at him before going down onto one knee.

“I give my oath freely, Ogedai, to you, the son of my brother and his heir. May the day you inherit be many years from now, but until then, I vow to honor your father’s command. On that day, I will swear to follow you with gers, horses, salt, and blood.”

Khasar followed closely behind Kachiun and he too knelt and spoke, his eyes proud. They could not give the full oath to the khan while Genghis lived, but each man swore to honor the boy as heir. As the tension faded, Genghis took his right hand from his sword and let it rest on Ogedai’s shoulder. Temuge completed his vow and Jochi and Chagatai stepped forward. Of all in that room, Genghis needed to hear the two young generals give their word publicly, so that there could be no doubt. The senior men and women of the nation were all there as witnesses to this moment above all the others.

Jochi winced as he knelt, though he forced a grin for Ogedai. In his deepest heart, Jochi had known he could not inherit. He was not certain yet that his father would leave it at that, or dole out some other punishment for the folly of his fight with Chagatai. There, at least, he was triumphant. Chagatai would not inherit either and he had been certain he would one day lead the nation. Chagatai’s dashed hopes were like hot airag in Jochi’s blood.

With his broken leg, Chagatai could not kneel with the others. He hesitated under his father’s gaze and the officers around looked on in fascination as the problem became obvious.

“The Chin kowtow, outstretched, Chagatai,” Genghis said coldly. “As you are injured, you may do that.”

Chagatai’s face flushed brightly as he eased himself onto the floor and touched his forehead to the cool stone. It was not difficult to guess that his father would inflict a brutal punishment on him if he tried to delay.

For his part, Ogedai seemed delighted to see Chagatai lying flat on the floor. He beamed as his brother spoke the ritual words before using the stick to clamber painfully to his feet. In the crowd, Yao Shu too could not prevent a smile from breaking out on his face. Truly, there was a place for karma in the world, that he should have lived to see the young fool humbled before the nation. The need for revenge seeped out of him, leaving him feeling empty and soiled. Yao Shu shook his head in sadness at what he had allowed himself to become in the Mongol camps. This was a second chance and he vowed to renew his studies and his teaching of the khan’s sons. He brightened at the thought of working with Ogedai. The lad was quick-witted and if the family violence in his blood could be tempered, he would one day make a fine khan.

It took a long time for each man and woman in the hall to make their vows to Ogedai. By the end of it, the night was almost over and the sky was gray in the east. Genghis had not troubled to have water brought to them. As the last arban officer rose to his feet, the rest broke into cheering, understanding that they had seen the beginning of a dynasty in that night, in a city on a hill. Under the eye of the Great Khan, even Jochi’s and Chagatai’s officers joined in enthusiastically, relieved that no blood had been shed.

Genghis held up his hands to quiet them.

“Now go, and tell your families what you have seen here. We will throw a feast in Samarkand this day to mark the occasion.” His expression tightened as the crowd began to chatter and smile, flowing toward the great doors at either end.

“Kachiun? You and Khasar will stay. You too, Temuge. I need my brothers around me for what I still have to do.”

As his three brothers halted, looking surprised, Genghis turned to where Kokchu still crouched at his side.

“I have horses ready outside, shaman. You will accompany me.”

Kokchu bowed his head, hiding his confusion.

“Your will, my lord khan.”

As the sun rose, Genghis rode slowly out of Samarkand, his three brothers and the shaman with him, accompanied by one spare mount. Temuge had called questions at first, but when Genghis did not answer, he had fallen as silent as his brothers. None of them knew where Genghis was leading them, or why his mood seemed so dark on that day.

The families of the nation were encamped just a few miles from Samarkand, out of reach of battle lines. Genghis did not hesitate as he reached the first lines of gers, each one with its line of white smoke rising slowly into the air. The camp was already busy. The Mongols enjoyed this part of the summer days, before the heat became intense. With the river and lakes to the north, there was even enough moisture in the air to coat the grass with dew, and the sun made it sparkle for the short time before it burned away.

Those who were up and about already looked to the khan and his brothers in awe as they passed, standing with their heads bowed rather than look on the great ones of the nation. Dogs barked excitedly, but Genghis ignored them all as he walked his horse through the maze. He passed his own great ger on its cart and dismounted at last at the small home of his mother.

“Nokhoi Khor” he called softly, a greeting as much as a request to have his mother’s old hound held before it could rush out and attack. Genghis had never liked dogs and kept none himself. He waited for a few moments, then turned to the small group with him. Between them, they represented the ruling powers of the Mongol nation. Only Ogedai ranked with them and then only after that night.

“Wait for me,” Genghis said, ducking low and opening the painted wooden door to his mother’s home.

It was still dark inside. His mother had not yet thrown off the cap of felt that let light in during the day. The light from the open door let him see a huddled figure on the bed. Her old hound slept curled up by her legs and showed its teeth as he approached, a low rumbling in its throat. Genghis swallowed dryly.

“Send your dog out, Mother. I need to speak to you.”

Hoelun opened her eyes blearily, still bloodshot from the airag she used to bring sleep without dreams. She closed one again almost immediately, wincing at the pain that throbbed in her head. Genghis could smell the tang of urine in the ger and the strong scent of unwashed flesh. It saddened him to see his mother’s gray hair wild and unkempt, and he knew he should have roused her from grief long before this. She looked ancient and worn out as she watched him. While he had buried his sadness in the attack on the city, filling his days with plans and action, she had been left alone to grieve and the process had eaten her away.

Genghis sighed to himself. He stuck his head outside once more, blinking against the light.

“I need you to take her dog, Kachiun. And I need food and tea and firewood for the stove. Will you fetch those, Khasar?”

He stepped back to let Kachiun remove the old hound from their mother’s bed. As Kachiun reached for it, the dog erupted, snapping. Kachiun simply cuffed it on the muzzle and dragged it off the bed, giving it a kick toward the door so that it ran outside, still barking.

“Leave the dog alone,” Hoelun said irritably. As she sat up and realized two of her sons were in her ger, she ran a hand automatically over her hair and glared at them. Genghis could see she had lost weight alarmingly over the previous few months. Guilt swept him that he had not made sure someone was looking after her. Surely Chakahai and Borte had brought food and changed her clothes?

“What is it?” Hoelun said, wincing as her head pounded. She gave up on her hair and let her hands fall to the blankets on her lap, the yellow nails dark with dirt.

She had addressed Kachiun, but he only shrugged and looked to Genghis.

“Get some hot salt tea inside you and we will talk,” Genghis said flatly. In the small ger, he heard her belly rumble with gas and was not surprised when she threw back the greasy blankets and heaved herself to her feet. She did not speak as she pushed her feet into soft boots and left the ger to visit a toilet pit nearby.

Kachiun looked at his brother in shame.

“Is it for this you called us?” he said. “I did not know she was so far gone, I’m sorry.”

“Neither did I,” Genghis said. “Have I not had my hands full with a thousand things since Temulun died?” He looked away then, aware that his words were weak. “We will make it right, after today,” he added.

Khasar returned just before their mother, so that she followed him into the ger. He too was subdued at the skeletal figure who took her place on the bed. He embraced her formally, but winced to himself as he laid a fire in the stove and lit tinder with a flint and steel, blowing on it in his hand until a small flame puffed there.

The tea seemed to take an age to boil, and it was Genghis himself who poured the first cup for his mother. She sipped at it and her eyes lost some of their blankness as the warmth spread through her old body.

“What do you want, Temujin?” she said at last, using his boyhood name as no one else in the camp dared to do.

“Vengeance for my sister,” Genghis replied, his voice almost a whisper.

Hoelun’s eyes were wide and dark in the gloom, and she closed them as if he had struck her. “I do not want to hear this,” she said. “Come back tomorrow and I will be stronger.”

Genghis was unrelenting and he took the empty tea bowl from her hands, shaking his head.

“No, Mother. Get yourself dressed, or I will send a servant to you. You will ride with your sons today, away from this camp.”

“Get out, Temujin,” she said, her voice stronger than it had been before. “Take your brothers with you. I am waiting to die, do you understand? I have played my part in your life and your nation. I was there at the beginning and it has brought me only sorrow. Just get out and leave me behind you as you have always done.”

When Genghis replied, his voice was gentle. “I will not, Mother. Kachiun? Tell Temuge that he will have to wait for us for a while. I will wash and dress her and make her ready.”

Defeated, Hoelun slumped back on the bed. She remained limp as Genghis used a water bucket and cloth to smooth back her hair. He found a bone comb on the floor of her ger, and she sat in silence as he began to draw it through the knotted gray mass, his hands taking infinite care not to hurt her further.

The sun had risen completely by the time they finished dressing Hoelun. She had not spoken again, though she had welcomed the dog when it returned to its place at her side, darting in when it saw its chance. The will to resist seemed to have deserted their mother, and both Genghis and Kachiun were silent as they helped her into the saddle and placed her feet in stirrups. Hoelun sat badly, so Khasar passed her reins over the horse’s head and looped them over his saddle horn to lead her.

As he too mounted, Genghis looked around him at the family who had hidden from their enemies in a lost and distant cleft in the ground when he was just a boy. They had walked with death then and the memories were cold on his skin. He could imagine the spirit of Bekter with them, and he knew the brother he had killed would approve of this day. He hoped Bekter could see it. Temulun too was missing from that small group of survivors, though she had been just a squalling baby when they had been forced to run. In her place, the shaman rode in sullen silence, watching the khan from under heavy-lidded eyes. As Genghis began to trot away from the camp, he heard hawks calling overhead. Their high voices reminded him of Temulun’s cries, when every meal was a victory and every battle was still to come.

They rode south and east through the heat of the day, drinking water from the skins Genghis had supplied with each mount. He had prepared for the journey and the saddlebags were full of dried mutton and hard cheese. In the afternoon, as the ground began to rise, Genghis stopped to break the cheese on a flat stone, using the hilt of his knife to crumble the blocks before mixing them in a skin of warm water and passing the bags under each saddle. The bitter broth would sustain them when they stopped again that evening, though he did it mainly for his mother, who was not used to hard riding.

Hoelun had woken from her stupor of the morning, though she still winced at the hot sun and had stopped once to vomit weakly before going on. Her eyes sought out Genghis as he rode ahead, and she too recalled the first days of hardship, when the hand of every man was set against them. Five sons and one daughter had been with her then, where now only four sons remained. Had she not given enough for Genghis’s ambition and dreams? She saw the mountains rise before her as she rode, her horse picking its way carefully when even the goat trails ended. As the sun beat down, the ground rose more and more steeply and still Hoelun did not speak to any of the men with her.

Kokchu was sweating profusely and drank more than Genghis and Khasar together. He too was not used to riding broken ground, but he did not complain while Hoelun remained silent, knowing it could only shame him in the eyes of the khan. He had no idea why he had been called to attend Genghis, though as he looked up and saw the snow line of the peaks, he knew the spirits were strong in high places. The Mongols were never truly content in hot lands, where flies and sweat and strange rashes assailed them and rotted clean flesh. In the clean air of the mountains, Kokchu knew they would feel more at home. Perhaps he had been called to intercede for Genghis there.

They climbed a ridge until the sun hung low in the west, casting long shadows before them as if they walked on darkness. The going was hard, but the horses walked with sure steps, following Genghis on the spine of the ridge. It was rarely steep enough to force them to dismount. They had led the horses only twice that day, and the grim silence seemed to have seeped into them all, so that their throats and dry lips would find it hard to speak again.

The dark mood did not survive reaching the snow line, at least for Temuge, Khasar, and Kachiun. They had not seen snow since leaving the mountains of their home, and they sucked in the cold air, enjoying the way it bit deeply into them.

Genghis did not seem to feel it, or hear the way the hoof sounds changed to the muted trudge of snow. The peak of the ridge was still ahead. He fixed his gaze on it and did not even look down to the vast lands revealed from that height.

The long, tiring day was ending as he reined in at last. The sun was half hidden on the western horizon, and the golden light struggled with shadows, so that they had to squint as they dismounted. Khasar helped his mother down and passed a skin of airag to her, which she accepted gratefully. The hard spirit brought a little life back to her exhausted face, but she shivered as she stood there, looking around in bewilderment. They could see the smudge of Samarkand across the farmland and even further, to a bright line of the lakes in the north. It seemed as if she might see all the way to home, and the thought brought tears to her eyes.

Genghis drew his sword and the sibilant sound had every eye on him. He too felt the comfort of the snow. In the high places, it was easier to feel the breath of the sky father and the whispering presence of spirits. Even in such a distant land, he felt them on his skin. Though the feeling eased him, it hardly touched the hard lump of rage in his chest that had ached for many days.

“Stand before me, Kokchu,” he said, watching the shaman closely as he approached. Kokchu’s expression was wary and a line of sweat shone on his high scalp, but Genghis could see the gleam of something else in his eyes. The wind grew suddenly as the brothers gathered with their mother around Genghis, scattering a dusting of snow across them.

Genghis did not take his gaze off the shaman as he spoke to his brothers and Hoelun.

“This is the man who killed Temulun, not one of the Shah’s guards. He is the one.”

Kokchu might have leapt back had Khasar not been standing behind him.

“That is a lie!” the shaman spat. “You know it is.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Genghis said. He was ready for Kokchu to attack or flee, with every nerve straining as he spoke. “My sister’s body wasn’t found until dark and that man came straight to me. Yet you were seen coming out of her ger long before that.”

“More lies! My lord khan, someone is trying to destroy me. There are those who think you show me too much trust, that you favor me too openly. I have many enemies, lord, please…”

Temuge spoke suddenly and Kokchu turned to him in desperate hope.

“He could be right, brother,” Temuge said. “Who can say which ger they saw him at when the fires were burning in the camp?”

Kokchu fell to his knees, his clawlike hands shaking as they grabbed handfuls of snow.

“It is true what he says, lord. I have given you everything, gers, horses, salt, and blood, everything. This is all wrong.”

“No,” Genghis muttered. “It is not.” The shaman turned up his face in terror as he saw the khan’s sword lift into the air.

“You may not shed the blood of a shaman, lord. It is forbidden!”

He did not turn in time to see Hoelun smash her hand across his face. The blow was weak, but Kokchu cried out as he fell backwards in the snow. As he came up against Khasar’s feet, the general lashed out without thought, kicking him hard in the ribs.

Genghis stood very still and his family turned to him questioningly as he let the sword fall at his side.

“You cannot let him live, Temujin,” Hoelun said, her eyes brighter than he had seen them that day. Some of her old vitality had returned at the sight of the shaman struggling on that cold peak, and she did not seem to feel the wind any longer. Genghis handed her the sword and held her wrist when he thought she might lash out with it.

He flexed his empty hands for a moment and Kokchu cowered before him, trapped between the legs of the family he had served. His mind spun crazily as he looked for fresh words. Temuge’s foolish face was full of doubt and weakness, and even the khan had put aside his sword. There was still hope.

“I have done nothing, lord. Whoever told you made a mistake and it must not cost me my life, or my service to you. If I die here, ill luck will follow you to the end of your days. You know I speak the truth.”

Genghis reached down and took him by the shoulders in a terrible grip. For an instant, Kochu thought he was being raised to his feet and gasped in relief. Then he felt Genghis shift his grip to a bony leg, the hard fingers cupping his knee and digging into the flesh. The shaman struggled wildly as Genghis lifted him with a grunt.

“Please, my lord, I am innocent!” Kokchu yelled.

Genghis lifted the shaman higher, then dropped him, falling to one knee as he did so. Kokchu struck the khan’s outstretched thigh cleanly. They all heard the spine crack and Kokchu’s mouth opened soundlessly. His legs fell limp and his hands scrabbled in the snow and the sun’s fading light. Temuge turned away then, sickened, but Kachiun and Khasar stared as if they were determined to remember every detail.

Genghis knelt at the shaman’s side, speaking softly.

“There are wolves in these mountains,” he said. “Some of my men have hunted them for skins. They will find you here tonight and at first they will only watch. As the cold makes you weak, they will come closer and begin to nuzzle your legs and hands. They’ll scatter when you call out and move, but they won’t go far and they’ll come back with more courage. When they start to tear your flesh, when the smell of blood excites them, think of me then.”

He stood and the shaman’s wild eyes followed his movement, blurred in tears. His mouth hung open, revealing brown teeth. He saw Hoelun put an arm around Genghis and squeeze his shoulder as they turned back to the horses. Kokchu could not hear the words the family exchanged. He had never known such pain and all the tricks and rituals he knew crumbled before the flame that lanced through him.

The darkness came quickly after that and he moaned as he found his legs were useless. Once, he pushed himself almost to a sitting position, but the wave of fresh agony stole his senses away. When he awoke again, the moon was up and he could hear the soft crunch of paws on the snow.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AS THE SUMMER ENDED, Genghis remained in Samarkand, though his generals roared through the region in his name. The cities of Merv, Nishapur, Balkh, and Urganj fell in quick succession, the populations slaughtered or enslaved. Even the news of the Shah’s death and the return of Tsubodai and Jebe did little to raise his spirits. He wanted to return home to the plains he had known as a boy, but dismissed the urge as weakness. It was his task now to train Ogedai to lead, to pass on everything he had learned as khan in decades of war. He had repaid the Shah’s insults a thousand times, but in the process discovered lands as vast as any he had ever known.

He found himself as a wolf let loose in a sheepfold, and he could not simply take the nation home. Ogedai would rule his people, but there were other thrones. With new energy, Genghis walked the Shah’s palace and city, learning everything he could about how such a place supported its people.

Temuge brought new maps to him as they were captured or drawn by prisoners. Each one revealed more and more of the land around Samarkand and the shape of the world itself. Genghis could hardly believe there were such vast mountains to the south that no man had ever climbed them and the air was said to be thin enough to kill. He heard of strange beasts and Indian princes who would make the Shah of Khwarezm look like a local governor.

The people of Samarkand had been freed to return to their homes for the most part. In other places, Genghis allowed the young warriors to practice sword blows on bound prisoners. There was no better way to demonstrate the damage a sword could do, and it helped prepare them for real battles. In Samarkand, the streets were choked with people, though they stayed out of his way as he walked with guards and maps. His curiosity was insatiable, but when he returned to the palace each night, he could feel it close on him like a tomb until he could hardly breathe. He had sent a scout into the mountains to where Kokchu had been left. The warrior had brought back a package of splintered bones, and Genghis had burned them in a brazier. Even that had not brought him peace. The stone walls of the palace seemed to mock ambitions built on men and horses. When Ogedai was khan, what would it matter if his father had once taken a city or left it intact? Genghis practiced each day with a sword, working himself to a sweat in the mornings against the best of his guard. It depressed him how much speed he had lost with the years. His stamina was still the match for younger men, but his right knee ached after a bout and his eyes were not as sharp over distance as they had been.

On a morning that held the first breath of winter, in his fourth year in Khwarezm, Genghis rested with his hands on his knees, having fought a young warrior to a standstill.

“If he comes at you now, you are dead, old friend. Always leave something, if you can.”

Genghis looked up in surprise, then smiled slowly at the sight of the wiry old man on the edge of the training ground. Arslan was darkly tanned and as thin as a stick, but the sight of him was a pleasure Genghis had not expected again.

The khan cast a glance at his opponent, who stood barely breathing hard, his sword ready.

“I am hoping to surprise this young tiger when he turns his back,” he said. “It is good to see you. I thought you might have been content to stay with your wife and goats.”

Arslan nodded. “The goats were killed by wolves. I am no herdsman, it seems.” He stepped onto the stone square and took Genghis’s arm in a familiar grip, his eyes weighing the changes in the khan.

Genghis saw that the old general was marked with thick dust from months of riding. He pressed his grip tighter, showing his pleasure.

“Eat with me tonight. I want to hear about the plains of home.”

Arslan shrugged. “They are the same. From west to east, Chin merchants do not dare cross your land without asking permission from one of the road stations. There is peace there, though there are fools who say you will not return, that the Shah’s armies are too much even for you.” Arslan smiled at the memory of a Xi Xia merchant and how he had laughed in his face. Genghis was a hard man to kill and always had been.

“I want to hear it all. I will invite Jelme to eat with us,” Genghis said.

Arslan brightened at word of his son.

“I would like to see him,” he replied. “And there are grandchildren I have not seen.”

Genghis winced slightly. Tolui’s wife had given birth to her second son within a few months of Chagatai’s firstborn. He was a grandfather three times over, though part of him was not at all thrilled at the idea.

“My sons are fathers now,” he said. “Even little Tolui has two baby boys in his ger.”

Arslan smiled, understanding Genghis better than he knew.

“The line must go on, my friend. They too will be khans one day. What did Tolui call them?”

Genghis shook his head, amused at Arslan’s fatherly interest.

“I named the first Mongke. Tolui called the second Kublai. They have my eyes.”

It was with an odd sense of pride that Genghis showed Samarkand to the man who would rule the city. Arslan was fascinated by the water system and the markets, with the intricate web of suppliers from a thousand miles all around. By then Genghis had discovered the gold mines that fed the Shah’s treasury. The original guards had all been killed and the mine looted by the time he realized its significance on the maps, but he had new men working and some of his brightest young warriors learning the process of taking gold and silver from the ground. That was one benefit of the city, he had found. It supported more men than the life he had known on the plains. Those men could be used to build other things, perhaps even greater.

“You will have to see the mine,” Genghis told Arslan. “They have dug into the ground like marmots and built great forges to separate the silver and gold from the rock. More than a thousand men dig and half as many again crush the rock into powder. It is like a nest of ants, but from it comes the metal that makes this city run. Everything else works from that. At times, I feel I am very close to understanding how they came to have value. It feels like a thing built on lies and promises, but it works, somehow it does.”

Arslan nodded, watching Genghis rather than listening too closely to things he could not have cared less about. He had answered the call because he knew Genghis would not have summoned him without reason. He had yet to understand why the cities had suddenly become important to the younger man. For two days, he walked with Genghis through Samarkand, talking and taking note of the khan’s inner tension. Arslan’s wife had been given a suite of rooms in the palace and seemed entranced with the great baths and Chin slaves Genghis had procured for her. It interested Arslan to note that neither of Genghis’s wives had left the camp of gers outside the city.

On the third day at noon, Genghis stopped by a market, taking a seat on an old bench with Arslan. The stalls were busy, their owners nervous at the presence of the Mongols in their midst. Both men sat comfortably, waving away those who came to offer them fruit juices or salted bread and meat.

“Samarkand is a fine city, Genghis,” Arslan said. “But you did not care about cities before. I have seen you staring out to the camp of gers every time we walk the walls, and I do not think you will stay here much longer. Tell me then why I should.”

Genghis hid a smile. The old man had not lost his sharpness in the years apart.

“I thought for a time that I would take cities for my people, Arslan. That this would be our future.” He shook his head. “It is not, at least for me. The place has beauty, yes. It is perhaps the finest rat warren I have ever seen. I thought if I could truly understand the way it works, perhaps I could rule from a city and spend my final days in peace, while my sons and grandsons conquer.” Genghis shivered as if a breeze had found his skin. “I cannot. If you feel the same way, you may leave and go back to the plains with my blessing. I will destroy Samarkand and move on.”

Arslan looked around him. He did not like being surrounded by so many people. They were everywhere, and for a man who had spent much of his life on open plains with just his son or a wife, their closeness made him uncomfortable. He suspected Samarkand was no place for a warrior, though it may have been a place for an old man. His wife thought so, certainly. Arslan was not sure if he could ever feel at ease there, but he sensed Genghis was reaching for something and struggled to understand.

“You cared only about razing cities once,” he said at last.

“I was younger then,” Genghis replied. “I thought a man could throw his best years against enemies and then die, feared and loved, both.” He chuckled. “I still think that, but when I am gone, the cities will rebuild and they will not remember me.”

Arslan blinked to hear such words from the great khan he had known almost from boyhood.

“What does that matter?” he asked incredulously. “You have been listening to Temuge, I think. He was always chattering about the need for history, for records.”

Genghis cut the air with his hand, impatient with the way the discussion was going.

“No, this is from me. I have fought all my life and I will fight again and again until I am old and feeble. Then my sons will rule lands even greater and their sons after them. That is the path we made together, Arslan, when I had nothing but hatred to sustain me and Eeluk ruled the Wolves.”

He saw Arslan’s astonishment and went on, searching for the words to give voice to his hazy ideas.

“The people of this city do not hunt to eat, Arslan. They live longer than we do and it is a softer life, yes, but there is no evil in that alone.”

Arslan snorted, interrupting him without caring for the blaze of anger it provoked. It had been a long time since anyone broke in while Genghis was speaking, even in his closest family.

“Until we come and kill their kings and shahs and knock their walls down,” he said. “Of all men, you have shown the weakness of cities, and you would now embrace them? Perhaps you will build statues to yourself like the ones by the walls. Then every man can look on the stone face and say ‘That was Genghis.’ Is that it?”

The khan had gone very still as Arslan spoke, except for the fingers of his right hand drumming silently on the wooden bench. Arslan sensed danger radiating off Genghis, but he did not fear any man and he refused to be cowed.

“All men die, Genghis. All. Think what it means for a moment. None of us are remembered for more than one or two generations.” He raised a hand as Genghis opened his mouth to speak again. “Oh, I know we chant the names of great khans by the fireside and the Chin have libraries running back for thousands of years. What of it? Do you think it matters to the dead that their names are read aloud? They don’t care, Genghis. They are gone. The only thing that matters is what they did while they were alive.”

Genghis nodded slowly as Arslan spoke. It eased him more than he could say to have the old man’s advice once again. He had lost himself for a time with the dream of cities. Hearing Arslan was like a bucket of cold water on his dreams, but he relished it. To hear that voice was almost like being young again, when the world was simpler.

“When you are afraid and you do nothing, that matters,” Arslan went on. “It eats at men when they think they are cowards. How you raise your sons and daughters matters. The wife who warms you at night matters. The joy you take in being alive, the pleasure of strong drink, companionship and stories. All that matters, but when you are dust, other men go on without you. Let it all go, Genghis, and find peace.”

Genghis smiled at the stern tone. “I take it you will not be ruling Samarkand in my name then, old friend.”

Arslan shook his head, “Oh, I will take what you offer, but not to be remembered. I will take it because these old bones are tired of sleeping on hard ground. My wife likes it here and I want her to be happy as well. Those are good reasons, Genghis. A man should always care about pleasing his wife.”

Genghis chuckled. “I can never tell when you are playing games or not,” he said.

“Never, Genghis, I am too old for games. I am almost too old for my wife as well, but that is not important today.”

Genghis slapped him on the shoulder and rose. He almost used his arm to help Arslan to his feet, then withdrew it just before the old general took offense.

“I will leave you five thousand men. You may have to level part of the city to build a barracks for them. Do not let them get soft, old man.” He smiled as Arslan showed his disdain for such an idea.

Genghis trotted his mount through the markets to the main gate of Samarkand. Just the thought of riding with the families and the tumans once more was enough to cast aside the feeling of constriction he had suffered within the city. Winter, such as it was, had come again to the lands of the Shah, though there were still warm days. Genghis scratched a sore on his hand idly as he guided his horse along the paved road. It would be good to have sweet grass under the hooves once more. Eight tumans waited for him to leave the city, drawn up in battle order on the farmland around Samarkand. Boys reaching fourteen had filled the gaps in the ranks, and he had found five thousand good men to leave with Arslan.

Beyond the tumans, the gers were packed onto carts and the people were once again ready to move. He did not know yet where he would take them. It did not matter and he repeated an old nomadic idea to himself as he approached the gate in winter sunlight. They did not have to stand to live, not like those around them. In the tribes, the important parts of life went on whether they were encamped on a sunny riverbank, or assaulting an enemy city, or waiting out a cruel winter. He had lost sight of that for a time in Samarkand, but Arslan had helped him to put his thoughts in order.

The crowds in the city kept well back from the man who might order the death of anyone he saw. Genghis hardly noticed their staring faces as he approached the gate and looked out through the open space to the ranks of his warriors.

His pony jerked without warning and Genghis was jolted forward. He saw a man had stepped out of the crowd to grab the leather straps attached to the bit. One hard pull had turned the mount’s head and stopped the khan in his tracks. His guards were drawing their swords and opening their mouths to shout, but Genghis turned too slowly to see a second attacker rush to his side, a yelling face too young for a beard. A knife was shoved up at him, the boy trying to jam it beneath the layered armor into his flesh.

From instinct Genghis struck the youth hard across the face. In full armor, his forearm was sheathed in plates of beaten iron, and the metal ripped open the boy’s cheek, knocking him down. Genghis drew his sword as the crowd seemed to erupt around him. He saw more knives held in fists and lunged at the one holding his horse, punching the blade downwards into his chest. The man he had struck was dying, but he gripped Genghis’s foot and his arm flailed wildly, a blade gashing the khan’s hip. Genghis grunted in pain, lashing out again and this time almost taking off the head. He could hear the attackers yelling all around him, but his guards were moving to protect the khan. They did not know or care particularly which of the crowd were the attackers. They went through them all, hacking men and women aside until bodies lay everywhere.

As Genghis sat panting on his mount, the boy with a torn cheek recovered and leapt at him. One of his guards impaled the boy from behind, then kicked him off the blade so that he sprawled with the rest. The marketplace was empty by then, though the nearby streets still echoed to screams and running feet. Genghis reached down to touch the wound he had taken. He’d known worse in his time. He nodded to the guards, knowing that they would fear his anger for letting him be cut at all. In fact, Genghis had already decided to see them all hanged for their inattention, but the moment to tell them was not when they were within sword’s reach of him and still ready to kill.

Genghis waited until fresh soldiers rode in from the tumans, Tsubodai and Kachiun with them. He ran a hand across his throat as he glanced at the guards, and they sagged as they sat their mounts, all the fight going out of them as their weapons were taken.

“I should have expected it,” Genghis said, furious with himself. Perhaps the city itself had made him careless. For a man who broke empires, there would always be those who hated him. He should never have relaxed inside a city, even Samarkand. He cursed under his breath at the thought that his enemies had known exactly where to find him for months. That was one benefit of a nomadic life—enemies had to work hard even to locate you.

Kachiun had dismounted to check the dead. Almost forty people had been cut down by the guards, and some of them still lived and bled. The general had no interest in finding guilt or innocence, or any pity for them. His brother had been attacked and he was about to order his men to put an end to those who still crawled when he hesitated, holding up a hand.

Two young men had fallen closely together, right by the first attack. Each wore a robe such as those that protected the desert Arabs from sandstorms. They were bare-chested under it, and in death, Kachiun could see the same mark low on their throats. He pulled the cloth further aside, then gestured to a warrior to do the same for the rest of the dead. Male and female, they had their clothes torn. Kachiun found six other men with the mark, none of them alive.

Genghis saw him turn to a young Arab standing with Tsubodai.

“You. What does this mean?”

Yusuf Alghani shook his head, his lips tight. “I have never seen it before,” he replied.

Genghis stared down at the man, knowing that he hid something. “It is a word in your writing,” he said. “Read it for me.”

Yusuf made a show of inspecting the first man Kachiun had found. He read it right to left and Kachiun could see his hands were shaking.

“Master, it is the word for serenity. That is all I know.”

Genghis nodded as if he accepted it. When Yusuf did not look at the others, he made a hard sound in his throat and dismounted, showing his teeth as weight came on his leg.

“Hold him,” he said. Before Yusuf could react, Tsubodai’s sword was at his throat, the metal warm against his skin.

“You knew they would all be the same, boy,” Genghis said. “Tell me who might wear this word on their chests. Tell me and live.”

Even with the threat, Yusuf’s eyes still moved around the deserted market, looking for anyone who might be watching. He could see no one, but he knew someone would be there. His words would find their way back to the men who had ordered a kill.

“Will you leave this city, master?” he asked, his voice slightly choked by the pressure of Tsubodai’s blade. Genghis raised his eyebrows, surprised at the courage he saw. Or madness, or fear, though who could inspire more fear than a sword at the throat, he did not know.

“I will leave today, boy, yes. Now speak.”

Yusuf swallowed dryly. “The assassins bear such a mark, such a word, master. That is truly all I know.”

Genghis nodded slowly. “Then they will be easy to find. Put your sword away, Tsubodai. We need this one.”

“I have found him useful, lord,” Tsubodai replied. “With your permission, I will send a runner to the general with this news. He will want to have all his staff checked for the mark, perhaps everyone in the city.” As the thought formed, he turned and grabbed Yusuf, yanking his robe aside before he could react. The skin was bare and Yusuf glared at the general as he rearranged himself.

“That would be wise,” Genghis said. He looked around him at the dead bodies, already attracting flies. Samarkand was no longer his concern.

“Hang my guards before you join me, Tsubodai. They failed today.”

Ignoring the pain from his hip, he remounted and rode out to the tumans.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

THE MOVEMENT OF THE KHAN’S GER rocking on its cart was a strange sensation for Yusuf Alghani. The young Bedouin had seen many astonishing things since offering his services to the Mongols. As the day wore on and the tumans moved out with the families, he had expected to be summoned once more to face the khan. Yusuf had watched in interest as every Arab man and woman was checked for the mark of serenity. There were a surprising number of dark-skinned faces in the camp once Yusuf had noticed. In the years since the Mongols had crossed to Khwarezm, they had picked up almost a thousand Arabs in their wake, both young and old. They worked as interpreters for the most part, though some practiced medicine and others joined the Chin as engineers and craftsmen working for the khan. Genghis didn’t seem to care when they broke off their labors to roll out prayer mats, though Yusuf was not sure whether it was from respect or indifference. He suspected the latter, as the camp contained Buddhists and Nestorian Christians as well as Moslems, with far more of the infidel faiths than true believers.

Yusuf waited for the khan to speak as the man finished a meal. He had even allowed Moslem butchers to kill goats and sheep in the way they desired, and the Mongols did not seem to care how they ate or lived as long as they obeyed. Yusuf could not understand the man who sat across from him, idly picking something from his teeth with a splinter. When the word had come to attend the khan, Tsubodai had taken him by the arm and said to do whatever he was told.

Yusuf hardly needed the warning. This was the man who had slaughtered his people in the tens of thousands, more. Yet the dead Shah had done the same in his wars and persecutions. Yusuf accepted such things. As long as he survived, he did not care whether the khan succeeded or was left for the crows.

Genghis put aside his plate, but kept a long knife ready on his lap. The warning was not wasted on the young man watching him.

“You seemed nervous in the market,” Genghis said. “Do they have such a reach then, these assassins?”

Yusuf took a deep breath. He was still uncomfortable even talking about them, but if he was not safe surrounded by tumans of warriors, then he was already dead.

“I have heard it said they can reach a man anywhere, master. When they are betrayed, they bring terrible vengeance on those who defied them, relatives, friends, whole villages even.”

Genghis smiled slightly. “I have done the same,” he said. “Fear can hold men in chains who would fight to the death otherwise. Tell me about them.”

“I do not know where they come from,” Yusuf said quickly. “No one knows that.”

“Someone must,” Genghis interrupted, his eyes growing cold, “or they could not accept the payments for death.”

Yusuf nodded nervously. “That is true, master, but they protect their secrets and I am not among those who know. All I have heard are rumors and legends.” Genghis did not speak and he hurried on, wanting to find something that would satisfy this old devil who played with a knife.

“They are said to be ruled by the Old Man of the Mountains, master. I believe it is a title more than a name, as it has been the same for many generations. They train young men to kill and send them out in exchange for vast sums of gold. They do not ever stop until the life is taken.”

“They were stopped this morning,” Genghis said.

Yusuf hesitated before answering. “There will be others, master, always more until the contract is complete.”

“Do they all carry this mark on their skin?” Genghis asked. He thought it would not be too hard to guard his family from men who identified themselves in such a way. To his disappointment, Yusuf shook his head.

“I thought that was part of the legend, master, until I saw it in the market. It is a sin against God for them to mark their bodies in such a way. I was surprised to see it at all. I do not believe they will all carry the mark, especially now you have been seen to discover it. The ones who come now will be young men, their skin untouched.”

“Like you,” Genghis said softly.

Yusuf forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow. “I have been loyal, master. Ask your generals Tsubodai and Jebe.” He struck his chest. “My allegiance is only to you.”

Genghis snorted at the lie. What else would the young man say, even if he were an assassin? The notion that any one of the Arabs in his camp might be a killer was worrying. He had wives and young children, as had his brothers. He could guard himself against armies, but not enemies who came in the night and gave their lives to take his.

Genghis recalled the Chin assassin who had come out of Yenking to kill him in his ger. Luck had saved him that night and then only barely. The poisoned knife had caused him more pain and weakness than he had ever known. Even the thought of it brought sweat to his brow as he glared at the young Arab. He considered having Yusuf taken out away from the women and children. His men would have him telling them anything they wanted to hear in no time at all.

Yusuf squirmed under the fierce gaze, his senses screaming that he was in terrible danger. It was the effort of a lifetime not to dart from the ger and run for his horse. Only the fact that the Mongols could ride down anyone alive held him in place. The cart lurched as the wheels passed over a rut in the ground, and Yusuf almost cried out.

“I will ask, master. I promise you. If anyone who knows how to find them crosses my path, I will send them to you.” Anything to make him more valuable to the khan alive, he thought to himself. He did not care if the Mongols destroyed the assassins, only that Yusuf Alghani was standing when the killing stopped. They were Ismailis, after all, a Shia sect and not even true Moslems. He had no loyalty to them.

Genghis grunted, toying with the knife in his hands.

“Very well, Yusuf. Do that and report anything you hear to me. I will search in different ways.”

The young man heard the dismissal in his words and left quickly. Alone, the khan cursed under his breath. He threw the knife so that it struck the central post of the ger and stayed there, quivering. He could destroy cities that sat where he could see them. He could break armies and nations, both. The thought of insane killers lunging for him in the night made him want to lash out. How could he protect his family against such people? How could he keep Ogedai safe to inherit? There was only one way. Genghis reached for the knife and worked it free. He would have to find them and burn them out, wherever they hid. If they moved as his own people did, he would find them. If they had a home, he would destroy it. The conquest of cities would have to wait.

He sent for his generals and they came to his ger before the sunset.

“These are my orders,” Genghis told them. “I will remain with one tuman to protect the families. If they come for me here, I will be ready for them. You will go out in all directions. Find me anything about these assassins and come back. Rich men can hire them, so you will have to break wealthy towns and cities to get at those men. Take no prisoners except the ones who claim to know something. I want the location.”

“News of a bribe will spread as fast as we can ride,” Tsubodai said. “We have cartloads of gold and jade and this could be a use for it. With your permission, lord, I will also promise some great sum to anyone who can tell us where the assassins train. We have enough to tempt even princes.”

Genghis waved a hand, accepting the idea. “Offer to spare cities that bring us the information if you want. I do not care how it is done, just get the information I need. And take the Arabs in the camp with you. I don’t want them anywhere close until we have met and destroyed this threat. Nothing else matters until then. The Shah is dead, Tsubodai. This is the only threat we face.”

Jelaudin felt the crowd surge as if he held their hearts in his hand. He had them hanging on his words and the feeling was as intoxicating as it was new. In his father’s army, he had dealt with men already sworn to obedience. He had never had to recruit them, or persuade them to his cause. To find he had that skill, that he had a genius for it, had surprised him almost as much as his brothers.

He had begun by visiting mosques in the Afghan towns, small places with just a few hundred of the devout. He had spoken to the Imams of those places and relished the horror they showed when he told them of Mongol atrocities. He had learned what worked then, and the tales grew wilder with each telling. He had come away from the very first village with forty strong men of the Pathan tribe. Until he had arrived in their midst, they had not even known the infidels had invaded Arab lands, never mind that they had killed the Shah of Khwarezm. Their righteous anger had surprised Jelaudin at first, until he saw it echoed in every village and town he visited. The numbers of loyal men had grown and more than two thousand sat outside in the dust, waiting for the charismatic leader they had vowed to follow.

“With my own eyes,” he said, “I saw the Mongols destroy a mosque. The holy men raised empty hands to stop them, but they were killed and tossed aside, their bodies left to rot.” The crowd murmured angrily, the largest he had addressed since coming south. Most of them were young men and there were many boys with them, their heads bare of the turbans the older men wore. Jelaudin had found the young were the ones he reached first, though they brought experienced warriors in from the hills to hear him speak. If his father had lived, Jelaudin thought the Shah might have tried the same, but his death was the perfect event to have strong men taking up their swords. He spoke with passion of the foreigners who laughed at the faith and despoiled the holy places. They drank in his words. Jelaudin raised his hands to quiet them and they fell silent, gazing on him with perfect attention. He had them.

“I saw our women and children killed and taken by their warriors, torn from the hands of their husbands. Those who wore veils were stripped and abused in public. In Bukhara, they killed an Imam on the steps of the blue mosque and their young men urinated on the body. I would tear out my eyes for what they have seen, if I did not need them for Allah’s vengeance!”

Many in the crowd surged to their feet, overcome with rage and excitement. They raised their swords and jabbed them into the air, chanting holy words of war. Jelaudin turned to exchange a glance with his brothers and found them already on their feet and roaring with the rest. He blinked at that, hardly expecting them to be so affected by his words. Yet they too drew swords and their eyes were bright with anger. They had seen all that Jelaudin had seen, but still the words, the hot, lifeless air, the need fired their blood. Even Tamar began to chant with the warriors of Islam, intoning the words of the prophet. Jelaudin’s heart swelled as the noise crashed over him. Had his father known of this? He felt as if he were balancing a sword. If it slipped, he would lose everything, but the weight of their belief brought reality to his dreams. Already men were coming to him as word spread throughout the region. He had called for a holy war on the Mongol aggressor, and his words and promises had set the land alight. Imams preached in mosques he had never seen that he was a warrior of God. His task was merely to feed that fire and then send it north.

Jelaudin smiled down at the crowd who had gathered that night, knowing they would leave with him to the next town and the next. He would arrive at Kabul as the spiritual leader of an army, and he thought that city would swell his numbers more than anything he had seen. Perhaps the hand of God truly guided him in this; he did not know. He was a poor vessel for Allah, but how else did God work if not through the hands of men? Perhaps he was the instrument of vengeance. Allah was truly good to give him a second chance.

The Mongol tumans rode hundreds of miles in all directions, an explosion of men and horses that attacked every place where there were people to make afraid. The word of their quest spread almost as fast, and rumors of great treasures for information seemed to have wings. By the tenth day, Jebe found a man who said he knew the mountains where the assassins had their base. Jelme found two more who claimed to be related to a family serving them in their fortress. In each case, the destruction of their cities stopped on the instant and that brought even more to talk to the Mongol generals, desperate to save themselves. Twice Mongol scouts returned from a fruitless ride, with no sign of a city of assassins. The men who had misled them were fools or liars, but they were killed and the tumans moved on.

Chagatai had ridden north with Tsubodai, almost in the track the general had ridden to hunt the Shah. In the foothills of steep mountains, they found a village and burned it to the ground, then moved on to another. There they were met by a group of senior men, pleading for a private audience. Tsubodai arranged it and when he heard what they had to say, one of the men did not return to his home. Instead, he traveled with the Mongol general, riding as fast as possible back to Genghis. By the time they reached the khan, three others were there to claim the gold, each with a different location for the assassins.

Genghis greeted Tsubodai as he rode in, his expression weary. “Another one, Tsubodai?”

The general’s excitement dropped away. “There are more?” he said.

Genghis nodded. “Either they are thieves who believe I will give carts of gold for lies, or the assassins have whispered different locations in a dozen places. If they are as ancient as your Yusuf claims, I think it is the last.”

“I have one man who claims to know, lord. I do not think he is a fool or a thief like the rest.”

Genghis raised his eyebrows, knowing Tsubodai’s judgment was sound.

“Bring him to my ger when he has been searched for weapons,” he replied.

Tsubodai brought Yusuf to interpret, still dusty from the long ride back to the camp. The village elder was painfully nervous as he faced the khan. Sweat poured off him and he smelled strongly of excrement and garlic in that small space. Genghis breathed shallowly as he came close.

“Well? You told my general you knew something,” he snapped, already tired of the men who had come with gold in their eyes. He waited impatiently as Yusuf turned his words into gibberish and the stranger nodded, already terrified. Three dead men lay in a shallow pit outside. Genghis had made sure this one saw their upturned faces as he passed into the khan’s ger. It explained the sour smell that hung around him like a mist.

“My sister lives in a village in the mountains, master, perhaps two days north from where I found your men.” He swallowed nervously as Yusuf interpreted, and Genghis tossed him a skin of airag to clear his throat. The man drank and choked, having thought it was water. Red in the face, he had to be thumped on his back before he could continue.

“I am sorry, master. Strong spirits are forbidden to me,” he gasped. Yusuf grinned as he relayed the words.

“Tell him that is not a strong spirit,” Genghis growled. “And tell him to speak before I have him thrown in the pit and covered over while he still breathes.”

By the time Yusuf finished speaking, the little man was pale and already babbling.

“My sister says that men live in the mountains and take food and servants from the village. They answer to no man, master, but she said they sometimes carry quarry stones on carts up into the high peaks.”

As Genghis listened to Yusuf, he grew more irritable.

“Ask him if that is all he knows. It is not enough.”

The Arab paled still further and shook his head. “She told me two young men of the village followed the carts once, three, perhaps four years ago. They did not come back, master. They were found dead when their families went to search for them, each with his throat cut.”

Genghis stared as he heard the last part of the translation. It was not confirmation, but it was the most promising of all the wild tales that had come in.

“It is possible, Tsubodai. You were right to bring him to me. Give him a cart of gold with two oxen to pull it.” He thought for a moment. “You and I are going north, Tsubodai. He will accompany us as far as this village of his sister. If we find what we need, he can take the gold. If not, his life is forfeit.”

The little man listened to Yusuf and fell to his knees in relief.

“Thank you, master,” he called as Genghis left the ger.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

GENGHIS FORCED HIMSELF to be patient as he prepared to fight an enemy unlike any other he had faced. He moved the families back to the shelter around Samarkand, leaving Jelme and Kachiun with them for protection. Jelme came to thank him personally for the posting, which left Genghis blinking in surprise, quickly masked. It had not occurred to him that the general would prefer to spend time with his father in the city rather than hunting the assassins who threatened them.

For that task, he took his own tuman, as well as Tsubodai’s. The best part of twenty thousand men were still a force that awed him when he remembered his first raiding bands of a few dozen. With them, he could bring mountains down if he had to. Even so many could cross sixty to eighty miles a day if they traveled light, but Genghis had no idea what lay ahead of them. The artisans of Samarkand were there to be used and he had them construct siege equipment and new carts, piling on just about anything he thought they might need and tying it down with canvas and rope. The khan was a whirlwind of energy as he planned for the attack, and none of his men were left in doubt as to how seriously he took the threat. Of all men in the tribes, Genghis understood the danger of assassins, and he looked forward to the assault to come.

The new carts had the stronger spoked wheels Tsubodai had brought back from Russia, but they groaned and creaked as the two tumans moved off at last. Even after a month of preparation, Jochi had not returned to the camp. It was possible he still sought out information on the assassins, but events had moved on. Genghis sent two warriors riding east after him, then two more after Khasar, freeing their hands. The region was still fat with wealthy cities, and while he sought out the assassins, Genghis knew Khasar and Jochi would enjoy taking them at their leisure.

Chagatai had asked to assist his father in the search for the mountain stronghold, but Genghis had refused him. Nothing he knew of the assassins spoke of large numbers. Their strength lay in secrecy, and once that was broken, Genghis expected to dig them out like sticking a knife into a crack. Chagatai was still under a cloud with his father, and Genghis could hardly look at him without feeling anger and dashed hopes surface. He had not made the decision to raise Ogedai lightly. Thoughts of his legacy had been troubling the khan for many months, but he had planned for Chagatai to inherit for far longer. It was not that he regretted it, at all. The decision was made. Genghis knew his own temper well, however. He knew that if Chagatai showed the slightest resentment, there was a chance he would kill him.

Instead, Genghis sent him south with Jebe to raze the land in his name. All his generals were warned not to let Arabs too close to them, even those they knew and trusted as interpreters. Genghis left all but a few of his behind the walls of Samarkand, forbidding them from going anywhere near the camp. Arslan would be merciless to any who disobeyed the order, and Genghis felt he had secured his people in all ways as he rode north.

With the laden carts, they made barely thirty miles a day, starting at dawn and riding at walking pace for all the hours of daylight. They left behind the green fields around Samarkand, taking the carts across a shallow fording point of the northern river before crossing into lands of dust and scrub grass, hills and valleys.

By the fourth day, Genghis was chafing at the pace. He rode up and down the lines of carts, urging the drivers to make their best speed. What had seemed good sense and restraint in Samarkand now ate at his confidence. The assassins surely knew he was coming. He worried that they would simply abandon their position in the mountains and leave it empty for him to find.

Tsubodai shared the opinion, though he said nothing, knowing that a good general does not criticize a khan, even to those he trusts. Yet Tsubodai was convinced Genghis had handled it badly. The only thing that might work was a massive strike, surprising the assassins where they were strongest before they even knew enemies were in the area. This slow-moving caravan of carts was almost exactly the opposite of what Tsubodai wanted. Riding with barely more than blood dust and mare’s milk, he and his men had raced from the mountains to Genghis in twelve days. Now, as the moon waxed and waned for almost a full turn, Tsubodai eyed it with more and more misgiving. He was already planning what to do if the assassins had vanished as they came to the village Tsubodai had sacked. This time Genghis did not stop, though ash-marked figures ducked and scrabbled in the wreckage, searching for anything they might salvage. The Mongol tumans rode past without a thought for those who hid from them.

The mountains could be seen for days before they reached the foothills. In response to his own nervous energy, Tsubodai gained Genghis’s permission to ride out with the scouts, searching for new information. He found the second village when the carts were still forty miles and more than a day’s ride behind him. It was there that Tsubodai had met the village council and the man he had brought to Genghis.

No one lived there any longer. Tsubodai’s heart sank as he walked his horse through the gutted shells of homes. It was not the work of his men, and in this dead place, there were not even urchins to sift the ruins for food or coins. If Tsubodai had needed any final confirmation of the assassins’ presence, he found it in the bodies that lay everywhere, gashed and burned where they had fallen. Only flies, birds, and wild dogs lived in the village, and the buzz and flutter of wings sounded all around him, rising in choking clouds as his horse walked through.

Genghis came up when Tsubodai’s riders told him the news. He kept the cold face as he rode through to his general, jerking sharply only once when a fly landed on his lips.

“This is a warning,” Tsubodai said.

Genghis shrugged. “A warning or a punishment. Someone saw you talking to the merchant.” He chuckled at the thought of the man’s oblivious approach with a cart full of gold. His sudden wealth would be worth nothing in that place.

“We could find the same in this village further into hills that he spoke of, his sister’s home.”

Genghis nodded. He did not care particularly that villages had been destroyed. If the burned houses were meant as a warning, there were few men in the world that could have taken it as lightly as he did. He had seen much worse in his years as khan.

That thought reminded Genghis of something his mother used to say when he was a boy and he smiled.

“I was born with a clot of blood in my right hand, Tsubodai. I have always walked with death. If they know me at all, they know that. This destruction is not a warning for me, but for anyone else who might consider dealing with me.” He frowned to himself then and drummed his fingers on his saddle. “It is the sort of thing I might do if I were leaving the area.”

Tsubodai nodded, knowing the khan did not need to hear his agreement.

“Still, we must push on to see where they hid themselves,” Genghis said, his mood souring, “even if they have abandoned it.”

Tsubodai merely bowed his head and whistled for the scouts to ride with him into the mountains. The sister’s village was a day’s trek for a fast-moving warrior, perhaps three for the carts. The trails needed to be checked at all points for ambushes, and Tsubodai had to resist the urge to race ahead and see if the assassins had left anyone behind. The mountains were steep beyond that point, with only a narrow path leading the scouts through to the deep valleys and peaks. It was a hard land to assault and worryingly easy to defend. Even sound was muffled in such a place, swallowed by the steep slopes on either side, so that a horse’s hooves could be heard as echoes, while the rest of the world receded. Tsubodai rode warily, his hand always near his bow and sword.

Jochi halted his tuman when he heard a warning note from his scout horns. He had ridden hard for more than a month, covering a vast distance into the east, so far that he was convinced the plains of his home lay a thousand miles north. Beyond them the world was endless, unmapped even by Tsubodai.

Jochi had known his father would send men after him eventually. Part of him had considered turning north before this point, though it would hardly have mattered. All the scouts could track a single rider, never mind the seven thousand who formed his tuman. The trail they left could have been followed by a blind man. If rains had come, their hoofprints would have been washed away, but to Jochi’s frustration, the sky had stayed cold and blue all the way, with barely a wisp of clouds.

His warriors allowed their ponies to crop the dry grass at their feet as they waited for new orders. Until they came, they were content and relaxed, giving no more thought to the future than a pack of wild dogs. Jochi did not know if they guessed at his internal struggle. At times, he thought they must know. Their eyes seemed aware, but he knew that was probably an illusion. As the khan’s scouts came closer, Jochi summoned his officers, from those who commanded a thousand down to those who led just ten. They had all stood in the palace at Samarkand and taken an oath to honor Ogedai as khan, the words still fresh in their minds. He did not know what they would do.

More than seven hundred came at his order, walking their mounts apart from those they led. Each had been promoted by Jochi himself, given honor with the trust of other lives in their hands. He felt their questioning gazes on him as he waited for his father’s scouts. His hands shook slightly and he stilled them with a tight grip on his reins.

The scouts were two young men from Genghis’s own tuman. They wore light deels, made dark and greasy by sweat and constant use. They rode in together and dismounted to bow to Genghis’s general. Jochi sat his horse in stillness, a great calm sweeping over him. He had believed he was prepared for this, but he had not been. Now the moment was finally upon him, he felt his stomach churn.

“Deliver your message,” Jochi said, looking at the closest man. The scout bowed again, still relaxed and easy after a long ride.

“The Great Khan has moved against the assassins, General. He has good information as to where they have their stronghold. You are free once more to subdue the cities and widen the lands under his control.”

“You have ridden far today,” Jochi said. “You are welcome in my camp and you must stay to eat and rest.”

The scouts exchanged a quick glance before the first one replied.

“My lord, we are not tired. We can ride again.”

“I will not hear of it,” Jochi snapped. “Stay. Eat. I will speak to you again at sunset.”

It was a clear order and the scouts could only obey. Both men dipped their heads before remounting and trotting to the bulk of the tuman, away from the gathering of officers. Rough cooking fires were already alight there and they were made welcome by those who cared for the freshest news.

Jochi raised his hand for his officers to follow him, angling his mount down a hill away from his warriors. A river ran along the bottom of it, shaded in old and twisted trees that overhung the water. Jochi dismounted at the bottom and let his horse drink before reaching down and taking mouthfuls of the water in his cupped hands.

“Sit with me,” he said softly. His men did not understand, but they tied their horses to the trees and gathered around him on the dusty ground until half the slope was filled with them. The rest of the tuman could be seen in the distance, too far to hear his words. Jochi swallowed nervously, his throat dry despite the water he had drunk. He knew the name of each of the senior men in that glade by the river. They had ridden with him against the Arab horses, the Shah’s army, cities and garrisons all. They had come to his aid when he was lost and alone amidst his brother’s warriors. They were bound to him with more than oaths, but he did not know if it would be enough. He took a deep breath.

“I am not going back,” he said. To a man, the officers became still, some of them freezing in the act of chewing on meat or reaching for a skin of airag from their saddlebags.

For Jochi, saying the words was like a dam breaking. He sucked air in again as if he had been running. He could feel his heart pounding and his throat was tight.

“This is not a new decision. I have thought this day might come for years, ever since I fought the tiger and we began our journey to these lands. I have been loyal to my father, the khan, in every action. I have given him my life’s blood and those of the men who followed me. I have given him enough.”

He looked around at the silent faces of his officers, judging how they received his words.

“I will turn north after this. I have no desire to cross into the southern Chin lands, or go anywhere near Xi Xia in the east. I will see home again and be refreshed in streams that have given us life for ten thousand years. Then I will ride so far and fast that even my father’s hunting dogs will never find me. There are hundreds of lands still unknown to us. I saw some of them with General Tsubodai. I know him well and even he will not be able to find me. I will ride until the end of the world and make a home there, a kingdom of my own. There will be no tracks where I go. By the time my father even knows I am not returning, I will be lost to him.”

He could see the whites of the eyes in many of his men as they listened, stunned.

“I will not order you to stay with me,” he said. “I cannot. I have no family in the gers, while many of you have wives and children you would not see again. I make no demands on you, who are bound by oath to my father and Ogedai. You will be oath-breakers if you ride at my side, and there will be no return to the nation, no truce with my father. He will send hunters and they will search for many years for us. He will not show mercy. I am his son and I know this better than anyone.”

As he spoke, his fingers ruffled the stiff hair of the tiger skin at his pommel, feeling the rough edge where Genghis had hacked the head away. He saw one of his Chin minghaan officers rising slowly to his feet, and Jochi paused to hear him.

“My lord… general,” the man said, his voice breaking under immense strain. “Why do you consider this thing?”

Jochi smiled, though bitterness flooded through him. “Because I am my father’s son, Sen Tu. He made his tribe by drawing in all those around him. Shall I do less? Should I follow Ogedai too until I am old and my life is just regrets? I say to you now, it isn’t in me. My little brother will be khan to the nation. He will not search for me when the time comes. Until then, I will find my wives and sons and daughters in a place where they have not heard the name of Genghis.”

He swept his gaze across the gathering of men on the riverbank. They met his eyes without flinching, though some of them sat as if they had been struck.

“I will be my own man, perhaps for just a few years until I am run down and killed. Who can say how this will end? Yet for a time, I will be able to say that I am free. That is why I stand in this place.”

The Chin officer sat down slowly and thoughtfully. Jochi waited. His officers had adopted the cold face to a man, hiding their thoughts from those around him. There would be no rabble-rousing by the river. Each would make the decision alone, as he had.

Sen Tu spoke up again, suddenly. “You will have to kill the scouts, General.”

Jochi nodded. Those two young men had put their heads into the mouth of the wolf, though they did not know it. They could not be allowed to return to Genghis to betray his position, even if he turned north as they left. Jochi had considered sending them back with some false story for his father, but killing them was safer by far than playing games and hoping to mislead men like Tsubodai. He did not underestimate that man’s fierce intelligence, nor his father’s. If the scouts simply vanished, they would wait months before sending others. By then he would have gone.

Sen Tu was deep in thought and Jochi watched him closely, sensing like the men around him that the Chin officer would speak for many of them. Sen Tu had seen upheaval in his life, from the appearance of the khan in his Chin homeland, to the Arab nations and this peaceful spot by the river. He had stood in the front rank against the Shah’s best horsemen, and still Jochi did not know what he would say.

“I have a wife in the gers, lord, and two boys,” Sen Tu said, raising his head. “Will they be safe if I do not come back?”

Jochi wanted to lie, to say that Genghis would not touch women and children. He struggled for just an instant, then relaxed. He owed the man the truth.

“I don’t know. Let us not fool ourselves. My father is a vengeful man. He may spare them, or not, as he chooses.”

Sen Tu nodded. He had seen this young general tormented by his own people for years. Sen Tu respected the Great Khan, but he loved Jochi as a son. He had given his life to the young man who now stood so vulnerably before him, expecting yet another rejection. Sen Tu closed his eyes for a moment, praying to the Buddha that his children would live and one day know a man to follow, as he had done.

“I am with you, General, wherever you go,” Sen Tu said. Though he spoke quietly, the words carried to those around him.

Jochi swallowed hard. “You are welcome, my friend. I did not want to ride alone.”

Another minghaan officer spoke then. “You will not be alone, General. I will be there.”

Jochi nodded, his eyes stinging. His father had known this joy, this vow to follow one man, even if it meant death and destruction of everything else they loved. It was worth more than gold, more than cities. A ripple spread through his officers as they shouted out to him, calling their names and joining him one by one. For each it was a personal choice, but he had them all and always had. When there were enough, they gave out a raucous cheer, a battle shout that seemed to rock the ground on which he stood.

“When the scouts are dead, I will put it to the men,” he said.

“General,” Sen Tu said suddenly, “if some of them choose not to come, if they decide to ride back to the khan, they will betray us.”

Jochi looked into the man’s dark eyes. He had considered his plans for a long time. Part of him knew he should have such men killed. It was less dangerous to let the scouts live than have his own men return to Genghis. If he let them live, his own chances of survival vanished to almost nothing. His knew his father would have made the decision in a heartbeat, but Jochi was torn. He felt the eyes of all his officers on him, waiting to see what he would order.

“I will not stop them, Sen Tu,” he said. “If any man wants to return to his family, I will let him leave.”

Sen Tu winced. “Let us see what happens, lord. If it is just a few, I can have men waiting with bows to make an end of them.”

Jochi smiled at the Chin officer’s unrelenting loyalty. His heart was full as he looked over the crowd gathered on the riverbank.

“I will kill the scouts,” he said, “and then we will see.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

THE VILLAGE IN THE MOUNTAINS WAS UNTOUCHED. For three days, Tsubodai had ridden with Genghis and the tumans, at times following a narrow track that was barely three horses wide. The Mongols could not see how a village could even survive in such a place, though before noon on the third day, they had reached a heavily laden cart drawn by a mule. With a sheer drop on one side, the tumans could not pass in safety, so Jebe forced the owner to cut the mule free before his men heaved the cart over the edge. Tsubodai watched it fall with interest until it shattered on the rocks below, spilling grain and bolts of cloth over a wide area.

The terrified owner did not dare protest and Tsubodai tossed him a pouch of gold for his stoicism, which then broke as the man realized he had more wealth than he had ever seen before.

The village itself had been built from the stones of the mountains, the houses and single street made of cut blocks the color of the hills, so that they blended in like natural growths. Behind the small collection of buildings, a thin trail of water fell from dizzying heights above, making the air a mist. Chickens scratched in the dust and people stared in horror at the approaching Mongols before dipping their heads and hurrying away.

Tsubodai watched all this with interest, though he could not escape a sense of unease. Warriors and carts stretched back along the mountain trail for many miles, and if there was to be a battle, only those in front would be able to fight. The land forced the general to break every rule he had devised for warfare over the years, and he could not relax as he rode along the street with Genghis.

Tsubodai sent a scout back to bring the man who had a sister in the village. With him went a dozen warriors to carry the gold and tip the cart off the cliff. If he had not, it would have blocked all the men behind and cut the army in half. As it was, Tsubodai could not see how to bring up the supplies from the rear. Without a staging area, the string of carts had to remain behind the warriors. Tsubodai struggled with the positions and terrain, hating the way the mountains held his men in a single, vulnerable line.

When the merchant arrived, he was almost in tears to see the village intact, having feared its destruction for days of travel. He found his sister’s house quickly and tried to calm her terror of the Mongols strolling outside. She watched openmouthed as warriors dumped bags of gold coins on her step, but the sight did not calm her. Instead, she paled further and further as the pile grew. As the warriors stood back, she slapped her brother hard across the face and tried to bar the door to him.

“You have killed me, you fool!” she screeched as he struggled with her in the doorway. He fell back a step, astonished at her rage, and as he did so, the door slammed shut and all the men could hear her weeping inside.

“That was touching,” Genghis murmured to Tsubodai.

Tsubodai did not smile. The village was surrounded by rocky heights and he was certain they were being watched. The crying woman had certainly thought so. Tsubodai had seen her eyes dart up to the surrounding peaks for an instant before she closed the door in her brother’s face. Tsubodai raised his head and scanned every high point, but nothing moved.

“I don’t like this place,” Tsubodai said. “This village exists to serve the assassins, I’m certain of it. Why else would it be so far from anywhere else in the mountains? How do they even pay for supplies brought by cart?” At the thought, he eased his horse nearer to Genghis, feeling the narrow street close in on him. A single lucky arrow could end it all, if the villagers were foolish or desperate enough.

“I do not think we should stop here, my lord khan,” he said. “There are two paths further into the mountains and only one back. Let me send scouts along them both and find the way in.”

Genghis nodded, and at that moment, a bell rang, the sound muffled but echoing. The Mongols had bows and swords drawn before the notes died away, jerking in shock as the street doors thumped open and armed men and women rushed out.

In just heartbeats, the village went from being silent and deserted to a bloody attack. Tsubodai’s horse kicked out at a woman behind him, knocking her flying. They were converging on Genghis, he saw, swinging his sword in a great arc to take a screaming young man across the neck.

To Tsubodai’s surprise, the villagers were determined and desperate. His men were experienced in dealing with rioting crowds, but the violence could not be quelled with the shock of sudden bloodletting. He saw one of his warriors dragged off his horse by a man with an arrow in his chest, dying as he yanked with failing strength. Some of them screamed all the time they fought, the noise almost painful as it came from a hundred different throats and echoed back from the hills all around. Yet they were not warriors. Tsubodai took a blow from a long knife on his forearm bracer, turning the block into a short punch that cracked into his attacker’s jaw. The villagers had no defense against armored men and only their ferocity made them hard to stop. Tsubodai fought with manic concentration, risking his own life to protect Genghis. They were alone for just moments as more of the khan’s tuman struggled to reach him and face outward with their swords and bows. Arrows hissed through the throats of anyone who moved after that, and the iron circle fought its way through them, moving with Genghis at the center.

The sun had not moved above the hills by the time the streets were covered in the dead. The merchant’s sister lay among them, one of the first to be cut down. Her brother had survived and he knelt by her gashed body, weeping openly. When one of the warriors dismounted to pull her clothing aside, the man struggled briefly in tearful rage before he was cuffed onto his back. Tsubodai’s men found no one with the mark of serenity at their throats.

Tsubodai leaned over his saddle, panting with exertion and relief at having survived. He truly hated the enclosure of hills, and the feeling of eyes on him was even stronger than before.

“If they are not assassins, why would they attack us so wildly?” he demanded of one of his minghaan officers. The man could not reply to such a question, so he merely bowed his head and looked away.

Genghis trotted his pony to Tsubodai as the general stared around him, still shocked by what had happened.

“I imagine they were ordered to get in our way,” Genghis said lightly. He was maddeningly calm and not even breathing heavily. “Against thieves or a raiding band, they would have done very well. It would take a determined army to get through this village to the stronghold of our enemies.” He grinned. “Fortunately, I have such an army. Send out your scouts, Tsubodai. Find me the way through.”

Under the yellow gaze of his khan, Tsubodai gathered himself quickly and sent two arbans of ten men racing deeper into the mountains. Both routes turned sharply after only a short distance, so that the warriors quickly vanished from view. He ordered others to search every house, making certain there were no more surprises hidden in them.

“I hope this means the assassins have not abandoned their home,” he said.

Genghis brightened still further at the thought.

By sunset, Tsubodai’s men had piled the dead at one edge of the village, by the icy waterfall. There was a pool there, before the water found its way further down the cliffs. Tsubodai organized the watering of the horses, a task which was maddeningly slow and laborious, but vital. For those too far back to come in, he used buckets from the village and had his warriors walk miles to them. Many would be forced to sleep on the narrow trail, just a few feet from a drop to their death. There was no grumbling from them, at least that reached the ears of the general. They accepted their lot as they had always done.

Only one group of Tsubodai’s scouts came back as the hills were lit with gold and the sun sank. The other had vanished and Tsubodai nodded to Genghis as the road remained empty. A single scout might have fallen or broken a leg. For ten young warriors to disappear in the mountains, another force had to exist, ruthless and patient. The Mongols had found the path to the assassins, and they slept where they stood, half frozen and with just a few mouthfuls of dried meat and water to keep them alive as they waited for dawn.

Tsubodai was up before first light, in part to be certain he could put a rank of men onto the narrow path before Genghis tried to lead them. The general was convinced the first ones in would die, and he chose well-armored archers from his own tuman, giving them the best chance he could. He did not want Genghis to risk himself against an unseen enemy in such a place. The rock walls that lined the path were too easy to defend. As Tsubodai stared into the lightening gloom, he guessed they would face stones and arrows at the very least. He hoped the assassins did not have stocks of fire oil, but he was not confident. There was no point regretting past decisions, but the assassins had been given a long time to prepare the way. If they had chosen to fight, it would be a hard path to walk and many of his men would not return from the mountains.

The sun could not be seen for much of the morning in that place of peaks and stone, so that Tsubodai wondered at the half-lit existence of the villagers. Even in high summer, their homes would have been cold for most of the day. Only when the sun was overhead would light and warmth reach the street below. By then he did not doubt that the villagers were all servants of the ones he had come to root out from their stronghold. Nothing else explained why they would choose such a life.

Tsubodai rode in the second rank and looked back only once as the army began to move, a vast slow tail that stretched back almost to the first village he had found destroyed. Some of them still had no idea what had happened the day before, but they followed in his steps and wound their way further into the hostile terrain.

The path narrowed still further as he left the village behind, forcing his men to ride two across. It was almost a crack in the mountain, the air cold from constant gloom and shadows. Tsubodai kept his weapons ready, straining his eyes ahead for some sign of the arban he had sent. Only hoofprints remained and Tsubodai’s men followed them slowly, wary of an ambush but still going on.

The sense of enclosure became stifling as the slope began to rise. To Tsubodai’s discomfort, the trail narrowed again, so that only one man at a time could squeeze his horse through. Still the hoofprints led them. Tsubodai had never felt so helpless in his life, and he had to struggle with swelling panic. If they were attacked, the first ones killed would block the path of those behind, leaving them easy targets. He did not think he could even turn his mount in such a narrow pass and winced every time his legs brushed the mossy rock on either side.

Tsubodai jerked his head up as one of his men gave a low whistle and the horses came to a sudden stop. He cursed under his breath as he realized he could not even ride to the front to see what they had found. The finest army in the world had been reduced to a single line of nervous men. No wonder the assassins had not abandoned their fortress. Tsubodai squinted upwards at the strip of bright sky above his head. All it would take was a few men with stones up there and the mountains would become a tomb for all their hopes and ambitions. He took a sharp breath when a pebble dropped from somewhere above, but nothing followed it.

One of his men came back on foot, ducking under the legs of the horses and making them shy nervously. They too felt hemmed in by the rock on all sides, and Tsubodai was worried one of them might panic. In such a small space, it would be chaos.

“There’s a wall built across the path ahead, General,” the warrior said. “It has a gate, but it’s made of iron. If you have hammers sent up, we can knock out the hinges, but it won’t be quick.”

Tsubodai nodded, though the thought of sending orders back along a line of stationary horses would have been farcical if it hadn’t been for the constant threat of an attack. Despite himself, he glanced up again with a wince.

“You’ll have to go yourself. Have the hammers brought from man to man and have an officer break out the mantlets from the closest cart that has them.” The portable wooden barricades would be useful, at least. Genghis had insisted on having dozens of the things made in Samarkand to protect his archers, a decision that was only now bearing fruit.

Tsubodai waited impatiently as the runner clambered back along the line. The carts of siege supplies were far behind, and time passed slowly as the men talked amongst themselves and waited. Only Genghis seemed cheerful, as Tsubodai looked back at him. The khan was sharpening his sword with a whetstone from his saddlebags, raising the blade at intervals to inspect the edge. He caught Tsubodai staring and chuckled, the sound echoing as he continued with the task.

In the stillness, some instinct made Tsubodai look up for a third time. He saw the strip of blue sky speckled in dark objects. His jaw dropped and he shouted to those around him to duck, raising his armored forearms above his own head just before the first stone hit him.

The stones fell in waves, causing the Mongols to grunt and snarl in pain. Those who had shields heaved them up, but they were only a few. Their horses suffered the barrage without helmets or armor, bucking and kicking in fear and pain. More than a few were stunned, slumping and scrabbling as their legs gave way. Tsubodai clenched his fists over his head as he saw some of them would not rise again, their skulls broken. He saw men with their arms hanging loose, the bones broken despite the armor, and still the stones fell into the confined space. The one thing Tsubodai could be thankful for was that the stones were small. Rocks capable of snapping a man’s spine either wedged in the pass above their heads or bounced and shattered into smaller pieces. Even as he took note of that, one of the large stones survived the fall and struck the forehead of a horse only feet away from him, killing the animal instantly. A memory came back to the general of the first fort he had taken with Genghis. Men had stood above him then in a killing hole, driving shafts almost straight down. They had been saved by wooden barriers, held above their heads. Tsubodai felt his heart thump painfully as he realized he had forgotten about the carts behind him. They could not be drawn into the narrowing path, and he had a vision of the whole army being blocked, unable to reverse as the sides of rock closed on them. His men reeled under the barrage of stones, crying out in pain and frustration.

“Where are those mantlets!” Tsubodai roared. “We need mantlets here!” His voice carried far down the lines, snapping back and forth from the walls. As the trail turned, he saw men gesture urgently to those behind them, passing on his order. How far back were the carts? He waited, wincing at the crack of stones as he crouched over his saddle with his arms protecting his head.

He thought he had been listening to screams and his own breath forever when he heard a shout. Tsubodai risked looking out over his shoulder. Stones still rattled off his armor, rocking him. Even the small ones hurt. He breathed in relief to see the heavy wooden shields being passed from rider to rider overhead. They could not come fast enough.

The trail of wooden barriers halted as those under the falling stones held on to them instead of passing them down the line. Tsubodai shouted furious orders at them. More were coming, he could see. Already the stones could be heard thumping off the wood, hard enough to hurt the ears. Tsubodai grabbed the first mantlet to reach him, seeing that Genghis was already safe. He did not think the khan would be giving his up, and it took a wrench of will to pass his on to those ahead. They could move them only by tilting them up. When the mantlets were turned like shells to protect the men, they often wedged in the walls and hardly needed holding.

Bareheaded once more, Tsubodai looked to Genghis and saw the khan had lost his calm. Genghis grimaced as he saw his general unprotected and then shrugged as if it were nothing. He heaved his mantlet off where it had stuck and reached back for another. Tsubodai saw stones falling around the khan. One rocked his head back when it struck Genghis’s helmet, but another mantlet was dragged forward and the general breathed in relief to see him secure once more.

The rain of stones dwindled and then stopped, leaving battered and dying men beneath the heavy boards. Without armor, they would have been destroyed. Whether the assassins had seen the wooden barriers or simply run out of missiles, Tsubodai did not know. He did know he would move sky and earth to pay them back for the agony of being helpless.

Hammers came forward under the shell of mantlets, handed from man to man until heavy blows began to ring out from somewhere ahead. Maddeningly, Tsubodai could not see the front ranks. The wall they tried to break was twelve horse lengths in front of him, and he could only wait and sweat.

Tsubodai thought he could have the dead horses butchered and sent back in pieces along the line. He dismissed the idea as quickly as it had struck him. They needed to get out of the chimney of rock, and gutting horses would take too long, even if they had room to swing the axes.

Instead, Tsubodai saw the mantlets could be used to cover dead men and horses, allowing the rest to walk over them. It would be grisly business, but without a way forward, it didn’t matter if the iron gate could be battered out or not.

The echoing crash of the gate falling could be heard far back along the line, bringing a ragged cheer from the warriors. Tsubodai saw the men ahead lunge forward and then cry out as they were struck by something unseen. Tsubodai squinted, but there was little light in that place and the mantlets reduced it almost to nothing in their shadow. Just ahead of him lay the horse he had seen struck. Its rider had been pinned against the wall as the animal slumped. Blood had come from his nose and he was pale and still. Tsubodai did not know if he lived, but he gave orders without hesitation.

He passed his own mantlet forward to cover the battered pair. With Tsubodai urging him on, the closest warrior dug in his heels, forcing his mount up and onto the unstable platform.

It lurched under the weight and the terrified pony resisted, but Tsubodai and the rider yelled at it. The warrior belted its flanks with his sword scabbard until the animal lurched over, whinnying in distress. Tsubodai grimaced and followed, trying not to hear the sound of breaking bones under his weight. He told himself the man beneath was surely dead.

Tsubodai’s horse almost bolted free at the sight of an empty path ahead. He reined in desperately, knowing that whatever had silenced his men was still waiting. Only one warrior rode ahead of him and that man raced forward madly, calling a war cry and brandishing his sword.

Tsubodai passed through the rubble of the gate and sunlight struck his eyes, almost blinding him. Beyond, he caught a glimpse of a wide spot in the path. His horse was running for it, desperate to get away from the fear and stench of blood in the pass. Tsubodai yanked the reins savagely, turning his mount left as arrows whirred past him. The other warrior had ridden straight in and arrows appeared in his chest. Tsubodai saw him stagger, but his armor held and he had time to kill a bowman before another shaft took him under the chin at close range.

The general gasped for breath, blinking as more warriors clattered out of the pass to join him. Those who had broken arms and collarbones were unable to use their weapons, but they ran into the arrows to clear the pass behind them.

The archers facing them were dressed in white robes, pulled open by the action of drawing their bows. Tsubodai could see they wore the mark of serenity, and fury swept over him. He kicked his mount at the massed lines of men. There was nowhere to run or maneuver. His warriors would either break the line or die in twos and threes as they came out.

It helped that the horses ran mad with terror. The Mongol warriors hardly tried to stop them as they charged. Tsubodai’s horse went straight at an archer fumbling another arrow onto the string. The shot went buzzing past the general and he swung his sword as he plunged past, his horse kicking the next man down. Tsubodai showed his teeth in cruel pleasure as his warriors began to cut further into the lines. Each man’s chest bristled with arrows, but the armor was good and the archers poor. The assassins were not warriors, for all the fear they created. They had not trained every day from the moment they could walk. They could not crush fear and pain to make one last cut into an enemy. The warriors of the khan could and did.

The pass ahead was wide enough for five horses to gallop abreast. Perhaps a hundred bowmen stood on tiers of rock, cut almost like steps. They could not hold the flood coming out at them. Volleys might have broken the first ranks, but Tsubodai saw every man shot alone. He swung his blade at another, cutting a great gash in the man’s side as he whipped past. His horse was foundering, with two arrows deep in its chest. Only its panic kept it running, but Tsubodai was ready when the strength in the animal vanished and it fell hard. He leapt lightly down, staggering almost into the arms of an Arab. Tsubodai spun in a frenzy, so that his sword came round at neck height. The man died and the next he faced was caught helpless between shots. Tsubodai took two sharp strides and plunged his sword into the bare chest, right at the level of the serenity tattoo. A warrior who had come through still mounted kicked out as Tsubodai braced to block a third, sending his intended victim tumbling backwards. Tsubodai looked up in thanks and saw it was Genghis, bloody and jubilant.

Against unarmored men, Tsubodai thought the archers would have stolen victory even from a large number. The chimney of rock was the best defense he had ever seen, and he understood why the assassins had stayed there to fight. No doubt they thought they could hold against anyone. Tsubodai wiped his mouth, where he tasted something foul and sticky. His hand came away red and he spat on the ground.

Around him, the last of the archers were being cut down, and the Mongol riders let out a bellow of victory, releasing all the fear and anger they had not shown before. Tsubodai did not join them. His body was aching from a hundred impacts, and he sat down on the stone steps, using his foot to shove away a body and make a space. He found himself panting hard for air, as if his lungs could not fill properly. The sun was high above their heads, not yet even at noon, and Tsubodai laughed weakly at the sight. He felt like he had been trapped in that dark place for years and every breath was a struggle to find calm.

He looked further up the path, past the warriors and the dead. He had seen the fortress standing over them all the time they had fought, but only now did it enter his thoughts.

The assassins had made their stronghold from the mountain stones, building it right across the pass so that there was no way around. The cliffs on either side were too smooth to climb, and Tsubodai sighed as he studied the single great gate that blocked him still.

“Hammers here!” he shouted. “Hammers and mantlets.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

THE CATAPULTS GENGHIS HAD BROUGHT FROM SAMARKAND could not be dragged through the narrow pass, even in pieces. Instead, the work fell to men wielding hammers and wall hooks. The door into the fortress was made of bronze and brass, set well back into stone columns. Progress was incredibly slow and the work was exhausting. Tsubodai organized the hammer teams, with other men to bring up the mantlets so they could work under their protection. By the end of the first day, the columns on both sides of the door were chipped and battered, with great gouges from where iron bars had been struck with hammers. It still held. Above their heads, arrows came at intervals, but the best archers in the nation were standing ready for them, sending shafts up before the assassins could even aim. Even then there were not many defenders and Tsubodai wondered if the main force of the assassins already lay dead on the bloody steps to the fortress. The assassins worked best in darkness and with stealth. They did not have the numbers to stand against a determined army, as Genghis had said. All their strength lay in their home never being discovered.

It was a tedious business arranging supplies through the crack in the mountain, but Tsubodai organized torches and food as he relieved his men and fresh warriors took up the task of smashing in the door columns. The archers on the walls had an easier task during the night. They could see the Mongols working, though the mantlets were still held over their heads. Those warriors who passed close to the torchlight risked a sudden arrow humming down at them. As dawn came, seven of Tsubodai’s men had been struck and one holding an iron bar had slipped and had his wrist broken with a hammer. Only three died. The others were dragged back beneath the steps, where they nursed and bound their wounds, waiting for daylight.

As the door held through the morning, Genghis gave orders to level the village of stone behind him. His minghaan officers went back with instructions to knock the stone houses apart and drop them down the cliffs so that more men could use the open space as a staging ground. Almost twenty thousand men waited impotently, unable to reach an enemy, while just a few sweated at the wall. Tsubodai seemed confident his men would break in, but as the second day wore on, Genghis had to force the cold face to conceal his impatience.

The Old Man of the Mountains stared down at the armored soldiers working in the sunlight. He could hardly contain the fury that swept over him. Over the course of his life, he had been honored by princes and shahs, from the Punjab in India to the Caspian Sea. He demanded respect, even deference, from the few men who knew who he was, without regard for their wealth and blood. His fortress had never been attacked since his ancestor first found the crack in the mountains and formed the clan that would become the most feared force in Arab lands.

The Old Man gripped the stone sill of an open window as he stared out at the ants working to get to him. He cursed the Shah of Khwarezm, who had tried to buy the death of this khan, as well as his own fate for taking the man’s note. He had not known then that the Shah’s cities would fall to the invader, the stocks of gold with them. He had sent his chosen men to bring down just one, but somehow it had stirred the khan to this desecration. The Old Man had known within days of the failure in Samarkand. His followers had become overconfident, seduced by having the enemy within easy reach. They had died well enough, but in doing so, brought these mindless attackers to his sanctuary.

The Mongols did not seem to care how many lives they lost. The Old Man could almost admire them for that, if he did not consider them less than men. It seemed it was his fate to be brought down by godless wolves, after all he had achieved. The khan was a relentless, driven enemy and the old ways were falling in pieces around him. It would take a generation to rebuild the clan after this day, at least. He swore to himself that his assassins would eventually repay this blood debt, but at the same time, he was afraid, close to terrified of the man who had thrown himself so hard against the fortress stones. No Arab would have done it. They would have known that to fail was to invite destruction down to three generations of everyone they held dear. Even the great Saladin ceased to trouble the assassins after they had found him in his own command tent.

The Old Man heard footsteps behind him and turned reluctantly from the window arch. His son stood in the cool chamber, dressed for travel. At forty years of age, the younger man knew all the secrets of the clan. He would need them all to start again. With him went the last of the Old Man’s hopes. They shared a gaze of grief and anger before his son touched his forehead, lips, and heart and bowed in respect.

“You will not come with me?” his son asked one last time. The Old Man shook his head.

“I will see this out to the end. I was born in this fortress. I will not be driven from it.” He thought of the garden of paradise to the rear of the stronghold. The women were already dead at his order, poisoned wine allowing them to drift into sleep. With the last of his men on the wall, there was no one to remove the bodies and the garden was heavy with the smell of corrupting flesh. Still, it was a better fate for them than to fall into the hands of the invaders. The Old Man thought he might spend a little time there while he waited for the khan. The garden had always brought calm to the turbulence in his soul.

“Remember me and rebuild, my son. If I know that you will reach out and snatch this khan from the world, or his sons, I can die in peace.”

His son’s eyes burned into him before he bowed again.

“I will not forget,” he said. The Old Man watched him stride away, his steps sure and strong. There was a hidden path behind the fortress that his son would take, leaving behind only destruction. Two men would travel with him, experienced assassins well versed in all the forms of death. Even they had needed his own order to send them away. They saw no shame in dying to defend their home. Just thirty more waited for the Mongols to break the wall. They knew they would be killed and enter paradise, and they were full of joy.

Alone once more, the Old Man of the Mountains turned from the setting sun. He made his way down marble steps to the garden for the last time, breathing in the air with pleasure as it became thick with the scent of flowers and the dead.

The right-hand column of the door shattered into two pieces at noon the following day, leaning out under the weight of stones above it. The khan stepped forward, hungry to see what lay within. The door yawned open without its support and Tsubodai’s men put their hooked poles into the gap and heaved at it, the leading edge cutting a furrow in the dusty ground.

Genghis was in full armor and carried sword and shield ready in his hands as he waited for the gap to open. Tsubodai saw his intent to be first into the fortress, and the general joined his men at the gate, taking a grip on the edge with his bare hands so that he would be closer. He did not know if Genghis guessed his thoughts, but Tsubodai was the first man through to the courtyard beyond. He heard the rattle of shafts breaking on the stones and ducked to one side as he surveyed the fortress they had worked so hard to win. There were still men on the walls, but when Genghis came through, he took their shafts on his shield, seeming to pluck them out of the air so that they vibrated in the surface.

Tsubodai’s archers followed, walking backwards into the courtyard and loosing shafts up at anything that moved. The assassins had no protection inside the walls. The black-garbed figures were outlined against the lighter stone and they fell quickly. Genghis watched them strike the courtyard with no expression on his face, then nodded, satisfied, as silence came again. The hammer men walked with him, still red-faced and sweating as the general and the khan made their way deeper into the fortress. Others climbed stone stairs to the walls, determined to root out every possible survivor as well as checking the dead. Tsubodai did not look back as he heard a struggle on the wall before someone fell with a cry. He knew his men would sweep the courtyard and the rooms beyond. He did not have to watch over them; could not while his khan walked so carelessly into the nest of the assassins.

Beyond the courtyard, a pillared cloister supported the main building. Genghis found a door there, but it was just wood and his hammer men smashed it open in just a few blows. There was no one waiting for them, though Tsubodai held his breath as Genghis walked into shadow as if he strolled among his gers. The khan seemed determined to meet his fear head-on, and Tsubodai knew better than to try and hold him back while they searched the stronghold.

The home of the assassins was a maze of rooms and corridors. Tsubodai passed halls set with weapons and iron weights, open ground with bows set in racks, even a dry fountain, with water gathered in a pool where golden fish still swam. They found single rooms set with beds of fine linen as well as dormitories where rough wooden bunks lined the walls. It was a strange place and Tsubodai had the sense that it was freshly abandoned, that at any moment, the occupants would return and fill the echoing halls with noise and life. Behind him, he could hear his men calling to each other, their voices muffled as more and more spilled into the fortress and began looking for anything worth carrying away. In one place with barred windows, Tsubodai and Genghis found an overturned cup with the wine barely dried. Genghis walked on, taking it all in, but never pausing to rest.

At the end of a hall hung with silk banners, another heavy door blocked their path. Tsubodai summoned the hammer men, but when he lifted the iron locking bar, it moved easily and the door swung open to reveal steps. Genghis hardly slowed, so Tsubodai darted in ahead and went up as quickly as he could, his sword ready. The air was thick with strange scents, but even then he was not prepared for what he found and came to a sudden stop.

The garden lay at the rear of the fortress, overlooking mountains stretching into the blue distance. Flowers were everywhere, but they did not hide the smell of death. Tsubodai found a woman of surpassing beauty lying beside a bank of blue flowers. Her lips were dark with red wine that had stained her cheek and throat as she fell. He nudged her body with his foot, forgetting for a moment that Genghis was just behind him.

The khan did not look down as he passed. He strode over the perfectly tended paths as if they did not exist, moving further in. There were other women lying in that place, all beautiful and all wearing very little to cover the perfect musculature of their bodies. It was sickening even for one used to death, and Tsubodai found himself raising his head and gulping for clean air. Genghis did not seem to notice, his gaze on the mountains in the distance, snowcapped and clean.

Tsubodai didn’t see the man sitting on a wooden bench at first. The robed figure sat so still he could have been another ornament in that extraordinary setting. Genghis was almost abreast of him when Tsubodai jerked and called out a warning.

The khan stopped and raised his sword to strike with some of his old speed. He saw no threat from the man and lowered the blade as Tsubodai caught up.

“Why did you not run?” Genghis said to the man. He spoke in the Chin language and the man raised his head and smiled wearily, before answering in the same tongue.

“This is my home, Temujin.”

Genghis stiffened to hear his childhood name from a stranger. The sword jerked in his hand from instinct, but the man on the bench raised empty palms slowly before letting them fall.

“I will take it down, you know,” Genghis told him. “I will tip the stones off the cliffs so that no one will even remember there was once a fortress in these mountains.”

The Old Man shrugged. “Of course you will. Destruction is all you know.”

Tsubodai stood very close, looming over the man on the bench and ready to kill at the first sharp movement. He did not seem a threat, but his eyes were dark under heavy brows and his shoulders looked massive despite the lines of age on his face. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Genghis sheathe his sword and Tsubodai did not dare turn away as the khan sat on the bench, blowing air from his lips in relief.

“Still, I am surprised you did not run,” Genghis said.

The Old Man chuckled. “When you have given your life to building something, perhaps then you will understand; I do not know.” His voice took on a bitter tinge as he went on. “No, you would not understand, even then.”

Genghis smiled, then roared with laughter until he had to wipe his eyes. The Old Man watched him, his face twisting into a mask of hatred.

“Ah, I needed to laugh,” Genghis said. “I needed to sit in a garden surrounded by dead women and have an assassin tell me I have built nothing in my life.” He chuckled again and even Tsubodai smiled though his blade remained ready.

The Old Man of the Mountains had intended to pour scorn on the khan before going to his death with dignity intact. To have the man guffaw in his face made him flush, his sense of cool superiority torn apart.

“You think you have achieved something with your life?” the Old Man hissed. “You think you will be remembered?”

Genghis shook his head as amusement threatened to overwhelm him again. He was still chuckling as he stood up once more.

“Kill this old fool for me, would you, Tsubodai? He is nothing but a bag of wind.”

The assassin spluttered in rage as he tried to reply, but Tsubodai chopped down, leaving him gurgling in his own blood. Genghis had already dismissed the man from his mind.

“They left me a warning, with the village they destroyed, Tsubodai. I can do no less for them, if any still survive. I want them to remember the cost of attacking me. Have the men start on the roof and pitch the tiles and stones off the cliffs. I want nothing left here to show they ever had a home.”

Tsubodai nodded, bowing his head. “Your will, my lord khan,” he said.

Jelaudin lit a cone of incense to his father, thinking of him on the anniversary of his passing. His brothers saw tears in his eyes as he straightened and spoke soft words on the morning breeze.

“Who will give life to bones when they are dust? He will give them life who made them first.” He paused and lowered himself, touching his forehead to the ground as he honored the Shah who, in death, had become the light of his son’s followers.

Jelaudin knew he had changed in the year since his despair on the tiny island of the Caspian. He had found his calling and many of the men who had come to defend the faith regarded him as a holy man. They had grown in numbers, traveling for hundreds of miles to join his war against the invading khan. He sighed as he failed to keep his mind clear for prayer on this day of all days. His brothers had become his staff officers, though they too seemed to regard him almost with reverence. Yet for all the faith, someone had to provide food and tents and weapons for those who had none. It was for those things that he had answered an invitation to meet a prince of Peshawar. They had met only once as boys in Bukhara, when both were spoiled and fat with sweetmeats. Jelaudin had only a hazy memory of the boy and no knowledge of the man he had become. Still, the prince ruled a region where the fields were rich with grain, and Jelaudin had come further south than he had ever known. He had walked until his sandals fell apart, then further, until the soles of his feet were as leathery as his shoes had once been. Rains had quenched his thirst and the hot sun had burned him thin, making his eyes fierce over a beard which had grown thick and black.

Smoke drifted up from the brazier as he remembered his father. The Shah would be proud of his son, Jelaudin thought, if mystified at the ragged robes he chose to wear. His father would not understand that he now disdained any show of wealth and felt the cleaner for it. When Jelaudin looked back on the soft life he had led, he could only shudder. Now he read the Koran and prayed and fasted until his thoughts were all on vengeance and the army that swelled around him. He could hardly imagine the vain young man he had been, with his fine black horse and clothes of silk and gold. All those things were gone and he had replaced them with faith that burned hot enough to destroy all the enemies of God.

When he turned from the smoke, Jelaudin saw his brothers waited patiently with their heads bowed. He rested his hand on Tamar’s shoulder as he passed, striding up the steps to the prince’s palace. Armored soldiers averted their eyes from him, then stared after the ragged figure who had come to see their master. No one raised a hand to stop the holy man who had brought an army to Peshawar. Jelaudin walked with firm steps until he reached the audience hall. Slaves drew open the doors and he did not bow as he saw the man who had called him to his home.

The rajah of Peshawar was a slim warrior, wearing a silk tunic cut with a sash that fell loosely by his hip, barely covering the golden hilt of a sword. His features were soft and fleshy, despite his narrow waist, and there was little to remind Jelaudin of the boy he had met so long ago. As Jelaudin approached, the Indian prince sent away two advisers and stepped down from a throne to bow.

Jelaudin raised him with one hand, though the gesture pleased him.

“Are we not equals, Nawaz? You do me great honor with your hospitality. My men have not eaten so well for months.”

The young rajah flushed with pleasure. His gaze wandered over Jelaudin’s dark brown feet, made hard with callus and dirt. Jelaudin grinned, wondering how he would have received such a ragged visitor when he was the son of Khwarezm.

“I have heard wonderful things, Jelaudin,” the younger man replied at last. “Men from my own guard have volunteered their service against this foreign khan.”

“They are welcome, my friend, but I need supplies more than men. If you have horses and carts to offer me, I will fall on your neck with gratitude. If you have food for my army, I will even kiss those golden slippers you wear.”

Prince Nawaz flushed even deeper at the wry tone, overcome.

“You shall have all those things. I ask only that you let me ride with you when you go north.”

Jelaudin weighed the young man, seeing in him a flicker of the same fire that sustained his army outside the palace. They burned, these young ones, whether they were rich or poor, blessed or cursed in their lives. They wanted to be led. That was the great secret he had discovered, that the right words would ignite them to a fervor that could never again be put out. Warmed by it, they would turn against their tribes, even their families, to follow him. He had witnessed fathers walking away from weeping wives and children without looking back as they came to him. If his father had ever discovered the right words, Jelaudin was sure he could have led his armies to the end of the world.

Jelaudin closed his eyes briefly. He was exhausted from the long march over mountains, and even the sight of the river Indus that fed a continent had not banished his weariness. At first he had walked because he did not have a horse. After that, he had walked because to do so impressed his men. Yet the miles and hills had sapped him, and it was tempting to ask for just one night in a cool bed before he sent his brothers scurrying around to feed the army and he had to walk those hills again. He resisted, knowing that it would lessen him in the prince’s eyes. The young man did not feel his equal, no matter that he dressed in a robe that a beggar might scorn. Instead, Nawaz saw his faith and was humbled in its presence.

Jelaudin came to himself with a start, realizing he had not spoken for a long time, instead swaying as he stood in silence.

“Will your father not object, Nawaz?” he said at last. “I have heard he does not follow the great faith.” He watched as the prince’s face twisted in dislike.

“He does not understand, with his thousand shrines and foolish temples. He has forbidden me to go with you, but he has no power over me! These lands are mine and all the wealth of them I give to you. My men are sworn to me alone and my father cannot take them from me. Let me call you master and walk beside you on the road.”

Jelaudin smiled tiredly, feeling the younger man’s enthusiasm ease some of the ache in his bones.

“Very well, Nawaz. You will lead your men to a holy war and throw back the infidel. You will stand on my right hand and we will triumph.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

GENGHIS SMILED to see his grandson Mongke paddling at the lake edge. His scouts had found the body of water some hundreds of miles to the northeast of Samarkand, and he had brought the gers and families there, while his army administered the lands and cities of Khwarezm. The caravans moved again, from as far as Russia and Chin lands, but now they were met by Mongol officials trained by Temuge and backed by warriors. A part of every merchant’s cargo was removed, but in return, they needed no guards of their own. The khan’s word protected the roads for a thousand miles and more in any direction from Samarkand.

Mountains surrounded the lake and plain, far enough away so that Genghis did not feel enclosed. He knew his warriors would be watching on every peak, but he could not see them. It was somehow comforting to know that the mountains would still be there when all those who lived were dust.

Ogedai had taken well to his new position as heir. Genghis had sent him out with the tumans, learning every detail of the men he would command. That was expected, but Genghis had also placed Ogedai with Temuge, who taught him how to keep an army fed and clothed. Ogedai soaked up every skill the tribes could impart, as well as languages and even writing. The heir was never seen without a group of tutors at his back, but he seemed to thrive on it.

Genghis stretched his back, feeling at peace. The sounds of war were distant in that place, and he was enjoying the cries and laughter of the boys in the water, sunning themselves and learning to swim like fish. Some even dived below the surface, launching from rocks in great splashes. Their mothers called and peered anxiously into the depths, but they always surfaced, blowing and laughing at those who worried for them.

Genghis felt a small hand tugging at his leggings and he reached down to swing Kublai into the air. The tiny little boy was just three years old, but from the age of just a few months, he had beamed whenever he saw his grandfather. Genghis had taken a liking to him.

With a jerk, the khan put his grandson on his shoulders and walked to the water’s edge, wincing a little as Kublai gripped his hair too tightly.

“I will not let you fall, little man,” Genghis said. He saw Mongke catch sight of the rare treat and hold his arms out to be lifted up in turn. Genghis shook his head.

“In a while. Until then, Kublai rides.”

“Another story!” Kublai called from above his head. Genghis thought for a time. Kublai’s mother had said his tales were too violent for a little boy, but Kublai seemed to enjoy them regardless. Genghis could see Sorhatani watching him from a little way off down the shore. At nineteen years old, she had grown into a woman of unusual beauty. Genghis sometimes wondered how little Tolui had snared her.

“Would you like to hear about the khan of the assassins?”

“Yes, tell me!” Kublai shouted joyfully.

Genghis smiled, turning this way and that so that the boy giggled at the sudden movements.

“He was a huge man,” Genghis said, “with arms strong enough to bend an iron bar. His beard was like black wire and it stretched almost to his waist! It was two years ago that I came across him in his fortress. He leapt on my back as I passed underneath an arch, and I could not break his grip. I felt his hands around my throat, squeezing and squeezing until I thought my eyes would pop out from my head!”

He mimed a terrible grip, while Mongke came out from the water and watched with his eyes wide.

“How did you get him off?” Mongke asked.

Genghis looked down and thought for a moment.

“I could not, Mongke. I tried to shake him free, as I am doing with Kublai here, but he was too strong for me. He squeezed even harder and suddenly I saw my eyes rolling on the ground in front of me.”

“How could you see them if they were on the ground?” Kublai asked immediately.

Genghis laughed and lifted him down. “You are a clever boy, Kublai, but you are right. I could not see them. In fact, I could see me, with just holes where my eyes used to be and the assassin still clinging to my back. Yet as my eyes rolled, I saw a great ruby flashing in his forehead. I did not know it was his weakness, but I was desperate. With my hands, I reached up and ripped it out. His strength went with it, for the gem was the source of all his power. I collected my eyes and sold the ruby to buy a white horse. I survived, but even today, I have to be careful that my eyes do not come out again when I sneeze.”

“That is not true,” Mongke said scornfully.

“It is,” Kublai said, determined to defend his grandfather.

The khan chuckled. “Who can say if I have remembered every detail correctly? He may not have had a beard.”

Mongke snorted and struck his leg, which Genghis did not seem to notice. When Kublai and Mongke looked up, they saw their grandfather gazing into the distance, where two men were riding across the pebble beach toward him. A change came over the khan at the sight, and both boys watched quizzically, not understanding why the light mood had come to an end.

“Go to your mother now. I will tell you another story tonight, if I have time.”

Genghis did not watch them as they pelted away, sending sand and pebbles skittering from their bare feet. Instead, he straightened fully to receive the scouts. He knew the men who rode to him. He had sent them away from the families more than a year before, with carefully worded orders. Their return meant they had either failed, or found his missing son. He could not tell from their faces as they reached him and dismounted, bowing deeply.

“My lord khan,” the first said.

Genghis had no patience for polite greetings. “Did you find him?” he snapped.

The man nodded, swallowing nervousness. “In the far north, lord. We did not stop to check once we saw gers and ponies of the sort we know. It could not be anyone else.”

“Gers? He took none with him,” Genghis replied. “He has made a home then, so far away from the memory of me. Did his men see you?”

Both scouts shook their heads with utter certainty, remaining silent. The khan would not want to know the details of how they had crept close to Jochi’s rough settlement, hiding themselves in snow though they almost froze to death.

“Good,” Genghis replied. “You have done well. Take six fresh horses from my herd as your reward: two mares, two stallions, and two of the younger geldings. I will commend you to your general for this work.”

The scouts bowed again, flushed with success as they mounted and rode to the maze of gers along the banks of the lake. Genghis was left alone for a moment, looking out over the waters. In all his life, not one of his generals had refused an order or even considered betraying him. Not until Jochi had vanished, taking seven thousand valuable warriors with him. Genghis had sent scouts in all directions, searching lands new and old for his son. It had taken almost two years, but he had found him at last. Genghis shook his head as his thoughts grew dark. It would end in blood, after all he had done in raising another man’s son as his own. The entire nation spoke of the vanished army, though not in the presence of the khan. Jochi had given him no choice.

He looked along the shore to where the gers clustered, covering miles of land around the lake. It was a good place, but the grazing was very poor and the goats and sheep that fed them had to be walked back to slaughter each day. It was time to move on, he thought, enjoying the idea. His people were not made to stay in one place, with just one view, not when the world stretched around them with an infinite array of strange things to see. Genghis arched his back, feeling it click unpleasantly. He saw another rider setting out from the gers and sighed to himself. Though his eyes were not as sharp as they had once been, he knew his brother Kachiun from the way he rode.

Genghis waited for his brother, enjoying the breeze coming off the water as the sun beat down. He did not turn as Kachiun called a greeting to Sorhatani and the boys.

“You have heard then?” Genghis said.

Kachiun came to stand by him, looking out over the same pale waters. “The scouts? I sent them to find you, brother. They have found Jochi, but that is not why I am here.”

Genghis did turn then, raising his eyebrows at his brother’s serious expression.

“No? I thought you would be full of advice on how I should deal with my son the traitor.”

Kachiun snorted. “Nothing I can say will change what you do, Genghis. You are khan and perhaps you should make an example of him to the rest, I don’t know. That is for you to decide. I have other news.”

Genghis studied his brother, seeing how his once smooth face had taken on lines around the mouth and eyes. The age showed most when he smiled, which was less and less often since coming to Arab lands. Genghis owned no mirrors of the sort the Chin made, but he supposed his own face was just as weathered, or even more.

“Tell me then, brother,” he said.

“You have heard of this army in the south? I have had men watching it for some time.”

Genghis shrugged. “Tsubodai and Chagatai have both sent men to watch them. We know more about that gathering of farmers than they do themselves.”

“They are not farmers, Genghis, or if they are, they have the armor and weapons of soldiers. The latest reports are of sixty thousand men, if my scouts have learned to count so high.”

“I should fear only sixty? They grow, then. We have watched them for a year or more. They shout and chant and wave their swords. Are they coming for us at last?” Genghis felt a cold hand clutch at his belly for all his lightness of tone. He had heard of the gathering army and their revered leader almost a year after he had returned from the assassins’ stronghold. His generals had prepared for attack, but the seasons had crept by and no army had marched against them. At times, he thought it was only the threat of them that kept him in lands where heat and flies bothered him every day.

“My men captured three of their number,” Kachiun answered, interrupting his thoughts. “They were wild, brother, almost frothing at the mouth when they realized who we were.”

“You made them talk?” Genghis said.

“We could not, that was what surprised me. They merely spat threats at us and died badly. Only the last gave me anything and that was the name of the man who leads them.”

“What do I care for names?” Genghis asked incredulously.

“You know this one: Jelaudin, whose father was the Shah of Khwarezm.”

Genghis stood very still as he digested the information. “He has done well. His father would be proud of him, Kachiun. Sixty thousand men? At least we know for sure that he will come north, after my head. There will be no more talk of purges into India, not now we know it is Jelaudin.”

“They cannot move a step without me knowing, brother.”

“If we wait for them,” Genghis said thoughtfully. “I am tempted to end their shouting with my tumans.”

Kachiun winced, knowing that if he were to guide Genghis, it would have to be subtle. “The Shah’s army was far larger, but we had no choice then. Your own tuman and mine are proven. Tsubodai’s Young Wolves and Jebe’s Bearskins bring twenty thousand more to the field. Chagatai, Khasar, and Jelme another thirty. Seven tumans of veterans. Ogedai is barely blooded. I would not want to throw his men against such an enemy.”

“I gave him good officers, Kachiun. They will not let me down.”

Genghis considered the gers along the shore. The families bore children in the thousands each year, but many of them went into the tumans to replace the dead and injured. It had been difficult to create a new tuman for Ogedai, but his heir had to learn command and the other generals had gone begging for a year. He did not mention his plans to form a ninth tuman for Tolui to lead. His youngest son’s wife had approached him on the subject just a few months before. Genghis glanced over to where she now played with Kublai and Mongke, tossing one after the other into the water, to their delighted shrieks.

“Find a good second for Ogedai, Kachiun. Someone who can stop him doing something stupid until he learns.”

“Even then, eight tumans against almost as many?” Kachiun replied. “We would lose many good men.” He hesitated and Genghis turned to him.

“You have not worried about numbers before, brother. Spit it out, whatever it is.”

Kachiun took a deep breath. “You brought us here to avenge men killed by the Shah. You have done that and repaid them a thousand times over. Why should we stay and risk destruction? You do not want these lands and cities. How long is it now since you saw the mountains of home?” He paused to gesture at the peaks around the lake. “This is not the same.”

Genghis did not answer for a long time. When he spoke at last, he weighed each word carefully.

“I brought the tribes together to take the Chin foot off our necks. Then I took it off and we humbled their emperor in his capital. That was my path, the one I made and chose and fought for. I wanted to send the Chin reeling still further, Kachiun, right to the sea in all directions. I would not even have come here if they had not provoked me. They have brought this on their own heads.”

“We do not have to fight the entire world,” Kachiun said quietly.

“You are getting old, Kachiun, do you know that? You are thinking of the future, of your wives and children. Don’t splutter, brother, you know I am right. You have forgotten why we do this. I was the same for a time in Samarkand. I told Arslan these people live longer than us and have safer, softer lives. They do, just as camels and sheep live happily on the plains. We could choose that for a time, though wolves would still come for us in the end. We are herdsmen, Kachiun. We know how the world truly works and everything else is just an illusion.” He looked over to his grandsons, seeing Sorhatani comb their hair as they writhed and struggled to get away from her. Her own hair was long and black and he toyed with the idea of getting himself another young wife like her to warm his bed. It would invigorate him, he was certain.

“Brother,” he said, “we can live our lives at peace, so that our sons and grandsons can live their lives at peace, but what is the point? If we all live to eighty in a green field, without ever holding a bow or sword, we will have wasted the good years. You should know the truth of that. Will our grandsons thank us for a peaceful life? Only if they are too afraid to take up arms. I would not wish a quiet life on my enemies, Kachiun, never mind my own family. Even cities prosper only when there are rough men on the walls, willing to stand and die so that others can sleep in peace. With us, we all fight, from the first yell to the last breath. It is the only way to take pride in who we are.”

“I do take pride!” Kachiun snapped. “But that does not mean—”

Genghis raised a hand. “There is no ‘but,’ brother. This Jelaudin will sweep north with his men, and we could run before them. We could let him take back every city we have won and call himself Shah in his father’s place. He might think twice before provoking me again when I send envoys to him. But I came to these lands because when a man threatens me and I look away, he has taken something important from me. If I fight and die, all he can take is my life. My courage, my dignity remain. Shall I do less for the nation I have made? Shall I allow them less honor than I claim for myself?”

“I understand,” Kachiun murmured.

“Be sure you do, brother, because you will be riding with me against this host. We will win or die, one or the other. But I will not look away when they come. I will not bow down and let them trample me.” He paused and barked a laugh. “You know, I was going to add that no one will ever say I ran from a battle, but Arslan reminded me of something in Samarkand. It does not matter what others think of how I lived my life. It does not matter if we go down in Temuge’s histories as tyrants or even cowards. All that matters is what we do now. We are our only judges, Kachiun. Remember that. Those who come after will have other trials, other battles to worry about.”

He saw Kachiun had listened and at least tried to understand. Genghis clapped him on the shoulder.

“We have come such a long way, Kachiun. I still remember the first days, when it was just us and we were starving. I remember killing Bekter and I sometimes wish he could be here to see what we went on to make. Perhaps you and I have fashioned something that will last a thousand generations, or disappear with us. I do not know. I do not even care, brother. I have grown strong to defeat powerful enemies. I welcome this horde from the south to grow stronger still.”

“You are a strange man,” Kachiun said. “There is no one else like you, do you know that?” He expected Genghis to smile, but his brother shook his head.

“Be careful of raising me too high, brother. I have no special strength, unless it is in choosing good men to follow me. The great lie of cities is that we are all too weak to stand against those who oppress us. All I have done is see through that lie. I always fight, Kachiun. Kings and shahs depend on people remaining sheep, too afraid to rise up. All I ever did was realize I can be a wolf to them.”

Kachiun nodded, his worries lifting away under his brother’s pale eyes. He led his horse at Genghis’s side as the two men walked back to the gers to eat and rest. As they drew close, Kachiun recalled the arrival of the scouts.

“And Jochi? Have you made a decision?”

Genghis tightened his mouth at the mention of the name. “He took seven thousand men from me, Kachiun. I cannot forgive him for that. If he had gone on his own, perhaps I would have left him to find his own path. As it is, he has stolen a tenth of my army and I want them back.”

“You would take them? Honestly?” Kachiun said, surprised.

“I thought at first that I would have them killed, but I have had time to think while I waited for word, Kachiun. They left their wives and children and followed him, just as others followed me and gave up everything they knew and loved. Of all men, I know what a leader can do. They allowed themselves to be led, but I need them now, if Jelaudin is gathering a storm. Send scouts out to bring Tsubodai in. Jochi admired him more than any man. He will let him speak.”

Tsubodai came, though his heart was heavy. The great camp was buzzing with the news that Jochi had been found, and he had hoped Genghis would not ask for him. He found Genghis with Ogedai, watching his son train his young men. The khan gestured for him to follow and they rode away from the gathering tumans, walking their horses together like old friends.

Tsubodai’s heart beat hard as he listened. He had revered Genghis since he had first met the man who had forged a nation from warring tribes. He had been there when they took their first fortress in Xi Xia, then the region itself. Tsubodai had no false modesty. He knew he had played a vital part in the khan’s success. Genghis treated him with respect and Tsubodai returned it as he did with no other man alive. Even so, what he was being asked caused him bitterness and pain. He took a shuddering breath as Genghis looked at him, waiting for a reply.

“My lord khan, I do not want to do this. Ask me for anything else and I will ride, anything.”

Genghis reined in, turning his horse so that he faced his general. The man was brilliant, more gifted at war than anyone else Genghis knew, but he demanded obedience first and only the khan’s surprise held back a sharp reply.

“If I send Khasar or Kachiun, I think Jochi will resist. His men have broken oaths to follow him. They will not balk from fighting to prevent him being taken. You are the only man he will let speak, Tsubodai. You are the only one who can get close.”

Tsubodai closed his eyes for a moment, overcome. Genghis must have understood how Jochi looked to him or he would not have chosen Tsubodai for the task.

“My lord, I have never refused an order from you, ever. Remember that when you ask me for this.”

“You trained him when he was just an angry boy, but I warned you then that his blood was bad, that he could turn against us at any moment. I was right then, was I not? I trusted him with warriors and authority and he took them and ran. As my general, tell me how I should deal with such a man!”

Tsubodai clenched his fists on the reins. He did not say that Genghis had brought it on himself, that the pride he showed in Chagatai had eaten at Jochi until there was nothing left but hatred. None of that would matter to the khan who sat before him. He tried a different tack, desperately.

“At least let it wait until we have ridden against the Shah’s son, lord. My men are vital there. If you send me away now, I will be gone for six months or more. If they attack us before then, I will be useless to you.”

Genghis lowered his brows, growing angry that his general was still struggling.

“This prince has just sixty thousand, Tsubodai. I could send two or three tumans and gut him where he stands. This concerns me more. You are the only man Jochi will allow to speak. He respects you.”

“I know it,” Tsubodai said softly. He felt ill, torn between obedience to the khan and his friendship with Jochi. It did not help that his tactical mind saw the truth in Genghis’s words. Tsubodai knew he could get close to Jochi as no one else could. He sat in despair on the lakeshore. Genghis seemed to sense his utter misery and his face and voice softened slightly.

“Did you think all your orders would be easy, Tsubodai? That I would never ask for something hard? Tell me when a man is tested. Is it when his khan orders him into battle, with warriors of proven skill and courage? Or is it now, when he is given work he does not want? You have the finest mind of any of my generals, Tsubodai. I will grant you this. If you can see another way, tell me now and I will try it.”

Tsubodai had already considered and discarded a dozen plans, but none of them were worth his spit. In desperation, he tried one more time.

“The tumans are gathering, lord. Let me stay with them and we will take the war to the prince in the south. I am more valuable to you there. If you send me north, you will lose my tuman as well, just when you need every man.”

“It took me more than a year to find him the first time, Tsubodai. If my scouts were seen, he will already have left. You can follow his trail, but could you find it another year from now? This is the time to take him quietly. You are my general, but I will begin this war without you if they come. Join me when you return or give back the marks of rank I gave to you!” His anger surfaced at the last and Tsubodai almost flinched from it. The khan’s arguments were weak and both of them knew it. Genghis was obsessed with punishing Jochi. That was the truth that whispered behind the words. The khan could not be reached with reasoning when his heart was filled with bitterness. Tsubodai bowed his head, defeated.

“Very well,” he said. “I will ride fast and far, lord. If the prince brings his army from the south, look for me in the hills.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

THE MONGOL SCOUT SENSED SOMETHING. He had followed two men into the mountains for three full days, staying well back as he watched their progress. They had led him deep into the maze of canyons and high mountains around the Panjshir valley and the Afghan town of Parwan, with its ancient fortress. It was hard country, but the scout was experienced and knew every twist of the land. In the gathering dark, he could not follow the tracks any longer and he looked for a safe place to spend the night. It bothered him that he had lost the men. Something about them had aroused his curiosity from the first sighting. From a distance, they had looked like one of the Afghan hill tribes, swathed in cloth to protect their faces from the sun and wind. Still, there was something odd about them and he had been drawn in. In the canyon, he felt an itch, as if someone was watching. Could they have prepared an ambush? It was possible. The hill tribes knew the land even better than he did. They moved like ghosts when they wanted to, and the scout was tempted to pull back and find the tracks again when the sun came up. He hesitated, sitting very still and listening for any noise over the moaning wind that wound its way through the hills.

He heard the snap of a bow, but he was not fast enough to throw himself down. The shaft struck him hard in the chest, where there was no armor to protect him. The scout grunted, rocking back in the saddle. His hands held the wooden saddle horn between his legs, keeping him upright as his horse whinnied in distress. He sucked air, spitting blood as he yanked at the reins. His eyes had filled with tears of pain and he was blind as he turned his mare, trusting her to find the way out.

Another arrow buzzed out of the gloom and struck him in the back, piercing his heart. He fell with the impact, sliding over the horse’s head. She would have bolted, but men came running toward her, grabbing the reins and opening their arms wide so that she was forced to turn in place.

“He’s down,” the archer said to the man with him.

Jelaudin dropped a hand to his shoulder. “That was good work, in this light.”

The archer shrugged and removed the string from his bow, folding it neatly into a pouch at his waist. He knew he was a fine shot, perhaps the best that the prince of Peshawar could offer. His master had given his service to Jelaudin, but the archer’s loyalty was only to the prince, not this ragged holy man. Still, Jelaudin clearly knew the enemy. He had been able to predict the movement of the scout, tempting him just enough to bring him in for the shot.

Jelaudin seemed to sense the way the archer’s thoughts were running, despite the gloom of the canyon.

“Take away their eyes and these Mongols are not half so fearsome,” he said softly. “God guided your arrow, my friend.”

The archer bowed his head out of respect, though he was a craftsman and took pride in his skills.

“Will we be able to relieve the fortress at Parwan, master? I have an old friend who lives in the town. I would like to think we could bring him out alive.”

Jelaudin smiled in the darkness. “Never doubt it, my friend. By morning the Mongols will be blind, their scouts dead. We will come out of the hills and fall on them like a landslide.”

As dawn came, the sun revealed the dusty lands around Parwan and the fortress that stood at its back. Four Mongol minghaans surrounded the high tower of its castle, left over from the days when raiding parties roamed the region from the hills. The people of the town had abandoned their possessions to rush inside its walls, safe for a time.

The Mongol warriors had surrounded the fortress completely, knowing there could be little water inside. A deep river ran through the valley and they could water their horses freely while those in the fortress felt only dust in their throats. Some of the Mongols roamed the deserted town while they waited. Others had built a bridge across the river so they could hunt in the wooded hills beyond. They were in no hurry. The fortress would fall and another place would accept a new ruler, or be utterly destroyed. The officers were pleasantly idle as they watched the sunlight stretch shadows across the dusty ground. They did not need the town, or anything in it, but it lay across a route to the west and Genghis had ordered the way made clear.

In the two years since Genghis and Tsubodai had ridden against the assassins, this work had become commonplace. They always had maimed men or old ones to man forts in the road. Tribute came in the form of gold, slaves, or horses, and every season brought a tighter grip on the Afghan lands. There were always some who refused to bow their heads to their new rulers, but if they fought, they were killed to the last man. The ancient stone tower at Parwan suited the Mongol needs, and the townspeople had lost all hope as the days passed and the only small well ran dry. They knew nothing of the great wars going on around them, only that a grim force of merciless warriors waited just outside the wall.

Jelaudin came out of the mountains as the sun rose, the words of the dawn prayer still fresh on his lips. His best trackers knew this region better than any Mongol scout alive, and they had hunted them in the valleys and canyons, until the last scout fell with Jelaudin watching. The Mongol force had no warning of the attack. Jelaudin exulted as his men poured down into the valley of Panjshir, its river shining in the sun. The Mongols barely had time to run to their horses before his army was in formation. He had called his men in faith and they had answered, walking or riding to him from thousands of miles away. Turkoman nomads had come, some of them as good as the Mongols themselves with a bow. Berber warriors rode on his left, who shared the faith if not the Arab blood that ran in Jelaudin’s veins. True Arabs, Bedouins, Persians, even Turks: he had bound them all to the men of Peshawar and their prince. Around that core, Jelaudin had trained his army.

The Mongols met them with whirring arrows, but Jelaudin knew his enemy and all his men carried long shields of layered wood and cured leather. With the prince’s gold behind him, he had found a design that did well against the Mongol bows, and few of his men fell in the first vicious volleys. As the distance closed, Jelaudin rode with wild courage, shouting aloud as the Mongols changed their aim to his precious horses. They too wore the best armor Peshawar could produce, fish-scales of metal overlapping on their long muzzles and chests. It slowed them in the charge, but arrows could not easily bring them down.

They hit the Mongol lines that formed before them out of chaos, crashing with stunning force against men who did not give way. The last volley of arrows had ripped through his men and even their armor and shields could not protect them at just a few paces. Jelaudin saw them fall, but then he was among the enemy, his sword swinging. He misjudged his first blow in his hunger for vengeance, so that it cracked across the helmet of a Mongol warrior. His speed gave the blow power and the man went flying backwards, trampled instantly under hooves. Jelaudin’s army had survived the first contact, and the Mongol center fell back in confusion.

Jelaudin saw horns form on the wings and the prince of Peshawar was there to send his men around the outside, trapping the horns almost before they could begin the maneuver. The Mongols had never fought men who knew their tricks and tactics as well as Jelaudin. He shouted, manic with rage and joy as the Mongols fell back, their scout horns blowing retreat.

Even then they fought and the carnage was terrible when the Arabs pressed them too closely. The warriors kept tight formation, withdrawing in groups while the closest lines covered their backs with arrows and swords. Jelaudin raised his hand and bows bent along his front rank. As the gap opened, they sent a volley into the Mongols, each man aiming at the enemy archers, who carried no shields. Dozens of them were killed and the army of Jelaudin pressed on, step by step, forcing them back from the fortress while the citizens of Parwan cheered on the walls.

The river by the town was less than a mile away when the Mongols gave up the running fight and raced for the bridge. Jelaudin galloped after them with his men, intent on their deaths. He had seen them ride in triumph too many times not to take pleasure from the sight. He rode lightly, the breeze cool on his face.

The Mongols did not stop at the bridge. The surviving warriors galloped across without slowing down, risking their lives in the crush of men. It was well done and Jelaudin’s men did not hesitate to follow them.

Jelaudin saw Mongol warriors leap from their horses and take axes to the ropes and timbers of the bridge, ignoring those who rode them down. Perhaps a hundred of his mounted men had crossed, and with terrible clarity, Jelaudin saw the Mongols intended to cut the force in half, leaving those on the fortress side helpless while they turned on the rest like mad dogs. The sight of such calm thinking broke through his frenzy and he reined in. He could direct his men to kill those who hacked at the bridge supports. If it held, he would destroy the Mongol forces to the last man, but if it fell, many of his men would die. He had done enough, he thought. He had wounded and bloodied an enemy who had not known defeat before. He took a horn from his waist, where it hung on a strap. It had once belonged to a Mongol scout, but his men were ready for the blaring note.

Those who had not yet reached the bridge turned back and formed into shining ranks, already cheering the victory. Those who had already gone over pulled away from the enemy and started to retreat across the river. Jelaudin watched with pride as they followed his orders without question, raising their shields to take the arrows that sailed after them.

The bridge fell, slapping into the river in a great spray. Perhaps fifty of his men were still on the other side and Jelaudin rode to the edge, looking down into the waters. It was too deep, he thought. Perhaps the men could have swum their horses across on another day, but not with enemy archers ready to rush them as they forced their mounts down the banks. Jelaudin raised his sword in salute to those who watched him from across the river, enemy and friend alike.

His men returned the gesture and turned their horses back, riding into the Mongols in one last charge. They were cut down, though each man went without fear, killing as many as he could.

The two forces faced each other across the torrent, panting and bloodied. Jelaudin could hardly describe the ecstasy of the moment. He saw the Mongol officer trot his mount to the opposite bank, and for a moment, they stared at each other. The Mongol shrugged at the trail of dead leading to the fortress in the distance. He raised his sword then, copying the gesture of respect before wheeling his mount and riding away. Genghis would hear and the subdued officer did not have to utter threats on his behalf.

“The news is in the mouth of every city, Genghis,” Kachiun said bitterly. “Before now, they saw us as unbeatable. This is a crack in that belief, brother. If we let it go unanswered, even for a season, they will grow in confidence and more will come to Jelaudin’s banners.”

“One successful raid does not make a general, Kachiun. I will wait for Tsubodai to return.” Genghis gestured irritably to the open plain he had found, eighty miles south of the lake where Kublai and Mongke had learned to swim. The nation could not remain anywhere for long. Lush grass was hard to find in Arab lands, but the world was large and Genghis had two sites picked out to move them to in another month. That was simply the way of their lives, and he did not think of it beyond quick decisions when the time came. Kachiun’s voice irritated him, interrupting his thoughts of Jochi and Tsubodai. It was true that Jelaudin’s army had killed more than a thousand of his men, the event sending ripples of disquiet through the Arab cities. The first tribute due from the Afghan city of Herat had not come, and Genghis wondered if it was delayed or whether they had decided to wait and see what he would do.

Kachiun waited, but when Genghis said nothing, he spoke again, his voice hard.

“The men lost were from my tuman, Genghis. Let me at least ride to the area and make this bastard prince nervous. If you won’t give me the army, let me raid his lines, striking and vanishing in the night as we have done before.”

“You should not fear these farmers, brother. I will deal with them when I know that Tsubodai has found Jochi.”

Kachiun held himself still, biting back the questions he wanted to ask. Genghis had not shared Tsubodai’s orders with him and he would not beg to be told, though he wanted very much to know. He still found it difficult to believe that Jochi had taken his men away and tried to lose himself. The spirits knew Jochi had been provoked, and at times, Kachiun could only curse the blindness of the father that had led to it, but the reality of betrayal had stunned them all. No one had ever turned against the man who had made the nation. For all his faults, Genghis was revered and Kachiun could hardly imagine the strength of will that allowed Jochi to wrench apart from everything he had known. He saw Genghis set his jaw obstinately, guessing at his thoughts as Kachiun tried again to make him understand.

“You are the one who built an empire in this place, Genghis, instead of just ruins. You put Arslan into Samarkand and Chen Yi into Merv when he came. They rule in your name, just as kings and shahs ruled before them in those places. Yet they are still invaders and there will always be those who want to see them torn out. Give these Arabs one glimpse of weakness and we will have rebellions in every place we have taken.” He sighed. “I am too old to do it all again, brother.”

Genghis blinked slowly and Kachiun did not know if he was truly listening or not. The khan seemed utterly obsessed with the son who had turned against him, perhaps because no one else ever had. Each day he would scour the horizon for some sign of Tsubodai. It was too soon, Kachiun knew. Even if Tsubodai had ridden as fast as light scouts, he would hardly have reached the northern land where Jochi had hidden himself. Once more Kachiun itched to know what Tsubodai had been told to do. He suspected he knew, and pitied Tsubodai for the task. Kachiun was aware that Tsubodai thought of Jochi almost as a son. It was typical of Genghis that he should test the man’s loyalty to the breaking point by sending him. His brother had always been ruthless with those around him, as well as himself.

Kachiun prepared to try once more, desperate to have Genghis understand. He swallowed dryly, realizing he could have used Tsubodai then. His brother listened to Tsubodai above all others, and he would not delay here while the cracks appeared in everything they had built.

“They countered horns, Genghis, swinging out around them. They have shields as good as any we have seen and armored horses that survive our arrows. It is not the numbers I fear, brother, but the way this Jelaudin uses them. If you will not come, let me send them back on their heels. They will not surprise my tuman with the same tactics. We will counter them and send a message to anyone who imagines we can be defeated.”

Genghis opened his mouth to suck at one of his back teeth.

“Do as you will, Kachiun,” he said, then thought better of leaving his brother with complete authority to act. “Take three tumans, your own and two others. Not Ogedai or Tolui. Their men are still fresh from the teat and I do not want them with you.”

Kachiun spoke quickly. “Jelme then, and Khasar.”

Genghis nodded, still staring into the north where his thoughts rested with Tsubodai.

“Skirmish, Kachiun, do you understand? If they are as terrible as I have heard, I do not want you to lose your men in the mountains. Bleed them a little, as you have done before, as you did at Yenking and against the Shah. I will come with Tsubodai.”

Kachiun bowed his head, relieved beyond words. “I will, brother,” he said, then paused at the point of turning away. “Tsubodai will not fail. I used to think you mad for raising him, but he is the best I have ever seen.”

Genghis grunted. “The problem is, Kachiun, that I do not know if I want him to fail or to succeed.” He saw Kachiun open his mouth to ask what he meant, and Genghis waved him away irritably.

“Go, brother. Teach these desert dwellers not to interfere with me again.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

STANDING BETWEEN TWO PILLARS OF ROCK, Kachiun looked down into the Panjshir valley, seeing the tents and horses of Jelaudin’s army. The late morning was already hot and he was sweating and scratching idly at an armpit where a boil needed lancing. With Jelme and Khasar, he had ridden as hard as any scout, half killing the horses to bring swift vengeance for the defeat at Parwan.

The army of Jelaudin knew the Mongols had come. Kachiun could see robed figures watching them from every peak, men who had climbed hand over hand up sheer rock to their positions. One of them was far above his head, out of reach of any arrow. Kachiun could not snatch them down and he was uncomfortable under that silent scrutiny. All the watchers were turned toward him and some of them signaled the army in the valley with flags, keeping Jelaudin informed.

There too Kachiun could see evidence of a controlling mind, one who had learned from the enemy at last. The Arab camp was three miles across the river from the town of Parwan, on a stretch of open plain backed by mountains that rose like blades from the flat ground. The position allowed no ambush and could not be ridden around. It did not rely on walls, though Kachiun could see stone blocks and wooden stakes had been dragged into position before the enemy camp, perfectly placed to foul a charge. Squares of tents fluttered in the morning breeze, and even as Kachiun watched, flag signals from the peaks brought men out into solid ranks. They showed their confidence in such a position, daring the Mongols to ride against them.

“We must cross that river,” Jelme said at Kachiun’s shoulder. “Now we know where they are, we can search for a ford.”

Kachiun had overall command of the three tumans and he nodded, still staring into the valley as Jelme sent scouts riding to find the best place across the barrier. He bit his lip at the thought, knowing that Jelaudin would have marked the fording places for a hundred miles. There was no chance for a surprise attack when the Shah’s son knew exactly where they would come from. Still, they had to cross. Jelaudin had chosen the spot for the battle. He knew the land; he had the numbers and every other advantage that mattered. Once again Kachiun wished Genghis had sent more men with him, this one time.

Kachiun squinted at the watcher far above him, hundreds of feet above his head. The man squatted in white robes, having climbed a face of rock that reached almost to a point. Kachiun resisted the urge to send warriors up to cut him down. The man may have taken days to reach the precarious position overlooking an entrance to the valley. If he had waterskins and supplies with him, he could defend it against climbing men for as long as he wanted.

His brother Khasar rode up to the front. Kachiun saw he too glared at the man on the heights.

“We cannot sit here all day, brother,” Khasar said as he reined in. “I could ride down and destroy that little town, at least. The Arabs might lose heart when they see the smoke rise.”

Kachiun looked over the valley. The minghaan officers who had been defeated had described the ground in great detail, pathetically eager to please after the shame of their loss. Kachiun could not see figures moving anywhere in the town, and he assumed the people had retreated again to the fortress that loomed above the plain. If he’d thought there was the slightest point to it, he would have sent Khasar down like an arrow. Instead, he shook his head.

“What is one more town, to us or them? When we have beaten this army, we can take that fortress as we please.”

Khasar shrugged at his reply and Kachiun went on, speaking his thoughts aloud to make them clear.

“He is confident, Khasar, with the mountains at his back.”

“He is a fool then,” Khasar said lightly.

“He is not a fool, brother. This man has seen us gut his father’s army. He knows our tactics and strengths, perhaps our weaknesses. See how has placed blocks of stone to interrupt our lancers and bow lines. He is confident and that worries me.”

“You think too much, Kachiun. When Jelme has found a way across the river, we will pin him against those hills. We will make an example of him.”

Kachiun nodded warily. Genghis had not demanded a quick victory, only that he take first blood from the enemy. Yet the first rule of war was to avoid letting the enemy choose the terrain and set the terms. Kachiun cracked the knuckles of his hands, then his neck, wishing Tsubodai were there for his insight.

It was not long before Jelme’s scouts returned, reporting a shallow ford barely five miles away along the river. Kachiun gave the order for the tumans to move, and he could not help glancing up at the flicker of bright flags from one peak to the next as the movement was reported.

“They come,” Jelaudin murmured, reading the flags.

“They have no choice,” Nawaz replied.

Jelaudin glanced at the rajah from under lowered brows, hiding his amusement at this peacock he had made his second in command. Under his armor, the rajah was dressed in silk of purple and gold, topped by a turban of pale blue. To Jelaudin’s eyes, he looked as if he had been dressed by a prostitute or an actor, but he did not doubt the man’s resolve.

Once more Jelaudin reviewed the lines of his men, though he had inspected them a thousand times. There were no flaws, he was certain. The mountains protected their rear, while heavy slabs from Parwan’s walls lay in clusters ahead, exactly where they would disrupt the Mongol riders. If the enemy had sent someone to the town, they would have found great sections of the walls missing, floated across the river on rafts of wood taken from homes. The people of that place had lost much for this defense, but they did not begrudge the sacrifice, not when the army had brought success against the unbelievers already. The fortress that sheltered them was too far away across the river for Jelaudin to see individual faces, but he knew they watched from the heights. They at least would have a spectacular view of the fighting to come.

“We have until this afternoon, if they use the first ford across the river,” Jelaudin said. “Let us walk among the men one more time. Some will be nervous and it will help them to see us calm and cheerful.”

His own eyes belied the casual tone, but Nawaz did not comment, merely ducking his head and dismounting to walk with him.

“I had expected more than thirty thousand of them,” Nawaz said as they passed between tents. “Are they so arrogant?”

Jelaudin nodded. “They are justified in their arrogance, my friend. They took my father’s army apart when he had three times their number. This will be a hard fight, even after all I have done.”

Nawaz blew air from his lips, showing his scorn for the idea. “I have emptied my treasury to give you the shields and armor you wanted. In turn, you have fired the men’s hearts.” He saw Jelaudin glance at him and went on. “I am not a fool. You know them better than any man, but by tonight we will be burning piles of their dead.”

Jelaudin smiled at the rajah’s confidence. It was true that he knew the Mongols for the force in war that they were. He could hope for victory, but nothing in this life was guaranteed.

“I will lead the men in prayers today at noon. If Allah looks kindly on us, we will shatter the legend of this khan, so that his strength bleeds out. Win here and all those cities that watch and wait will throw in with us to root the man from our land. Lose and he will not be challenged again. Those are the stakes, Nawaz.”

The rajah lowered his head, abashed. He held Jelaudin in awe, even before he had sent the Mongols running across their bridge. More than anything, he wanted to impress this man he had known as a boy, just a year older than him. His gaze swept the lines of men Jelaudin had brought under a single banner. Turkomans, Berbers, Bedouins from the far deserts, and dark-skinned warriors from Peshawar, marked from the rest by the armor of his personal guard. There were Afghans too in the ranks, serious men who had come down from the hills with heavy, curved swords. None of them were mounted for the battle to come. Jelaudin had chosen a position that would remove the advantage of the Mongol horses. His army would fight on foot. They would stand or be destroyed.

He had worked hard over the previous days to prepare the position, knowing that the Mongols would not be slow in their response. Nawaz had even labored with his men to take the stones from Parwan across the river. The rajah hoped they saw that he could put aside his dignity to work with them, though his self-conscious efforts had made Jelaudin laugh. Nawaz flushed as he recalled Jelaudin’s words on the subject of pride. He was a prince of Peshawar! It came naturally to him, though he strove to be humble.

Nawaz wrinkled his nose as he and Jelaudin walked past a latrine strip, flies swarming angrily as men shoveled earth back into it. Even in that, Jelaudin had taken a part, choosing the site of the strip so that when it was filled in, it would make a rough earth bank on their right flank. Nawaz looked away from the men who heaved earth into the trench, but Jelaudin called to them by name and reduced their shame at such unclean work. Nawaz watched him with feverish intensity, trying to learn everything he could. He had spent his father’s gold like water to outfit the army. Somehow it was not enough and he hoped to show Jelaudin that he could command and fight with as much courage as anyone there.

The sun moved across the heavens, throwing shadow onto the army that waited. It would dwindle to nothing as noon approached, but until then, the men were cool. The Mongol tumans would be hot and thirsty by the time they crossed the river and rode back. Jelaudin had planned for everything and he nodded with approval at the young boys waiting to run among the men with waterskins when the fighting began. The horses were safe, tethered at the rear where they could not panic and bolt. He saw piles of arrows bound in twine as well as fresh shields and swords by the thousand.

“I have not eaten this morning, Nawaz,” Jelaudin said suddenly. “Will you share a little food with me?” In fact, he had no appetite at all, but he knew his men would grin and point to see their leader eating without a care while the feared enemy approached. Nawaz led the way to his own tent, larger than the rest. It was as opulent as the clothes he wore, and Jelaudin smiled again to himself at the ostentatious prince. As he reached the entrance, Jelaudin looked over the plain he had chosen to avenge the Shah of Khwarezm, searching for anything out of place or that he might improve. There was nothing. All that was left was to wait.

“Have your servants bring the food out here, Nawaz,” he murmured. “Let the men see me sitting as one of them, but keep the meal simple, as they would have themselves.”

The rajah of Peshawar bowed his head, hurrying inside the tent to do Jelaudin’s bidding.

The fording place had soaked the tumans as they crossed in a spray of muddy water, but the sun leached moisture away so that they were almost dry by the time they rode five miles back to the Panjshir valley. The sun was long past noon when they saw the enemy once more in the distance. Kachiun walked his horse at the head of the three tumans, conserving its strength as Jelme and Khasar rode beside him.

“This will be a hard fight, brother,” Kachiun said to Khasar. “Follow my orders and put aside all thoughts of an easy victory.”

Khasar shrugged as the valley opened up in front of them. They had found another entrance to the central plain, but it too had a man on a peak and he stood to raise a banner that could be seen for miles. The river ran on their left as they trotted toward Jelaudin’s camp. The three generals could see his army had formed on foot in a bow across the land. Sixty thousand standing men made a formidable sight, and the Mongols rode with grim concentration, looking to their generals for orders.

Kachiun felt his bladder fill as he crossed the plain. On a long ride, he would simply have let the liquid run down the horse’s flank. With the enemy so close, he grimaced and held it rather than have the men think he did it from fear.

When the lines of the enemy were a mile away, Khasar and Jelme rode back across the face of the tumans to their positions. They had attended Kachiun on the ride to and from the river, and both men knew what they had to do. In that, at least, Kachiun knew he was well served. He raised his hand and thirty thousand warriors moved into a trot. Ahead of them, Jelaudin’s front rank raised swords and shields, the heavy blades resting on their shoulders and gleaming in the sun as it moved west.

Kachiun stared ahead at the blocks of stone littering the open ground. He did not know if Jelaudin had dug pits in front of his men, and he tortured himself trying to guess where they might be placed. Should he leave the center open and concentrate on the flanks alone? It was maddening to think that Jelaudin knew their tactics. Surely he would expect horns to form, in which case Kachiun should send the tumans down the center. That would leave their own flanks vulnerable and he felt his armpits grow cold with running sweat as he rode. His generals knew his plan, but they were ready for anything and he could change the orders, right to the moment they struck the enemy.

Jelaudin had seen Genghis fight, Kachiun told himself. One or both of the flanks would have traps in their path. At half a mile, he was suddenly certain of it. This prince thought he had made himself safe in a position where he could not maneuver. Kachiun decided to show him the flaw in his thinking.

“Swing wide right!” he roared, raising his arm and jerking it in a circle. The scouts near him raised red banners on their right side and the tumans flowed. They would attack the right flank alone, sending everything they had against that one part of Jelaudin’s army. Let the rest fret as they stood behind their rocks and spikes.

It took years of practice to move so many men without fouling each other’s lines. The Mongols managed it as if it were nothing to them, the tumans sliding into a new formation far out on the wing of the enemy. They increased their speed to a canter to match Kachiun and bent their bows. Behind them a plume of dust rose high enough to cast a shadow across the valley. With the sun behind, they rode with darkness fleeing ahead.

Kachiun saw the enemy shake their swords in anger as he thundered past the first piles of cut stones on his left. If he had led Jelaudin’s men, he would have already had them coming forward like a door swinging shut on the tumans. Yet they stood, as they had been told to stand.

At four hundred paces, Kachiun counted aloud as the distance shrank at terrifying speed. He rode in the fifth rank, keeping himself alive to direct the battle. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry as he forced himself to breathe through his nose, snorting each breath. All three tumans raced toward the enemy. They had run so wide that they would strike almost along the line of hills.

The first ranks hit the trenches, concealed with river rushes and loose soil. At full gallop, the horses went down hard, sending their riders flying. Some of them had their feet trapped in the stirrups and dislocated their legs as they were brought up short. The army of Jelaudin roared, but the Mongols recovered quickly. More than a hundred had fallen, but those who still lived curled into a ball and used their mounts as shelter as the ranks behind leaped over them. A few more fell as they misjudged the barrier of broken horses, but the line hardly slowed. No other army could have loosed a volley in the strip of land between the trenches and the enemy. The Mongols sent shafts as thick as flies into the enemy, knocking them back. As they reached the lines of swords, some of the warriors threw down their bows, while most took a moment to secure the weapon on a saddle hook, drawing a blade with the other hand. They did not consider the dead men they left behind at the trenches, only that they avenged them.

The roaring line hit Jelaudin’s soldiers at close to full speed, the weight and power of the horses as dangerous to a standing force as the blades themselves. The Mongols spent their mounts ruthlessly, using them as battering rams to break the lines apart.

Kachiun could see the curved blades of the Arabs swinging in flashes of sunlight as they resisted. His tumans had struck only a small part of the line, and more than half of his men could not bring their weapons to bear. Instead, they sent arrows over their own ranks, the black shafts rising high to fall anywhere in the enemy host. They tore into the Arab force, but as Kachiun had been told, the enemy shields were well made and their discipline held. He saw shields raised high overhead, so that they formed a wall against the dropping shafts while the men sheltered safely underneath.

Jelaudin’s men fought with fury and discipline as they were forced back a step and then another, over their own dead. The Mongol charge lost its speed against their packed ranks, and the curved swords still rose and fell in unison. Warriors were cut from the saddle, and to Kachiun’s horror, he saw his men pushed back as the Arabs surrounded any warrior in their midst, like islands in a sea.

The rest of Jelaudin’s army begin to swing out against him. They had abandoned the safety of their position, but the advance was in order, rather than a mad rush. The far flank moved forward and Kachiun swore to himself. His column had cut into just one part of the enemy, and he reached for the horn at his throat to counter this latest threat. When he blew the note, Khasar answered, pulling his men back with just a single order that flowed down the chain of command. Kachiun saw his questioning glance and pointed to the closing door of men that was swinging across the plain. Jelaudin’s men knew where the trenches lay and they stepped across them with barely a pause. In just moments, they would have encircled the Mongol tumans and then the killing would begin in earnest.

Khasar had ten thousand archers, each with a quiver of thirty arrows on his back. They formed up in the widest line they could make, though the leading edge was quickly sucked into the fighting on the wing. The rest bent their bows at those who marched toward them. Khasar dropped his arm and thousands of shafts bit the air, thumping into armor and men. Another volley followed on the instant and one more.

Kachiun shouted in frustration as he saw the Arab lines shudder. Hundreds of them fell, but they walked with shields high and merely grunted as they took the shots. Kachiun was exposed, and for the first time, he truly feared defeat.

He blew the horn again, a double note repeated that would send his men running. Those who were closest to him responded first, but the order spread like a ripple through the tumans. Khasar cried out in anger, but then he too turned his horse from the enemy and pulled back.

The Arab forces howled in triumph to see their enemy run. Thousands of them tried to cut down the Mongols riding away from them, racing after them with swords held ready for a vicious blow. Kachiun waited for the rest, making sure he did not ride so quickly that he left them all behind. The false withdrawal would have been easier against mounted men, where each rode alone in a wild frenzy of bloodlust.

Kachiun took a sharp breath when a new horn signal sounded across the plain. It was not one of his. To his amazement, he saw the running Arab lines stagger to a halt and turn back. Some gaudy prince among their line had blown the note, and they gave up the chase on the instant. Kachiun had already been planning the point when he would turn and cut them to pieces, far from the protection of the ground they had prepared. Instead, they re-formed where they had first stood and the tumans were left alone on the plain, panting and bloody in their frustration.

Only a few of the Arabs were too slow to respond and were cut down by Mongol warriors. The rest stood in solid ranks and bellowed insults, raising their swords and shields as if daring the Mongols to come and take them. Kachiun could see Khasar’s appalled expression as the two brothers met half a mile away from the battlefield.

“Jelaudin,” Khasar said, gasping for air. “That bastard knows us too well.”

Kachiun nodded grimly. The son of the Shah had seen false retreats against his father and he had been ready. The Mongols had been made to look foolish as they ran from the enemy, and he struggled to find the calm he needed.

The sun had moved astonishingly far during the fighting, so that early evening shadows leapt from him as he dismounted and tipped a waterskin to his mouth. There was time for another attack, but Jelaudin had out-thought him at every step and his confidence had been shattered. Khasar sensed his confusion and spoke again, needing his brother to start thinking.

“What about taking up a position outside their lines tonight and sending arrows at them? It might draw them away from the hills at their back.”

Kachiun shook his head. “With no other threat, they would just gather under shields. The shafts would be wasted.”

“Then what, brother? Leave them to their victory?” Khasar asked. His eyes widened in shock as Kachiun did not reply. “You would let these dog-raping farmers have the day?”

“Unless you have a better idea,” Kachiun snapped. Khasar gaped at him and both men looked up gratefully as Jelme rode up, covered in dust.

“They are cut off from the river, at least,” Jelme said. “Whatever supplies of water they have must run out eventually. We can wait them out.”

Khasar looked scornful at the idea. “I wish Tsubodai was here,” he said. “He would not have us waiting for an enemy to die of thirst or old age.”

Kachiun grimaced, though he shared the same thought. “It comes down to this,” he said. “No tricks, or maneuvers. Bows and swords alone against twice as many.”

“That’s all you have?” Khasar asked incredulously. “Genghis will have your thumbs for a plan like that. We’d lose more than half our men.”

“We have never faced another one like this, Khasar, and we must win.” He thought for a moment while the other two men watched him anxiously. “If they will not leave the position, we can approach slowly, clearing the ground as we go.” He looked up and they saw his confidence return.

“Archers to the front to keep them down and under their shields as we come in. Lancers behind them, ready to charge. Without the pits and stones, they are just an army of foot soldiers. We will cut them down.” He glanced at the sun approaching the western hills and grimaced. “But it will not be today. We must wait for dawn. Have the men rest and eat and bind their wounds. Tomorrow will test us all, but we cannot fail in this place.”

When Khasar spoke, his voice held none of his usual mockery. “Brother, you must send men to Genghis. Get him to bring reinforcements.”

“He could not reach us in less than half a month, Khasar.”

“So we wait! We wait and watch those farmers get thirsty while we drink their river.”

Jelme cleared his throat and both brothers were relieved to have another break the tension between them.

“The losses would be fewer if we had the rest of the tumans. There is that.”

Kachiun knew it was good advice, though every part of him wanted to resume the battle. He could not remember ever being forced to such a position before, and it rankled. He cursed for a time, in three languages.

“Damn them to hell! Very well, I will send riders to Genghis.”

Khasar knew the decision had cost his brother in pride, and for once he chose not to mock him, merely clapping his hand on Kachiun’s shoulder.

“The point of war is to win, Kachiun. It does not matter how we do it, or how long it takes. By the time Genghis arrives, they will be dry throated like chickens in the sun. I will enjoy what comes after that.”

As dawn came the following day, bringing a gray light to the Panjshir valley, the Mongols rose from their camp on the other side of the river, where they could not be attacked in the night. At first Kachiun could not understand why his sharp-eyed scouts were shouting. The night had been freezing and he had slept with his arms tucked into a deel robe over his armor. He pulled the sleeves back to free his sword hand, reaching for it from instinct as the scouts came running toward him.

“Is it an attack?” he demanded, still numb from sleep and the cold. The scout looked terrified at having to deliver his news.

“No, General. The enemy have gone in the night. The plain is empty.”

Kachiun sagged. The valley of Panjshir was a labyrinth of cracks and passes on all sides. Jelaudin’s men would have known them all.

His mind turned to the scouts he had sent riding to Genghis the evening before. He had not done well in the Panjshir valley, and now he would have to send more men to keep Genghis informed. Even worse was the thought he did not voice, that Jelaudin’s men had taken another victory with them to the hills. It was a hard land to track an enemy on the move. The prospect of searching for them among the maze of rocks and valleys that formed this part of the world made him sick with fury. It did not matter that he had most of his forces intact. The enemy had seen them retreat. Kachiun swallowed dryly as he realized he had let a spark leave the valley that could set the world alight. Word would spread that the Mongols could be defeated, and whether he liked it or not, Genghis would have to be told.

“Get the trackers out,” he snapped. “We will have to run them down.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

THE SNOW SWIRLED ALL AROUND HIM, but Tsubodai welcomed the cold. He had been born in such a place, and it suited the numbness he had felt ever since he had accepted the orders of the khan. His face was set, with ice from his breath gathering on his upper lip no matter how many times he rubbed it away.

With ten thousand men at his back, he had not tried to hide his presence. Jochi was no fool and he suspected he knew exactly where the tuman was. Tsubodai thought there was a chance he would find only an abandoned camp, and then he would be forced to hunt the khan’s son across the frozen landscape under the sun. He made sure his banners were held high, bright yellow streamers of silk that would be visible for miles ahead. Jochi would know a tuman had come searching for him, but he would also know Tsubodai commanded.

Tsubodai dipped his head, pulling closer the deel robe that he wore over his armor. His teeth chattered and he bit down. He did not seem to have the strength he remembered as a boy and wondered if the sudden change from heat to cold had robbed him of some of his endurance. The body needed time to grow used to such extremes, even for those born to winter.

He had wrestled with his orders for the entire trip north, climbing mountains and riding empty valleys as well as passing sleeping towns in the dark. This was not a journey of conquest and he and his men had ignored ripe settlements. They had taken sheep and goats wherever they found them, but that was only good sense and the need for fresh meat. Ten thousand men had to be fed, no matter where they rode. Their ponies had been born to snow and they seemed to adjust faster than those who rode them, using their hooves to dig through the ice to grass whenever they were allowed to rest.

The scout who had found Jochi the first time rode just ahead of Tsubodai. For thirty-eight days of hard riding, he had been a near-silent companion. Now Tsubodai saw he had become alert, his head turning constantly. They had ridden for more than a thousand miles since leaving Genghis, using the spare mounts carefully. At last they were close and none of them knew how they would be met. The first sign of Jochi could be an empty village or a song of arrows coming out of the whiteness. Still, they rode on and the general struggled with himself, making and discarding a dozen different plans each day. At times, he tormented himself with the vision of meeting the young man he had fostered and trained for three years, much of the time spent almost as far in the north. The memories were strong and he found himself looking forward to seeing Jochi again, just as a father might want to see his son. He ran entire conversations through his head, one after the other, but they did not bring him peace.

When his scouts brought a stranger back to his tuman, it was almost a relief to be nearing the end of his journey, though Tsubodai felt his stomach clench. He was not ready for what would come, even after so long waiting for it.

He did not recognize the man, though he wore Mongol armor and a deel over it, much as Tsubodai did. More, he had an air of authority as he rode between two scouts, and he did not bow his head as he reached Tsubodai. It had to be a minghaan officer, Tsubodai assumed, staring unblinking as the stranger was disarmed and allowed to come close. The tuman halted and the blinding wind seemed to intensify around them, howling across the land and dragging loose snow around the hooves of their horses.

“General Tsubodai,” the man said in greeting. “We saw your banners.” Tsubodai did not reply. The man would have no authority to act on his own, and he merely waited to see how Jochi would play it out.

“I am to say that you are not welcome here, General,” the officer went on. The warriors around Tsubodai raised their heads at the challenge in the words, but the man did not flinch. “We have no quarrel with you, of all men, but out of respect, we ask that you turn away and leave this place.”

Tsubodai pursed his lips, feeling the ice crack as it clung to him.

“Your master said more than that, Minghaan,” he said. The officer blinked and Tsubodai knew he had guessed the rank correctly. “What did he tell you to do if I would not leave?”

The officer cleared his throat, reminded suddenly that he spoke to the most revered man in the nation after Genghis. Despite the strain, he smiled briefly.

“He said you would not, that you would ask me that question, almost word for word.”

“Well?” Tsubodai demanded. He could feel the cold seeping into him and he was tired from riding. His mind felt dull and he wanted to get out of the wind.

“He told me to say that he will not be there when you come. If you ride against us, you will find nothing. Even you cannot track us in the snow, and we know this land. You will begin a hunt that will take you even further from the khan, but it will be wasted time.” The man swallowed, nervousness growing in him as he sat under the glares of Tsubodai’s warriors. He summoned his courage to continue. “He said you have taught him well and you will not survive the hunt if you begin it.”

Tsubodai held up his hand to halt those who would surge forward and kill the messenger. More than a few of them drew swords with cold-numbed hands, growing angry on his behalf. The moment had come, and though it hurt worse than the cold, he knew just how to reach Jochi.

“I have not come to hunt, Minghaan. Lead me to a place where my men can make camp, eat, and rest. Then I will come with you alone. You will take me to him.”

The officer did not reply at first. Those with Tsubodai began to clamor at him, demanding the right to protect him amidst their enemies. He shook his head and they fell quiet.

“He will see me, Minghaan,” Tsubodai went on. “Did he say that? That he would see me if I came alone? I trained him. He should have thought that far ahead.”

The officer bowed his head. His hands shook as he held the reins, though it was not from the cold.

“I will guide you in, General,” he replied.

It was another night and dawn before Tsubodai and the minghaan officer walked their horses into Jochi’s camp. From the instinct of years, the general could not help taking note of the defenses. They had chosen a spot surrounded by deep woods and forested hills. Even the path to it wound its way on fresh snow between ancient trees. Tsubodai’s respect for the scout who had found them increased sharply. He would commend the man if he lived to return to his tuman.

There were gers there, the thick felt walls far better than stone or wood at keeping out the cold. A wooden palisade sheltered the settlement from the worst of the wind. As he rode through an open section, Tsubodai could see sheep and goats in wooden pens, huddled together in whitish clusters. The numbers were small and he was not surprised to see wooden huts made from the trunks of pines lashed and pinned together. Smoke rose from them and the village had a sense of being warm and snug that Tsubodai enjoyed. He had grown up in just such a place, each home separated from the rest by frozen, muddy tracks.

His arrival had not gone unnoticed. Men whose faces he vaguely recognized stood watching him. His memory was legendary amongst the tribes, but away from the tumans, he could recall only whispers of names and none strongly enough to be certain. Some of them made a point of continuing their work as the general passed, but most stood idle and stared, almost yearning as they recalled a different world. He saw piles of tanned furs, with fresh skins being trimmed and washed in wooden tubs. To his surprise, he also saw pale-skinned women, some of them even pregnant. They worked as hard as the men to make a life in that frozen village, and they did not look up as he passed. The name of Tsubodai meant nothing to them.

Jochi stood waiting at the door of a log house, the building squat and small, but solid looking compared to the gers. Jochi’s shoulders were more powerful than Tsubodai remembered, perhaps from the hard work of creating the settlement. Tsubodai felt his heart quicken with pleasure to see him, despite the circumstances. He would have urged his mount to a trot, but the minghaan officer reached out and took his reins before he could do so. Under that man’s silent warning, Tsubodai dismounted, watched all the time by Jochi.

The general kept his expression cold as he allowed two warriors to search him for weapons. They were very thorough, inspecting the lining of his deel and removing every sharp edge from his armor, even if they had to cut them free with knives. He endured their inspection without looking at them. One of them jerked roughly to free a piece of iron from his armor, and Tsubodai turned his gaze on the man, making him flush as he finished his work. When they were done, there was a pile of sharp-edged scales where they had been tossed into the snow, with his sword and two daggers lying on top. The heavy canvas underneath his armor was revealed in many places, and some of his dignity had been stripped away. Only then did Jochi come forward, while his men stood close with swords ready to take the general’s head.

“You should not have come, Tsubodai,” Jochi said. His eyes were bright and for an instant Tsubodai thought he saw affection there, quickly smothered.

“You knew I would,” Tsubodai replied. “Even though you will abandon this place when I have gone.”

Jochi looked around him. “I thought it was worth the price, though many of my men wanted you killed in the woods.” He shrugged. “I have other sites marked out, far away. We will rebuild.” His face hardened. “But you have cost me already, Tsubodai, just because you knew I would let you come to me.”

Tsubodai held himself still, knowing that a single sharp movement would end his life. As well as the swordsman at his back, he did not doubt there were archers sighting on him.

“Then be sure it is not a waste, Jochi. Make me welcome in your camp and we will talk.”

Jochi hesitated. The man before him was one of his oldest friends, one he respected above all others. Still, he could not shake the sense of dread that came with his presence. He could not out-think Tsubodai and it was hard to crush a swelling sense of fear.

“It is good to see you,” Tsubodai said gently.

Jochi nodded. “And you, old friend. You are welcome in my camp. Join me for tea and salt. I will let you live for the moment.”

Jochi waved the warriors away and Tsubodai climbed two wooden steps that kept the little home clear of the slushy ground. Jochi stood back to let him enter first, and Tsubodai went into the little room beyond.

As Jochi pulled the door shut, Tsubodai caught a glimpse of armed men gathering outside. The message was clear enough and he tried to relax as an iron kettle began to hiss on the stove and Jochi poured watery tea, adding milk and a pinch of salt from a pouch hanging by the door. There was only one low bed in that place, and Tsubodai sat on a stool, sipping at the bowl of tea and enjoying the way it eased the cold in his chest. Jochi seemed nervous and his hands shook as he held his own.

“Is my mother well?” Jochi asked.

Tsubodai nodded. “She thrives in the hot lands, more than most of us. Your brothers too are growing stronger each year. Ogedai now has a tuman of his own and Tolui as well, though his are but boys. I would not like to see them fight. Your father…”

“I do not care how my father is, Tsubodai,” Jochi snapped, cutting him off. “Has he sent you to kill me?”

Tsubodai winced as if he had burned his lips. Carefully, he put aside the bowl, still half full. He had thought his way through this conversation many times, but nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of desolation on seeing Jochi again. At that moment, he would have given anything to be far away, riding different lands for the khan.

“Genghis has given hard orders, Jochi. I did not want them.”

“Yet you are here, his faithful hound,” Jochi said, without softening. “Tell me then what he wants from me.”

Tsubodai took a deep breath. “You have barely seven thousand men, Jochi. They cannot stand against my tuman. Their fate lies with what I must ask you.”

Jochi sat like stone, giving him nothing until Tsubodai went on.

“If you come back alone, they will be left in peace. If you do not, I must kill them all.”

“If you can” Jochi said, his anger flaring.

Tsubodai nodded. “Yes, but you know I can.”

“Not if I have you killed here, General. I know these woods. My men will fight for their homes.”

“If you break truce,” Tsubodai said quietly, “mine will fight to avenge me. Think as a leader, Jochi. You have brought them here, far from your father. They look to you for honor and life. Will you see them all killed?”

Jochi rose to his feet, his bowl of tea falling to the floor and shattering.

“You expect me to come back to be butchered by my father? To leave everything I have built here? You are insane.”

“Your father does not want your men, Jochi. In betraying him, you wounded him publicly. He does not care about hunting them, if you come back. Yes, you will die, did you expect me to lie? You will be executed as an example to any other man who might turn against him. But your people will be left alone. When they leave this camp, no one else will come searching for them, not while I live.” He too stood to face Jochi, his expression becoming stern.

“You have brought them to this, Jochi. You hold their lives in your hands alone. They will either be killed, or you will come with me and they will live. That is the choice you must make, and make now.”

Tsubodai’s chest was tight at seeing the agony in the younger man. He felt it himself, but like Jochi, he had no other choice. He saw the fight go out of Jochi in a slow breath and he slumped back to his seat on the bed. His eyes were dead as he looked into nothing.

“I should have known my father would never let me go,” he said almost in a whisper. “I gave him everything and he still haunts my steps.” The weary smile he turned on Tsubodai almost broke the general’s heart.

“What is one life, after all, Tsubodai? Even my own.” Jochi straightened his back and rubbed his hands roughly over his face so that Tsubodai would not see the glistening of his eyes.

“This is a good place, Tsubodai. We have even begun trading in furs, selling them to other places. My men have found wives in raids, and in just a short time, there will be children here who have never heard the name of Genghis. Can you imagine that?”

“I can. You have made a good life for them, but there is a price for it.”

Jochi stared at him in silence for a long time. At last he closed his eyes.

“Very well, General. It seems my father sent the right man to bring me back.”

He rose once more, recovering some of his poise as he opened the door and let the wind rush into little room.

“Collect your weapons, General,” he said, pointing to the pile on the snow. Around it, many men had gathered. When they saw Jochi, their faces lit up. Tsubodai came out, ignoring the hostile men as he stooped to pick up his sword and daggers. He left the broken scales of armor where they were as he belted on the blade and shoved the daggers into his boots. He did not watch as Jochi spoke to the senior men. He did not think he could bear it. His horse was ready for him, its reins held by a stranger. Tsubodai nodded to him out of habit as he mounted, but the man was looking past him.

Tsubodai turned to see Jochi approaching. The younger man looked tired and smaller somehow, as if something had been taken from him.

“Return to your tuman, General. I will come to you in three days. There are things I must say here.”

Tsubodai bowed in the saddle, shame eating at him. “I will wait for you, General,” he said.

Jochi jerked slightly at the term, but then he nodded and turned away.

Snow still fell as the light faded on the third evening. Tsubodai was not sure that Jochi would come as he had promised, but he had not wasted the time. His men were ready for an attack as they froze and waited. His scouts were out in all directions and he could not be surprised. He stood on the edge of his men, watching the trail as it vanished under the falling snow. He wished his memories could disappear so completely, made fresh and clean rather than torturing him with what he might have done. He still remembered how it had felt to receive the gold paitze from Genghis’s own hand, with the world before them. He had devoted himself to the khan, striving always to show that he was worthy of the honor. Tsubodai sighed. The khan was a man to follow, but he would not have wanted to be his son.

His scouts reached him before Jochi, reporting a lone rider making his way through the woods. For a time, Tsubodai hoped it was not Jochi, that the man would throw his men’s lives away for his freedom. Genghis would have done just that, but Jochi had lived a different life and Tsubodai knew him too well.

When he saw it was Jochi, Tsubodai sat still in his saddle. Even then he hoped that Jochi would change his mind, but he came closer and closer until he stopped his horse facing the general.

“Take me home then, Tsubodai. Take me and let them go.”

Tsubodai nodded and Jochi guided his mount among Tsubodai’s staring warriors, who hardly understood what he had done. The tuman turned in place to go home and the two generals rode through them to take the lead.

“I am sorry,” Tsubodai said.

Jochi looked at him strangely, then sighed. “You are a better man than my father,” he said. He saw Tsubodai’s gaze fall to the wolf’s-head sword he wore at his waist. “Will you let me keep it, Tsubodai? I won it fairly.”

Tsubodai shook his head. “I cannot. I will hold it for you.”

Jochi hesitated, but he was surrounded by Tsubodai’s men. He grimaced suddenly, sick of all the struggle he had known in his life.

“Take it then,” he said, unbuckling the belt and scabbard. Tsubodai reached over as if to accept the sword. Jochi was looking down at it when Tsubodai cut his throat in one swift movement. The younger man was unconscious before he fell from the horse, his blood spattering bright on the snow.

Tsubodai sobbed as he dismounted to check the body, each breath torn from him.

“I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “I am your father’s man.” He knelt by the sprawled body for a long time, and his men knew better than to speak. At last he had regained control of himself and he stood, breathing the frozen air deeply as if it could scour away the blood on his hands. He had followed his orders, but there was no comfort in it.

“At dawn we will ride back to their camp,” he said. “They will come, now he is dead.”

“What shall we do with the body?” one of his minghaan officers asked. He too had known Jochi when he was just a boy, and Tsubodai could not meet his eyes.

“We will take him with us. Treat him gently. He was the khan’s son.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

GENGHIS REINED IN AT THE VALLEY OF PANJSHIR. A howling wind swirled dust across the emptiness, and on one side of the river, hosts of carrion birds leapt and bickered, calling amongst themselves. Genghis grunted at the sight before digging in his heels and riding down. Jebe led those with him, including the tumans commanded by his youngest sons. Ogedai’s men had seen the aftermath of battles and raids before, but most of Tolui’s tuman were still young, some of them barely fourteen years old. They followed with wide eyes, until more senior men jabbed the most obvious gawkers in the ribs with a sword hilt.

Forty thousand men followed Genghis into Panjshir, dusty and thin after a hard ride. Only Chagatai’s tuman had remained to guard the families and move them to new grazing. Genghis had taken every other man he had available, with two spare horses for each of them. Laden with waterskins and supplies, the vast tail of mounts trotted after the warriors, with just a few men at the rear to herd them.

As Genghis rode across the dusty ground, the heat increased until it seemed to beat directly onto their heads. The river ran on his left, the one source of life in a place of desolation. Genghis could see trampled banners as he approached the battle site, and in the distance, people ran from the town of Parwan to the safety of the fortress on the other side of the river. Genghis did not pause as he rode to the fighting birds, scattering ravens and vultures before the horses of his men so that they shrieked and wheeled angrily around them.

Two men still remained on that side of the river, sitting their horses like statues as the khan came in. Kachiun had left them to guide Genghis into the mountains, but they were pale with tension as the tu-mans approached. Surrounded by birds, they decided as one that it would be a good idea to dismount and prostrate themselves. Genghis saw the movement and angled his mount toward them, Ogedai and Tolui following. In comparison to their father, they stared at everything, and Tolui looked faintly ill, though he tried to hide it.

Genghis dismounted, showing his temper only when a raven came swinging in too close to him and he batted furiously at it, sending the bird tumbling in the air. Many of the carrion crows were almost too full to fly and merely hopped from body to body, opening their black wings and beaks as if in warning.

Genghis did not look at the corpses, except to estimate their numbers. What he saw did not please him. He stood over the two scouts and felt his patience fray in the heat.

“Get up and report,” he snapped. They leapt to their feet, standing as if at an execution. No one knew how Genghis would react to a defeat.

“General Kachiun has followed the enemy into the mountains, lord. He said he will leave other men behind to bring you to him.”

“You are still in contact?” Genghis asked. Both men nodded. It used valuable warriors, but the practice of establishing a line from one site to another was nothing new. Barely five miles lay between scouts and they could pass information for twenty times that distance in just a short time.

“There were false trails, lord, but the tumans are searching every valley,” a scout said. “I have no news of a true sighting, not yet.”

Genghis swore and both scouts tightened their faces in fear.

“How do you lose sixty thousand men?” he demanded.

Neither scout was certain if the question required an answer and they looked at each other in desperation. Their relief was obvious when Jebe rode up to join Genghis, looking around him at the battlefield with an experienced eye. As well as the slabs of stone placed to break a charge, he could see trenches, some with dead warriors and horses still in them. Wooden stakes bound together had been broken or knocked to one side, but the rusty stains of blood could still be seen on some. There were hundreds of bodies in Arab robes, lying in pitiful heaps as birds and other animals tugged at their flesh. It was not enough, not nearly enough, and Genghis could hardly control his indignation. Only the thought that he must not criticize his generals aloud held his tongue. He knew Jebe could see the truth, but with Ogedai and Tolui within earshot, Genghis remained silent. Jelaudin’s army had fortified a position, just as a city or town. Kachiun had tried to break the defenses by force, instead of standing back and waiting for them to starve. Genghis glanced at the sun beating on the back of his neck. Thirst would have killed them first, no matter how well they had prepared. To attack such a position was reckless, though he supposed he might have done the same. Still, his brother’s wits had deserted him. Genghis grimaced as he turned to Jebe, seeing the same thoughts reflected in that dark face.

“Discuss the weaknesses of strategy with my sons when we make camp, General,” he said. “This prince should have been stopped here. Now we have to hunt him.”

He turned back to the scouts who still stood, swallowing nervously.

“There is nothing else to see here, nothing that pleases me. Show me the way to my brother and the next scout in the chain.”

Both men bowed and Genghis rode with them, his tumans coming after him in perfect order as they crossed the valley of Panjshir and entered a narrow crack, almost invisible in the brown rocks. It was barely wide enough for the horses to go through.

It took eight more days before Genghis reached Kachiun’s tumans. In that time, he had not allowed his men to stop long enough to cook food, even if they had been able to find wood for a fire. The mountains in that region seemed bare of life, populated only by lizards and high nests of birds. When warriors came across a stunted tree, they chopped it down with axes and tied the wood to spare horses to be used later.

As he went, Genghis rolled up the line of scouts Kachiun had left behind, bringing each man with him as the tumans traveled deeper into the maze of canyons and valleys. At times, they rode their mounts over slopes of rock, almost too steep to remain in the saddle. There were no tracks left there. Genghis and Jebe began to appreciate the difficulty of the task for Kachiun. It was hard even to know which direction they faced at times, especially at night, but the line of scouts knew the way and they made quick progress. When they came upon the rear of Kachiun’s tumans, Genghis took Jebe and his sons through to the front, looking for Kachiun. He found him on the morning of the eighth day, at a brackish lake surrounded by towering peaks.

Genghis made a point of embracing Kachiun, letting the men see that he held no grudge for their defeat.

“Are you close?” he said, without preamble.

Kachiun saw the banked anger in his brother and winced. He knew better than to explain himself, having no doubt at all that Genghis would discuss his errors in great detail when they were alone.

“Three false trails headed east, brother, but the main force is going south, I am certain of it.” Kachiun showed Genghis a piece of horse dung, teasing it apart in his hands.

“Still moist, even in this heat. We cannot be more than a day behind them.”

“Yet we have stopped,” Genghis said, raising his eyebrows.

“I am running low on water, brother. This lake is salt and useless to us. Now you are here, we can share skins and move faster.”

Genghis gave the order immediately, without pausing to see the first waterskins brought up. He had thousands on his spare horses and the animals were used to sucking at them as if they had never forgotten their mother’s teats. He felt every delay as a spur to his growing irritation. It was hard not to berate Kachiun with so many watching the exchange. When Khasar and Jelme came to greet him, Genghis could barely look at them.

“Tsubodai has orders to join us when he returns,” he said to the three generals. “What is past is past. Ride with me now and redeem yourselves.”

A flicker of movement caught his eye and Genghis squinted up against the sun. On a peak, he saw a distant man waving a banner above his head. He looked back at Kachiun, incredulous.

“What is that?”

“The enemy,” Kachiun said grimly. “They have watchers on us all the time.”

“Send six good climbers up and kill him,” Genghis said, forcing himself to remain calm.

“They choose places one man can defend. We move past them too quickly to waste time getting them down.”

“Has the sun softened your head, brother?” Genghis demanded. Once more he had to struggle to control his temper. “Those are Jelaudin’s eyes. Have more men ride ahead and pick them off with arrows as they find them. It does not matter if some of the warriors fall trying to reach them. When our enemy is blind, we will find him more easily.”

Jelaudin stared into the distance, watching the flag signal as it rose and dipped four times.

“The khan has taken the field,” he said. His stomach clenched as he spoke, and suddenly all the strength of his army seemed insubstantial. This was the man who had destroyed his father’s regiments, sent elephants mad with pain, and carved his way through the golden cities. Jelaudin had known he would come, the knowledge tainting their victories. The khan’s pride demanded his presence and Jelaudin had known he would not be slow to follow.

“How many men?” Nawaz asked at his shoulder. He had not taken the time to learn the flag signals, but Jelaudin did not upbraid him.

“Four tumans, that is forty thousand more warriors in the hunt. They will move faster now.”

For twelve days, they had led the Mongols into blind canyons and false trails, losing just a few men while they wound their way through the Afghan hills. The sudden withdrawal from Panjshir had always been a gamble, but Jelaudin knew the word would spread almost as fast as he could move his army. Cities waited for a thousand miles to hear that the khan’s men had been defeated. Jelaudin thought of them as he stared at the setting sun. They would rise when they heard. Those places where Mongol garrisons kept the peace would be again at war. Every day he remained alive shook the khan’s grip on Arab lands. Jelaudin swore a silent oath as he stood there. He would shake it loose.

Men rode ahead of him, leaving the hills far behind to take the news. Jelaudin knew if he could hold off the khan for just a season, his army would swell with every man and boy able to hold a sword. He would set the land on fire with the chance to strike back at the invader. If he survived. He smiled at Nawaz, standing at his side like a faithful servant. He was weary and his feet hurt. He had walked for many miles that day, but now the khan had come. It was time to ride, fast and far away from the mountains.

Genghis could find no fault with the way Kachiun moved his tumans through the labyrinth of passes. His brother had men out in all directions, linking back to the generals like the threads of a delicate web spreading over the hills. There were few mistakes once the routines had been learned, and while Genghis was there, they avoided two more dead ends and one false trail that would have taken them ten miles out of their way. Genghis developed a grudging respect for the prince he hunted. He would have liked to ask Tsubodai about the pursuit to the Caspian Sea. It occurred to Genghis that Jelaudin may well have been the mind that kept his family safe and not his father, as they had supposed.

It was strange how often Tsubodai’s name came up in conversation between the generals. Genghis deflected their interest with curt replies or silence, not wanting to discuss the task he had set. Some things were not meant to go into the histories Temuge was writing. As he rode, Genghis wondered if he should keep a tighter rein on his brother’s record of the tribes. Part of him still thought it was foolish to trap words in such a way, for all you could control it. Though he recalled Arslan’s quiet scorn for fame, Genghis quite enjoyed the idea of shaping his own memory. In Samarkand he had mentioned the possibility of doubling enemy numbers in Temuge’s account of battles and left his brother openmouthed at the idea.

The tumans moved faster through the hills, leaving the worst part of the maze behind them. Genghis pushed them on and they found new depths to their endurance under his gaze. No one wanted to be first to call the halt, and they survived on just a few hours’ sleep, sometimes just dozing in the saddle as those who were still awake led them on.

Beyond the rocky slopes and valleys, they now followed a true trail, the marks of any large force of men and horses. As well as lumps of drying horse dung, the excrement of men buzzed with flies feasting on the moisture, fresher every day. The tumans knew they were drawing close to the enemy. In the khan’s presence, they were hungry to revenge the defeats at Panjshir: they would not fail again, not with Genghis watching. Privately, Genghis thought Kachiun could have taken them through the hills without him, but he led the nation and he could not trust another with the task at hand.

Each day brought news from the chains of scouts he maintained for a thousand miles. The old days of an army moving alone and out of touch had gone with his subjugation of the Arab lands. It was a rare day that did not bring two or more dusty messengers from as far back as Samarkand and Merv as well as deep into the west. The Mongol nation had made deep prints in the dust of Arab lands.

Genghis both enjoyed and was disturbed by the stream of information. He had grown to manhood in a time where a raiding band might move unseen across the land, answerable to no one. Now, he had problems coming to him that he could do nothing about, and at times he wished he had brought Temuge with him to handle the details of the reports. He heard that the Afghan city of Herat had expelled its Mongol garrison, leaving them alive. Another stronghold, Balkh, had closed its gates and refused to send another year’s tribute. The cracks were widening and he could do nothing about it. His task was to find and annihilate the enemy who had caused such a rush of confidence in once-beaten cities. In time, he would remind them of their obligations to him.

The seven tumans moved on at increasing speed, pushing the men and spare horses. Jebe organized fresh mounts every second day and each change brought a surge of new energy as the warriors felt an eager horse under them again. Small boys rode with the supplies behind the army, and Genghis took no note of them until Jebe brought two tiny urchins up on his saddle, riding right to the khan. They were so black with dirt that at first Genghis did not recognize them. Boys always accompanied the army, though these were very small. They ran errands for warriors and the largest were allowed to beat drums as they formed for battle.

One of the little boys grinned and Genghis pulled up, astonished. Mongke sat before Jebe and Kublai peeked from behind his back. With the boundless energy of young boys, they were both thin as rats and burned dark by the fierce sun. Genghis scowled at them and the grins disappeared instantly. His expression softened slightly, remembering a time when the whole world was an adventure. They were too young to come on such a journey, and he suspected their mother, Sorhatani, would take the skin off their buttocks when they reached the families once more. He wondered if their father, Tolui, had any idea they were there. Genghis doubted it.

“What do you want to do with them?” Jebe asked. His eyes were bright as he looked at Genghis and the two men shared a moment of humor. The boys had not been told to stay with their mother. It had not occurred to anyone to give such an order to ones so young. They had no inkling of the danger around their grandfather. Genghis lowered his brows, making his face stern.

“I have not seen them, General,” he said. Kublai’s eyes gleamed with sudden hope. Genghis chose to ignore the little face, complete with a crust of snot between the nose and upper lip.

Jebe nodded, a smile lifting one side of his mouth. “My lord khan,” he replied, dipping his head as he went off to lose the boys once more in the herd of spare horses behind them.

Genghis smiled to himself as he rode on. He suspected he was a better grandfather than he had ever been a father, but he did not let the idea trouble him unduly.

The tumans rode on doggedly as they reached the edge of the mountainous region. Genghis thought they could not be more than a couple of hundred miles from the Panjshir valley, though they had ridden far further along the twists and turns. He did not know if Jelaudin had hoped to open up a gap between the armies. He had almost done so in the first days, but the tumans had gained on his army, pulling them in day by day. By the time the mountains came to an end, the dung of horses and men was barely cooling. Genghis rode with his generals at the head of the host, among the first to feel the rocky ground give way to packed earth and scrub grass. From his maps, he knew the grassy plain led south into India. It was not a land he knew, but he cared nothing for that. His scouts were riding in at shorter intervals and he knew where the enemy lay.

Jelaudin’s men ran before those who hunted them. Genghis had driven his army hard for more than a month, and they were tired and thin, the meager rations of milk and blood toward the end hardly sustaining them. The river Indus lay ahead and Jelaudin’s host flowed toward it, desperate to escape the storm they had brought down on their heads.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

JELAUDIN STARED down a forty-foot drop to the swollen river Indus, the great artery that fed a continent for a thousand miles further south and more. The hills around the banks were green, lush with ancient acacia trees and wild olives. He could smell the scent of flowers on the breeze. Small birds flew in all directions, singing warnings as his army gathered. It was a place of life, but the water ran fast and deep, so that the Indus may as well have been a city wall. The region of Peshawar lay just a short way beyond the river, and Jelaudin turned in fury to the young rajah who stood with him, gazing stricken at the empty banks.

“Where are the boats you promised me?” Jelaudin said. Nawaz gestured weakly with his hands, at a loss. They had driven men and horses to exhaustion to reach the river, knowing that when they crossed, the Mongols could not follow for months, if at all. India was an unknown land to the Mongol khan, and if he dared to set foot there, a hundred princes would answer with armies greater than he had ever seen. Jelaudin had planned to take his victories like jewels among the princes, so that he could return with an even greater force. He could not help looking back at the dust cloud in the distance, rising into the air like an omen.

Without warning, Jelaudin took hold of the rajah’s silk jacket and shook him furiously.

“Where are the boats?” he yelled into his face. Nawaz was pale with fear and Jelaudin let him go just as quickly, so that he almost fell.

“I don’t know,” the rajah stammered, “my father…”

“Would he leave you to die here?” Jelaudin demanded. “With your own lands so close?” He felt a mounting hysteria and it was hard to resist striking the foolish young prince who had promised so much.

“Perhaps they are still coming,” Nawaz said.

Jelaudin almost growled at him, but he nodded. Within moments he had riders galloping south along the banks, searching for the fleet of merchant traders that would carry them to safety. He did not dare look at the dust cloud in the distance, knowing the Mongols would be there, coming like wolves with iron teeth to tear him apart.

Genghis rode at a light canter, staring ahead. His eyes had weakened further, so that he could not trust them for long distances. Instead, he had Ogedai call out a constant description of the army they faced. His son’s voice was tight with excitement.

“They have gathered on the banks of the river. I see horses, perhaps ten thousand or more on the right wing facing us, their left.” Ogedai paused, squinting.

“I see… ranks forming around the center. They are turning to face us. I can’t see beyond the river yet.”

Genghis nodded. If Jelaudin had been given a few clear days, he might have taken his men to safety. Instead, the hardship of the pace Genghis had set showed its worth. He had caught the prince on this side of the river. It would do. The khan turned in the saddle to his closest scout.

“Take this message to General Kachiun. I will hold the center with Jebe and Ogedai. Kachiun will have the right wing, with Khasar, against their cavalry. Tell him he can give them back the defeat at Panjshir and I will not accept less. Now go.”

Another scout took the young man’s place as the first rode away. The second was ready and Genghis went on. “Generals Jelme and Tolui will swing wide on my left. I want the enemy held tight in one place against the river. Their task is to block any line of retreat to the north.” Tolui’s tuman was still too young to be sent in against veteran soldiers. Holding the army in place would be honorable enough for hardly blooded men. Jelme would not enjoy the task, but Genghis knew he would obey. The tumans would sweep in against Jelaudin’s army in three places, pinning them against the Indus.

Genghis slowed his approach as the lines formed, turning his head left and right to watch the tumans match his pace. Ogedai called out as new details came clear in the distance, but Genghis heard nothing to interfere with the swelling sense of anticipation in his chest. He recalled the presence of his grandsons among the spare horses and sent another scout racing back to be sure they were kept out of the fighting.

He came in slowly until he could see the enemy ranks as clearly as Ogedai and silenced his son with a wave of his hand. Jelaudin had picked the site of the last battle with Mongol tumans. He had not been able to choose the ground for this one.

Genghis drew his sword, holding it high as his men waited for the signal to charge. The army on the riverbanks would know better than to surrender, he knew. The prince had gambled everything when he had returned from the Caspian Sea, and he had nowhere else to run. Genghis saw the tumans of Jelme and Tolui moving ahead of the main lines, ready to cut off and hold the left wing. On his right, Kachiun and Khasar matched the maneuver so that the Mongols rode as an empty cup, with Genghis at the deepest part. They faced sixty thousand fanatical followers and Genghis saw them raise their swords as one, waiting for him. With the river at their back, they would fight for every foot of ground.

Genghis leaned forward in the saddle, pulling back dry lips to show his teeth. He dropped his arm and the tumans surged forward, kicking their mounts into a gallop.

Jelaudin stared at the lines of Mongol riders who dragged the dust of the mountains with them. His hands shook in rage and frustration as he looked again at the empty river. The far bank and safety were so close it hurt to think of it. He could swim the waters, despite their fierce flow, but most of his men had never learned the trick. For desperate moments, he considered shedding his armor and leading them into the river, away from the death he saw coming. They would follow, he knew, trusting in Allah to keep them safe. It was impossible. For those who had grown to manhood in the Afghan hills, in deserts and cities, deep water was a rare sight. They would drown in their thousands as they entered the swift current.

He saw many faces turned to him, looking for some words of encouragement as the hated enemy formed horns on either wing. His brothers were there among them, their faces bright with faith. Jelaudin fought with despair.

“We have shown they can be beaten!” he bellowed to them. “They are many, but not so many that we cannot gut them again. Kill this khan for me and you will know paradise. Let Allah guide your swords and let no man turn away from the fight so that he cannot face God with pride. They are just men!” he shouted. “Let them come. We will show them this land is not to be taken.”

Those who heard turned back to the Mongol khan with new fire in their eyes. They raised shields and curved swords as the ground trembled under their feet.

At full gallop, Genghis raised his sword again, cutting the air sharply. Arrows came in a ripple down the lines on either side, slightly delayed as each tuman registered the command and loosed. Ahead, he saw Jelaudin’s ranks drop to a crouch, holding the shields high. Genghis grunted irritably, sending another volley buzzing toward them. Many of Jelaudin’s men survived the first and then rose to their feet too soon, so that the second flight of shafts caught them. Arrows that could punch through an iron scale rocked them back.

The tumans on his wings jammed their bows onto saddle hooks, drawing swords as they reached the enemy. On his right, ahead of him, Genghis saw the tumans of Kachiun and Khasar smash into the standing lines, while Tolui and Jelme drew up almost on the riverbanks on his left. From there, they loosed shaft after shaft in a constant hail. Arabs fell, struck from the side as they raised their shields blindly to the front.

Genghis smelled the river and the fear sweat of thousands of men as he raced his mount straight at the center. He hoped he would find the prince there, waiting for him. Jelaudin’s men were ten deep, but the Mongol ponies had been trained for such an assault and did not hesitate as they plunged into them. Genghis swept through the first three ranks, swinging his sword as men were knocked down by the impact. With his knees, he turned the mount in place, feeling the solid connection as she kicked and sent someone reeling. A wedge of his best warriors came with him, protecting the khan with their ferocity as they cut their way into the mass.

Genghis saw a turbaned prince in bright fabric and lunged at him before Jelaudin’s soldiers drove him back with sheer weight. He saw a shield loom at him, its owner cracking it into his horse’s face and turning her. Genghis killed the man, but he was forced back another step as more came in, using their shields well and punching blows around them.

Very few reached the khan. A thousand warriors moved with him, each the veteran of more battles than they could recall. The pointed wedge they formed dug its way deeper into Jelaudin’s ranks until they could see the river ahead of them. Jebe and Ogedai moved in the center of two other arrowheads on either side of the khan, forming three sharp tines that speared the army they faced. Whoever faced the leading edges were cut down, while those they passed were killed by men behind.

The noise was terrible in the press, a roar of sound that battered at the ears. Genghis felt his arm grow tired and missed a sword that slid along the layered scales of his thigh until it gashed him above the knee. It would be one more scar on his legs to add to the mass of ridged skin. The pain improved his speed and he whipped his sword across the face of the attacker.

Jelaudin’s men did not break, perhaps because they had nowhere to go. Genghis was content at first to let the three wedges move in together, clawing strips in the enemy lines. From horseback, they loomed over men on foot, using the weight of the swords to swing down with greater force than those below and always seeing the next attack coming. Even so, Genghis felt hemmed in by the enemy and knew his men would be feeling the same. He saw a horse collapse as its front legs were cut, the warrior remaining in the saddle until a sword jabbed into his throat. Roaring warriors came through the gap in the wedge, fighting to reach Genghis himself. He turned, ready for them, but his men were fast and young. They blocked the path almost before it could form. He stood in the stirrups as they too were gashed and knocked from their mounts.

The rear of Jelaudin’s army was swirling, with more and more men converging on the khan. They stared up at him as they pushed through their own in reckless fury. Genghis saw the left of his wedge pushed back, crumpling under the chopping blades of the enemy. Some even used their shields in threes or fours, heaving together so that the horsemen were turned in on themselves. More and more spilled into the wedge, coming straight at him. Genghis had time for a glimpse over at Ogedai, but the pressure there was nowhere near as great.

Genghis moved his horse back three quick steps, giving himself room as the wave of Arabs reached him. His horse answered every command from pressure of his knees, dancing round so that the first blow swung wide. Genghis took a man’s head, but the next struck at his mare’s foreleg. As she moved, the blade turned, but the weight of iron was enough to snap the bone. The horse screamed and Genghis fell badly, hitting the ground with his sword arm outstretched. He felt a sickening thump and struggled to get up without understanding he had torn the joint from its socket. There seemed to be yelling enemies everywhere and he was disoriented.

His wedge fell in on itself as his men struggled to protect the khan. More and more fought through from behind as a warrior dismounted and tried to shove Genghis into his own saddle. He died for his efforts, stabbed in the back as Genghis found his seat again. The khan’s sword had gone and his arm hung limply, every movement an agony. Genghis drew a dagger from his boot with his left hand and wheeled the fresh horse away. His men roared into the space he left behind, using their strength in a mad rush that would see many of them cut down as they grew slow from weariness.

Genghis pulled back through his own ranks, raging at the weakness of his arm. For a fleeting moment, he wished Kokchu was there to put him right, but there were other men who knew battlefield injuries. He caught sight of one his own minghaan officers and shouted to him, calling him by name across the lines of fighting.

The officer almost lost his head as he turned to the khan, responding with a quick cut at a man’s legs before he yanked his horse around and forced his way through.

“My lord?” the officer said, gasping.

“Put my arm back in,” Genghis replied. The pain was excruciating. He sat the horse calmly as warriors streamed around them both, staring curiously at the khan. Genghis put his dagger back in his boot and held the saddle pommel tightly with his left hand as he heaved a leg over and slid to the ground. The officer stopped gaping, his face becoming set.

“Lie faceup on the ground, my lord,” he said, sheathing his sword. Genghis did so with a grunt and kept his face cold as the officer took his loose arm and pressed his fingers into the joint.

“Quickly!” Genghis snapped. The officer put his boot into Genghis’s armpit and heaved, twisting at the same time. There was another dull thump and Genghis saw white for an instant before the pain vanished. He allowed the officer to help him to his feet and tested the arm.

“You can still cut downwards, but avoid lifting the arm away from your body, understand?”

Genghis ignored him. The arm felt weaker than before, but he clenched his fist and smiled. He could grip a sword.

On his right, Kachiun and Khasar had destroyed Jelaudin’s cavalry, sending a few dozen survivors running as they turned their swords and arrows on the center. Jelaudin’s men were caught between pincers, but they fought on, seemingly intent on taking as many with them as they could. The pace of the battle had slowed as both sides tired, and Genghis saw he would lose many more men as the day ended. He flexed his arm, looking ahead to where Ogedai and Jebe still fought. Their wedges were intact, the enemy falling back from them. On a clear plain, he might have pushed on, knowing that they would break soon. Against the river, Genghis shook his head and reached for the scout horn that dangled on his chest.

He blew a long dropping note, then repeated it. It was echoed on other horns across the field and his men heard. They pulled back, killing as the Arabs tried to rush them. Those who were still mounted broke free first, while those on foot had to defend every step as the Arabs surged after them. It was bloody work, but as the light began to fade, there was clear ground between the tumans and the army on the banks.

Genghis looked for his messenger scouts and could not see them anywhere close. He sent warriors for them and it seemed an age until they could be found. After that, he had them raise the banner that would summon his generals. He passed on orders to make camp just half a mile from the river, and his men went with him. They had lost the cold face in the fighting, becoming flushed and vital. Some of them laughed wildly. Others rode in a dark mood, having seen their own death come too close that day.

They left a broken line of dead behind them, with many more of Jelaudin’s than theirs. The prince’s army had been torn apart, but they still jeered and shouted halfheartedly, the sounds coming from gasping, tired men. They saw the Mongols dismount, barely eight hundred paces away. The tumans ignored the army behind them on the river-bank, bringing up the pack animals for food and water as they prepared to make camp.

Jelaudin still lived, though his armor was gashed and bright in many places. He panted like a dog in the sun as he watched the Mongols ride away without looking back. The sunlight was becoming gray and though he was relieved at the respite, he knew they would return at dawn. He and his men would have it all to do again.

“I will die tomorrow,” he whispered to himself. None of his men heard him as they passed skins of river water along the line to ease their throats. He could feel their eyes on him as he stood staring onto the plain, perhaps hoping that he would yet come up with some stroke to save them all.

The rajah of Peshawar came through the ranks to join him at the front, taking moments as he did so to clap men on the shoulder and exchange a few words of encouragement. Those who had taken terrible wounds were beginning to cry out, the noise suddenly loud after the crash of battle. Many of them would die before morning. Jelaudin had supplies of opium for pain, enough at least to dull their wits while they died. It was all he could do for them and he felt ill with hatred for the khan of the Mongols.

He turned to his friend and both men knew they were finished, unable to bear the knowledge in each other’s eyes.

“I think my father had the boats burned,” Nawaz said softly. “He is a fool, lost in old ways and old Hindu gods. He does not understand why I chose to follow you.”

Jelaudin nodded, still staring out at the Mongol camp, seeming almost close enough to touch. The khan’s men surrounded them in a great bow. There would be no stealthy flight from the banks that night.

“I am sorry I brought you to this place,” Jelaudin replied. “I had such hopes, my friend! To see it come to this …” He hawked and spat on the ground and Nawaz winced at the grief in his voice.

“You could swim when you were a little boy, Jelaudin. Could you get across the river?”

“And leave my men here? I won’t do it. You sank like a stone, Nawaz, if I remember. I had to drag you out myself.”

His friend smiled in memory. He sighed to himself, staring at the Mongols who rested in the growing gloom.

“We showed they can be beaten, Jelaudin. You are still a talisman to the men. If you can cross the river, they will give their lives gladly. It does not have to end here. Take your brothers with you and live.” He saw Jelaudin firm his mouth and spoke quickly to forestall the objection.

“Please, Jelaudin. Let me command the men tomorrow. If I thought you would escape, I could fight without regrets. I promised the boats would be here. Do not let me die with this guilt, my friend. It is too much for me.”

Jelaudin smiled gently then, letting himself feel the weariness that ached in every joint.

“Your father would be proud of you, if he knew it all,” he said. “I am proud of you.” He clasped Nawaz on the back of the neck before letting his hand fall.

As dawn came, Genghis roused himself, instantly irritable as his arm felt as stiff as a piece of wood. As he rose from the cold ground, he tested it gingerly. With his elbow at his side, he had good movement up and down, but if he held the limb away from his body, it felt loose and without strength. He swore to himself, hating the weakness far more than pain. The minghaan officer had come to him again before he slept, testing the joint and warning him that it needed a month of rest, then two more to rebuild the muscle he would lose.

Genghis clambered to his feet and accepted a bowl of salt tea from a warrior who had waited for him to wake. He sipped it slowly, feeling the warmth banish the chill from his limbs. He had spoken to his generals, commending Kachiun in front of them to repair the damage to his brother’s reputation. He had praised Ogedai as well and he was truly pleased with his son. Ogedai seemed to have grown in stature since becoming the heir. He had a quiet dignity to him that Chagatai had never had, and Genghis wondered at the strangeness of fate. Perhaps he had been led to choose the right son to inherit his lands.

Jelaudin’s army was clearly visible as the light grew stronger. They had removed many of the dead and Genghis assumed the bodies had been dropped in the river to be tumbled away in the current. They did not look so fearsome now, Genghis thought. Almost half of them had been slaughtered the day before, and though it may have been his imagination, he thought he saw resignation in the way they stood so silently and waited. They did not expect to survive and that pleased him. He thought of the cities that had been so quick to rebel. They would hear of this day and consider what it meant for them. Herat and Balkh would be the first to see his armies, and this time he would not accept tribute or surrender. He would make a lesson of them, that he would not be scorned or mocked.

Genghis tossed the bowl down to the grass and signaled for a fresh horse to be brought. The tumans formed in squares and Genghis hardly cast an eye over them, knowing the officers would have worked through the night to bring new arrows and swords to those that needed them. He was no longer a young man, able to go two or three days without rest. While he slept, many of his warriors had worked, sharpening swords and tending to their horses.

As Genghis mounted, he saw Mongke and Kublai sitting with other boys nearby, sharing a piece of dried mutton. He scowled at the sight, looking around him for the nearest officer to take them to safety. Before he could find one, Jelaudin’s army shouted a challenge, sending flights of startled birds soaring up from the trees by the river.

Genghis stood in his stirrups, straining his eyes to see if they would attack. Instead, Jelaudin’s army parted and Genghis watched in astonishment as one man rode through them to the ground between the two armies.

The khan stared out at the lone rider. He did not know Jelaudin by sight, but it could be no other. As Genghis watched, Kublai and Mongke stood to see what was holding their grandfather’s interest. Both boys watched in fascination as Jelaudin took a knife and cut through the lacing holding his armor, so that it fell away in pieces.

Genghis raised his eyebrows, wondering if he watched some sort of ritual. In just moments, Jelaudin sat his horse in just a tattered robe, and Genghis exchanged a glance with officers nearby, mystified. He saw the prince raise his sword as if in salute, then fling it at the ground so that it stuck point first in the earth. Was he surrendering? Three young men came from the ranks and he spoke to them, ignoring the Mongol host. The prince seemed relaxed in their presence and he laughed with them. Genghis watched curiously as all three men touched their foreheads to his stirrup, then returned to their places.

The khan opened his mouth to order the tumans forward, but the prince turned his horse and dug in his heels. His army had left a clear route back to the riverbanks and Genghis realized at last what Jelaudin was going to do. The khan had seen the drop on the previous day, and he winced in appreciation.

Jelaudin reached the muddy bank at a gallop. Without hesitation, horse and man leapt, plunging over the edge. The tumans were close enough to hear the great splash that followed, and Genghis nodded to himself.

“Did you see that, Kublai? Mongke?” he called out, startling the boys from their awe.

Kublai answered him first. “I saw. Is he dead?”

Genghis shrugged. “Perhaps. It was a long drop to the river.” He thought for a moment, wanting his grandsons to appreciate the dramatic gesture of contempt. Jelaudin could have climbed down at any point in the night, but he had wanted the khan to see the reckless courage of his race. As a horseman born, Genghis had enjoyed the moment more than any other part of the campaign, but it was difficult to explain to the boys.

“Remember the name of Jelaudin, Kublai. He was a strong enemy.”

“That is a good thing?” Kublai asked, perplexed.

Genghis nodded. “Even enemies can have honor. His father was fortunate to have such a son. Remember this day, and perhaps in time, you will make your own father proud.”

Ahead of him, Jelaudin’s army closed the gap and raised their swords. Jelaudin’s three brothers strode forward with tears of joy in their eyes.

Genghis smiled, though he did not forget to send the boys to the rear before he gave the order to move.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

THE RAINS HAD COME AT LAST to Samarkand, pounding on the tile roofs of the city in a constant downpour that had lasted for days and showed no sign of ceasing. The streets ran as rivers and the inhabitants could only endure. Illness spread as cesspools overflowed and added their stinking contents to standing water, some even corrupting the city wells. The air remained hot even so and Genghis abandoned the Shah’s palace when a vicious new pestilence appeared. It began with vomiting and loose bowels, killing first children and the old as they grew weak. No one was safe and there was no pattern to it: in one area, hundreds would die, while no one suffered in streets all around. Chin physicians told Genghis that such a scourge could only be left to run its course.

The khan urged Arslan to leave Samarkand, but the old general refused, as was his right. The city was his. Arslan had not mentioned the first stirrings of sickness in his gut as he walked Genghis to the gates and saw them nailed shut. With the khan safe, Arslan had closed his eyes, feeling a hot iron in his bowels as he walked back to the palace through deserted streets. Genghis heard of his death just days later.

When Genghis looked at Samarkand after that, it was with fury and grief, as if the city itself were responsible. Those inside mourned the dead or joined them while the khan and his generals took shelter in the gers outside. No one died there. The families collected their water from the lakes to the north and sickness did not strike the camp.

Tsubodai was sighted as the number of deaths began to fall and the air grew cool for the first time in many months. As the general drew closer, tension mounted palpably in the camp. Genghis became more and more irritable until no one dared approach him. The death of Arslan had put the final touch on a bad year, and he was not sure he wanted to hear what had become of Jochi. No one had died for four days when he allowed the city to open its gates at last and burn the rotting dead. Arslan was among the corpses and Genghis sat by the funeral pyre as his oldest friend was reduced to clean ash and bones. The shamans of the nation gathered solemnly to chant the general’s soul through to the sky father, though Genghis hardly heard them. The great fires seared the air, burning away the last of the sickness. In some ways, it felt like a rebirth. Genghis wanted to put bad memories behind him, but he could not prevent Tsubodai coming home.

As Tsubodai reached the walls of Samarkand at last, Genghis waited for him in the khan’s ger, lost in dark thoughts. He looked up when the general entered through the small door, and even then a small part of him hoped he would have failed.

Tsubodai handed the wolf’s-head sword to the khan, his eyes shadowed and showing nothing. Genghis took it almost with reverence, laying the scabbard across his lap and breathing out slowly. He looked older than Tsubodai remembered, worn thin by battle and time.

“The body?” Genghis asked.

“I would have brought it back, but the heat…” Tsubodai’s gaze fell to a rough sack he had brought with him. He had carried its withered contents for hundreds of miles.

“I have Jochi’s head,” he said.

Genghis winced. “Take it away and bury or burn it,” he replied. “I do not want to see.”

Tsubodai’s eyes flashed for a moment. He was tempted to remove the head from the sacking and make the khan look at the dead face of his son. He throttled the impulse quickly, knowing it was born of exhaustion.

“Did his men resist, afterwards?” Genghis asked.

Tsubodai shrugged. “Some of the Chin officers chose to take their own lives. The rest came with me, as I thought they would. They are still fearful that you will have them killed.” He breathed deeply. “I made promises to them.” Tsubodai sensed Genghis was about to speak and threw aside his caution.

“I will not see my word broken, my lord khan,” he said.

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, each assessing the will of the other. Finally Genghis nodded.

“They will live, Tsubodai. They will fight again for me, yes?” He chuckled, though it was a forced and ugly sound. The silence became uncomfortable until Tsubodai spoke again.

“I heard of your victory.”

Genghis put aside the sword, relieved at being able to speak of mundane things.

“Jelaudin escaped,” he said. “I have scouts searching for him, but there is no sign. Do you want the task?”

“No, lord. I have had enough of the heat. The one good thing I found in going north was in welcoming the cold again. Everything is cleaner there.”

Genghis hesitated as he considered how to reply. He sensed a great bitterness in his general, and he did not know how to ease it. He recalled the worst times of his own life and knew that time alone would heal the man, rather than anything he could say. Tsubodai had obeyed his orders and he was tempted to tell him to take comfort from that.

Genghis held his tongue. The brooding general brought a subtle sense of menace into the ger, and Genghis felt invisible hackles rise as he struggled for words.

“I will move the nation to Herat in the west. One sharp blow there will restore the nerve of other cities. After that, I think I will return home for a few years. It has been too long and I am tired.”

Tsubodai tilted his head slightly and Genghis felt his temper begin to fray.

“Did you hear that Arslan died in the city?” he asked.

Tsubodai nodded. “He was a great man,” he said softly.

Genghis scowled at the calm tone. “Even so, it was not a good death,” he said.

Once more, Tsubodai did not add anything to the stilted conversation and the khan’s temper came to the surface.

“What do you want from me, Tsubodai? You have my thanks. Do you think I am pleased that this had to be done?” Genghis glanced at the sack between Tsubodai’s feet and almost reached for it. “There was no other way, General.”

“I grieve for him, still,” Tsubodai replied.

Genghis stared at him, then looked away. “As you please, Tsubodai. There will be many who grieve. Jebe was his friend, as was Kachiun. His mother is distraught, but they know it was my order.”

“Still, I am the man who killed the khan’s son,” Tsubodai said grimly.

Genghis shook his head. “He was not my son,” he said, his voice hard. “Put this aside and ride with me to Herat.”

Tsubodai shook his head. “You do not need me for that.”

Genghis crushed the swelling sense of anger at the man. He barely understood Tsubodai’s pain, but there was a debt to be repaid and he realized the general could not simply return to the nation.

“Once more then, Tsubodai,” he said, his voice hard. “For your service, I ask. What do you want from me?”

Tsubodai sighed. He had hoped to find peace when he gave the sword and head to the khan. It had not come.

“Let me take tumans to the north once more, into the clean cold. I will win cities for you there and wash away what I have done.”

Tsubodai bowed his head at last, staring blankly at the wooden floor as Genghis considered. Jebe had been planning a raid to the north before Jelaudin’s army had attacked at Panjshir. In normal times, Genghis would have sent the two generals away without a thought. The sick misery he saw in Tsubodai troubled him deeply, in part because he felt it himself, but resisted. He had revenged the insults of small kings. The Shah was dead with all but his oldest son, and Genghis had scorched cities from east to west. He searched for a victor’s satisfaction, but could not find it. Somehow, Jochi’s betrayal and death had poisoned the simple pleasures.

After an age, Genghis nodded. “Very well, Tsubodai. Take Jebe and Jochi’s men. I would have had to send them far anyway, to have them relearn the discipline I expect of those who follow me.”

Tsubodai raised his eyes from the floor, the warning not lost on him.

“I am loyal, lord. I have always been loyal to you.”

“I know it,” Genghis said, gentling his tone with an effort. He knew he did not have the lightness of touch that Kachiun would have brought to the meeting. Genghis rarely thought how he ruled men like Tsubodai, as able as any he had known. In the stillness of the ger, he felt an urge to ease the general’s grief with the right words.

“Your word is iron, Tsubodai, take pride in that.”

Tsubodai rose and made a stiff bow. His gaze lingered on the sack before he lifted it onto his shoulder.

“I have to, lord,” he said. “It is all I have left.”

Herat lay almost five hundred miles to the south and west of Samarkand, with two wide rivers and a dozen smaller ones in between. With the gers of the nation on carts, Genghis chose to approach the fortress city from that direction rather than go back to the mountains around Panjshir and strike west through the maze of valleys and hills. Tsubodai and Jebe had gone north from Samarkand, taking Jochi’s tuman and a dark shadow with them. The story of that hunt and death was whispered in a thousand gers, but never when the khan was able to hear.

It was more than two months before the families sighted the orange stone of Herat, a city by a river. It rose from an outcrop of granite, and to Mongol eyes, it was impossibly ancient. On the first raids into the area, Herat had surrendered without bloodshed, preserving the lives of the inhabitants in exchange for tribute and occupation. Kachiun had left a garrison of just eighty men and then forgotten about Herat until the city expelled them, made rash by Jelaudin’s victories.

As Genghis approached it for the first time, he began to appreciate the sheer mass of the fortress. It was built as a square on top of a rock, the walls rising more than a hundred feet from the rugged base, with great round towers set into them at each corner and along their length. He counted twelve of the towers, each as large as the single one that had sheltered the people of Parwan. It was a huge construction, able to give shelter to thousands racing in ahead of the tumans. Genghis sighed to himself at the sight, knowing from experience that there would be no quick victory. Like Yenking and Yinchuan, he would have to surround it and wait for them to starve.

The gates of the fortress were shut against him, but Genghis sent officers and interpreters to demand surrender as the tumans began to make camp. No answer came and Genghis barely listened as the officers raised a white tent just out of arrow-shot. He did not know if the people of Herat knew his rituals and did not care. The white tent would stand for a day, followed by its red twin and then the black cloth that signaled utter destruction for anyone inside the fortress.

It was another two days before the catapults were assembled in front of the walls, and the people of Herat remained silent. Genghis wondered if they trusted in their walls or simply understood that he could not accept a peaceful surrender a second time. He waited tensely until the first stones flew, skipping off the orange walls with just a blurred mark to show where they had struck.

The black tent fluttered in the breeze and Genghis relaxed, settling himself for a long siege as he had done many times before. It was his least favorite method of war, but such fortresses had been made to keep out armies like his own and there was no quick solution.

For the nation in the gers, life went on around Herat, punctuated by the crack of catapults through each night and day. The families watered their animals at the river, content to leave the destruction of the city to the warriors. The rains had brought sweet grass, though it was already withering in places as the sun beat down. Such concerns were old to them, and if the city did not fall quickly, they would send the herds out to the furthest grazing, leaving the closest hills to be cropped last.

Genghis rested, his wounds having faded to pale scars on his legs and arms. He did not think of Jochi, except with relief that the betrayal had been brought to an end. After Tsubodai had left, the khan had seemed invigorated, willing to fall on Herat with the nation and begin again. His shoulder had healed over time and he rode every day to strengthen his body, ignoring the aches and pains of age. He had sent Chagatai and Kachiun to besiege the city of Balkh in the east, but the main strength of the nation had come with him to the fortress and he took heart from the sight of the encampment. His wife Borte had not spoken to him since she heard the fate of Jochi, but he was oblivious to that. The world lay at his feet and he was strong as he waited for Herat to fall.

In the fourth month of the siege, Genghis was hunting with senior officers around the base of the city. After so long in one place, there were few living things that had escaped the pots of the families. Just a few rabbits remained and they were wary survivors, long used to running from the sound of horse or man.

Balkh had fallen two months before and his tumans had slaughtered the inhabitants, pulling down the stones of the city walls. Only Herat still held out and Genghis was tired of the siege and the hot lands. He had become hopeful of a quick ending when Kachiun and Chagatai returned, but the fortress at Herat was one of the strongest they had ever tried to break.

As the season passed, Genghis had moved his catapults three times, concentrating their stones on flat sections of the walls. Cracks had appeared to great jubilation in the camp, but he sometimes felt he was assaulting a mountain, with as much effect. The walls stood, battered and marked in a thousand places. By then Genghis knew starvation and thirst would break the city, but he kept his siege weapons working.

“When this is done, we will go home,” Genghis muttered to himself, looking up at the walls. Kachiun and Khasar had heard it a hundred times before from their brother and merely exchanged a glance. A rabbit darted out from cover far ahead of them, and all three kicked in their heels to chase it down. Over the noise of hooves, Genghis heard a sharp cry above his head and looked up. There was always someone staring down at his camp from the walls, but this time, he saw a man had leaned out too far. The luckless watcher had barely caught himself and now clung to the outer edge by his fingertips. Genghis whistled to his brothers, pointing as the man shouted for help above their heads.

Khasar and Kachiun returned, staring up with interest.

“A wager?” Khasar asked. “Two horses that he will fall?”

“Not from me, brother,” Genghis replied. There were others reaching down to drag the man back to safety, but he gave a cry of despair as he felt his hands slip. Genghis and his brothers watched in fascination as he tumbled, shrieking as he went. For an instant, it seemed as if an arched stone window might save him. His hands caught on its ledge, but he could not hold on. The brothers winced as he struck the wall again, falling outward onto the rock base of the fortress. The body spun loosely and came to rest not far away from Genghis. To his astonishment, Genghis saw an arm flail.

“He’s alive!” he said.

“For a few heartbeats, perhaps,” Khasar replied. “That fall would kill anyone.”

Genghis and his brothers trotted over to where the man lay. One of his ankles was clearly broken, the foot twisted. His body was a mass of scrapes and cuts, but he blinked in terror at the generals, unable to believe he had survived.

Khasar drew his sword to finish the man, but Genghis held up a hand.

“If the spirits won’t kill him after that, we won’t be the ones to do it.” He looked up in awe at the distance the man had fallen, before addressing the man in halting Arabic.

“You have incredible luck,” Genghis said.

The man cried out as he tried to move, and he too stared up at the walls above his head. “It does not… feel like luck,” he replied.

Genghis grinned at him. “Get him to a healer, Khasar. When his wounds are bound, give him a good mare and whatever else he wants.” More men could be seen now on the walls as they stared and leaned out, some of them almost as far as the man who now lay at Genghis’s feet.

“When the city falls, you will know how lucky you truly are,” the khan said in his own tongue. The man looked blankly at him as Khasar dismounted to help him into the saddle.

The walls of Herat slumped and fell in the sixth month of the siege. One of the towers collapsed with the section, crashing to the rocks below and leaving a gaping hole into the city. The tumans gathered quickly, but there was no resistance. As they entered Herat, they found the streets and buildings already choked with the dead and dying. Those who still lived were brought out onto the plain and made to kneel for binding. That task alone took many days as the fortress had been packed with men, women, and children. Temuge gave his servants the task of numbering the prisoners on wax slates, putting the total at a hundred and sixty-three thousand, with almost half as many dying of thirst or hunger in the siege. In their fear and despair, they cried and moaned as they were bound for execution, the sound traveling far across the gers. The warriors of the khan searched every room, hall, and basement of the city until it was just an empty shell filled with the dead. The smell of a city after a siege was like nothing else, and even hardened warriors gagged as they brought out rotting bodies.

It was sunset by the time Temuge was satisfied with his tally, and Genghis decreed the killing would begin at dawn. He retired to the khan’s ger to eat and sleep, but his wife Chakahai sought him out as the darkness gathered. At first she said nothing and he welcomed her presence. She worked the iron stove, making tea and heating pouches of unleavened bread, mutton, and herbs that she had prepared that morning. He did not see the strain she hid from him, though as she passed him a plate of the pouches, he took her hand and felt her quiver.

“What is it?” he asked.

She bowed her head. She knew he would respond best to blunt-ness, but her heart beat so quickly that she could barely breathe. She knelt before him and he put aside his hunger, intrigued.

“Husband, I have a favor to ask,” she said.

Genghis reached out and took her hand in his. “Ask, then,” he replied.

Chakahai forced herself to take a slow breath. “The women and children,” she said. “Let them go free. They will take word of the city falling. They—”

“I do not want to speak of this tonight,” Genghis snapped, letting her hand fall.

“Husband,” she said, begging, “I can hear them crying out.” He had listened when she held the key to Kokchu’s treachery. He had listened when she urged him to name Ogedai as heir. Her eyes implored him.

Genghis growled deep in his throat, suddenly furious with her. “You cannot understand, Chakahai,” he said. She raised her head and he saw her eyes were bright with tears. Despite himself, he went on.

“I take no pleasure in it,” he said. “But I can make this killing a shout that will spread further than I can ride. Word will go out from here, Chakahai, as fast as any bird. They will say I slaughtered every living thing in Herat, that my vengeance was terrible. My name alone will bring fear to those who would stand against me.”

“Just the men…” Chakahai began.

Genghis snorted. “Men always die in war. Their kings expect it. I want them to know that if they resist me, they are putting their hand in the mouth of a wolf. They will lose everything and they can expect no mercy.” He reached out once more and took her face in his hand, so she could feel the hard callus of his palm.

“It is good that you weep for them, Chakahai. I would expect it from a wife of mine and a mother to my children. But there will be blood tomorrow, so that I do not have to do it again, a hundred times and more. These Arabs do not send me tribute because they recognize my right to rule. They bow their heads because if they do not, I will visit fury on them and see all they love turned to ashes.”

Tears streamed from her and Genghis stroked her cheek gently.

“I would like to give you what you want, Chakahai. Yet if I did, there would be another city next year and a dozen more after that. This is a hard land and the people are used to death. If I am to rule them, they must know that to face me is to be destroyed. They must be afraid, Chakahai. It is the only way.”

She did not reply and Genghis found himself suddenly aroused by her tearstained face. He put the plate of food on the floor of the ger for the morning and lifted her onto the low bed beside him, feeling his shoulder creak. She shuddered as his mouth found hers and he did not know if it was from lust or fear.

At dawn Genghis left Chakahai in the ger and went out to watch the killing. He had given the task to the tumans of his sons Ogedai and Tolui. Twenty thousand warriors had cleaned and sharpened their swords for the work, but even so many would be exhausted by the time it was done.

The prisoners sat huddled together in the morning shadow of the broken city as the tumans surrounded them. Many of them prayed aloud and those who faced the grim warriors held out their hands and screamed until the blades fell. It was not quick. The warriors moved amongst them and had to bring the swords down many times as the prisoners writhed in their bonds and struggled to get away. Men and women clambered over each other, and the warriors were drenched in blood. Many of the blades were ruined on bone, the steel edges cracked or bent. Noon came and the killing went on, the smell of blood strong in the still air. Warriors left the mass of living and dead, gasping as they drank warm, sour water before walking in again.

The afternoon sun was powerful as they finished at last and the plain fell silent. The tumans of Genghis’s sons were staggering with weariness, as if they had fought a long and bitter battle. Their officers sent them to the river to wash away the blood and clean and oil their weapons. The city stood silent above them, empty of all life.

The man who had fallen from the walls had wept for part of the day, though his tears dried quickly in the heat until he sobbed dryly and no more came. His broken ankle had been splinted and he was given a horse and supplies by a nameless Mongol officer, following the orders of the khan. The man rode away as the flies and birds gathered above Herat. Genghis watched him go, knowing he would take the news to all those who had ears to hear.

Genghis thought of Chakahai’s tears as he stood in the shadow of Herat. He had not told her where he would take the nation. The families knew he intended to go home, but one other place had long ceased to send tribute and he would take his army there before he saw those hills and rivers again. Xi Xia was where he had first met the pale daughter of a king, the region a stepping stone that had led him to an emperor’s capital. Like the elders of Herat and Balkh, Chakahai’s father had thought the khan would not survive the Arab armies sent against him.

Genghis smiled lightly to himself as he gave orders for the nation to break camp at last. He had been too long away from the Chin lands, and Xi Xia would be the bloody example to bring them to heel.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

THE NATION TRAVELED EAST TOGETHER, burning a trail of fire and blood through the Arab cities and towns. The tumans went ahead of the families, riding against cities that were still little more than ruins from their first experience of the Mongol khan. As survivors began to rebuild their lives and homes, the tumans came sweeping in again to slaughter and burn.

For those who traveled on the carts of the nation, the landscape was marked in plumes of dark smoke, growing as they came closer and finally left behind while fresh black threads appeared in the distance. They moved through desolation and Genghis was well pleased at the sight. He had no more use for Arab cities, nor those who lived in them. The destruction he brought would make the land a desert for a generation or more, and they would not rise again in challenge. Only Samarkand and Merv were left intact, for others to rule in his name. Even then Temuge had been forced to beg for a garrison to keep Samarkand safe, with its libraries and palace. Genghis was leaving Arab lands and it was not long before the least of those in the gers knew they were heading back to war with the Chin. Twelve years had passed since the fall of Yenking, and Genghis longed to see his ancestral enemies once more. The nation had grown in strength, and this time nothing in the world would stop him placing his foot on the Chin throat.

Six moons grew from crescents to full by the time they skirted a great desert to the south. The Mongol homeland lay north over mountains and Genghis hungered to see his own land, but pressed on. The nation traveled more than two thousand miles into a cold winter that only refreshed families who had grown sick of the endless heat. Xi Xia lay further into the east, but Genghis reveled in the changing landscape, taking delight in the waterlogged fields of green rice almost as if he were coming home. The hunting improved and they swept the land clean of anything that moved, taking herds of yaks and goats as easily as they fired villages on the edges of Chin land.

On a warm evening, with the sun setting in a cloudless sky, Chakahai came once again to the khan’s ger. He looked up in pleasure to see her, and she felt the strength of the new vitality that infused him. He wore a tunic and trousers that left his arms bare, and she could see the web of scars on them, right to the fingers.

He smiled as he saw the platter of food she had brought and took it from her, breathing in the aroma of fresh meat with pleasure. She did not speak as he ate with his fingers, relaxing visibly after a long day. The peaceful sounds of the families could be heard around them as thousands of warriors ate and rested with their wives and children, ready for another day of riding.

Genghis finished the meal and yawned, his jaw cracking. He handed the plate back to her and she bowed her head.

“You are tired,” she said.

He chuckled, patting the bed beside him. “Not too tired,” he replied. Despite having borne four children for him, she had kept her slight figure, the legacy of her race. He thought briefly of Borte’s thickening waist as he reached for Chakahai and fumbled the knot of her sash. Gently, she removed his hands.

“Let me, husband,” she said. Her voice trembled, but he was oblivious as she let the deel robe and buttoned tunic fall open to reveal white flesh beneath. He reached inside the cloth, taking her around the bare waist with strong hands. She could feel the hardness of his fingers digging into her flesh, and she gasped slightly, pleasing him. Their breath mingled and she knelt before him to remove his boots. He did not see her take a long knife from one of them, and if she shook, he assumed it was at his touch on her breasts. He watched her nipples grow firm in the cool air, and he lowered his face to them, tasting the bitter jasmine on her skin.

Khasar and Kachiun were sitting their horses at the edge of the encampment, keeping an eye on the immense herd of animals that accompanied the nation. The brothers were in a light mood, enjoying the last of the day and chatting idly before they went back to their families and an evening meal.

It was Kachiun who saw Genghis first. He chuckled at something Khasar had said while watching Genghis mount and take the reins of his favorite mare. Khasar turned to see what had caught his brother’s interest, and both men fell silent as Genghis walked the horse through the gers of their people, taking a path away from them.

At first they did nothing and Khasar finished a story involving the wife of one his senior officers and the proposition she had made. Kachiun barely smiled at the tale and Khasar looked again to see that Genghis had reached the edge of the gers, his pony taking him out onto the grassy plain alone.

“What is he doing?” Kachiun wondered aloud.

Khasar shrugged. “Let’s find out,” he said. “You are a poor audience for my troubles, brother. Genghis will see the humor in them.”

Kachiun and Khasar moved at a trot across the vast encampment, picking their way to intercept Genghis as he left the nation behind. The light was dimming and the plain was lit in gold, the air warm. They were relaxed as they drew close to him and called a greeting.

Genghis did not respond and Kachiun frowned for the first time. He moved his horse closer, but Genghis did not look at him. His face was bright with sweat and Kachiun exchanged a glance with Khasar as they fell in on either side of the khan and matched their pace to his.

“Genghis?” Khasar said. Still there was no response and Khasar subsided, willing to let his brother explain in his own time. The three of them walked their mounts far onto the empty grass, until the gers were just a whitish hump behind them and the bleating of animals faded to a distant murmur.

Kachiun noted the sweat pouring off the khan. His brother was unnaturally pale and Kachiun’s stomach clenched as he feared some terrible news.

“What is it?” he asked. “Genghis? What’s wrong?” His brother rode on as if he had not heard, and Kachiun felt worry bloom in him. He wondered if he should turn the khan’s horse with his own, ending this plodding trek away from the families. The khan held the reins loosely, barely exerting a control on the mare. Kachiun shook his head at Khasar in confusion.

The last light of day was on them when Genghis slumped to one side and slid from the saddle. Khasar and Kachiun gaped in dawning shock and Kachiun cried out as he leapt down and reached for his brother.

In the dim light, they had not seen the spreading stain at his waist, a dark slick of blood that marked the saddle and the mare’s side. As he fell, his deel came open, so that they could see a terrible wound.

Kachiun heaved Genghis into his arms, pressing his hand over the swelling blood in a vain attempt to stem the flow of life. Wordlessly, he looked up at Khasar, who still sat his horse, rooted in shock.

Genghis closed his eyes, the pain of the fall rousing him from his stupor. His breathing was ragged and Kachiun held him tighter.

“Who did this, brother?” Kachiun said, sobbing. “Who did this to you?” He did not send Khasar for a physician. The brothers had seen too many wounds.

Khasar dismounted woodenly, his legs suddenly weak. He knelt with Kachiun and reached out to take Genghis’s hand in his own. The blood on the skin was already growing cold. A warm wind blew across the empty plain, bringing dust and the smell of rice fields.

Genghis stirred in Kachiun’s embrace, his head lolling back so that it rested on his shoulder. His face was almost white as his eyes opened. There was a spark of recognition there and Kachiun gripped him tighter, desperately willing the blood to stop. When Genghis spoke, it was barely a whisper.

“I am pleased you are here, with me,” he said. “Did I fall?”

“Who did this, brother?” Kachiun said, his eyes filling with tears.

Genghis did not seem to hear him. “There is a price for all things,” he said. His eyes closed again and Kachiun coughed out a sound without words, consumed with grief. Once more, the khan roused and when he spoke, Kachiun pressed his ear to his brother’s lips to hear.

“Destroy Xi Xia,” Genghis said. “For me, brother, destroy them all.” The breath continued in a rush and the yellow eyes lost their fire as the khan died.

Khasar stood without knowing he did so, his gaze fastened on the two men who sprawled together, suddenly so small on the vast plain. With anger, he rubbed at the tears in his eyes, breathing in sharply to hold back a wave of sorrow that threatened to crush him. It had come with such brutal quickness that he could not take it in. He swayed as he looked down, seeing how his hands were covered in the khan’s blood.

Slowly, Khasar drew his sword. The sound made Kachiun look up and he saw his brother’s boyish face set in rage that threatened to spill over at any moment.

“Wait, Khasar!” Kachiun said, but his brother was deaf to anything he might say. He turned to his horse, gently cropping at the grass. With a leap, he startled the animal into a flat run back to the gers of the people, leaving Kachiun alone, still rocking the body in his arms.

Chakahai sat on the bed, running a hand over the spots of blood on the blanket and staring at the red mark. She moved as if in a trance, unable to believe she still lived. Tears spilled down her cheeks at the memory of Genghis’s expression. As she had cut him, he had gasped, pulling away with the knife deep in him. He had looked at her in simple astonishment. Chakahai had watched as he yanked out the blade and tossed it to one corner of the ger, where it still lay.

“Why?” he had said. The tears fell freely from her as she crossed to the knife and took it in her hands.

“Xi Xia is my home,” she had replied, already weeping. He could have killed her then. She did not know why he had not. Instead, he had risen to his feet, still looking at her. He knew he was dying, she was certain. The knowledge had been clear in his yellow eyes and the sudden paleness of his face. She had watched as he fastened the deel around the wound, pulling it tight over a growing spot of blood. He had left her alone with the knife, and she lay on the bed and wept for the man she had known.

Khasar came back to the gers, his horse belting into the paths through the gers with no care for those who scattered from his way. Those who saw him froze as they understood something was wrong. No more than a few had seen the khan leave the families to ride out, but more saw Khasar return, his face terrible in its fury.

He reached the khan’s ger. It seemed just moments since he had seen Genghis leave it, but everything had changed. Khasar jumped down before the horse halted, staggering slightly as he bounded up the steps and kicked open the door to the gloom within.

He breathed hard at what he saw there. Chakahai lay on the low bed, her eyes glassy. Khasar took two steps to stand over her, seeing the cut at her throat and the bloody knife that had fallen from her hands. It was a peaceful scene and it offended him.

He made an inarticulate bellow, reaching for her flesh so that she was jerked from the bed and fell limply to the floor. Mindless, Khasar plunged his sword into her chest, hacking at her until he was spattered and panting and her head was severed.

When he appeared at the broken door once again, the khan’s guards had gathered, alerted by his shout. They took one look at the blood on his face and his wild eyes, and for an instant, Khasar thought they would charge him.

“Where is the khan?” one of them demanded, raising a bow so that the arrow centered on Khasar’s chest. Khasar could not ignore the threat, though he could hardly bring himself to speak. He gestured vaguely to the darkening plain outside the ring of campfires and torches that had sprung up all around.

“He is dead,” he said. “He lies on the grass and the Chin whore who did it lies behind me. Now get out of my way.”

He strode down through the guards, and in confusion and horror, they fell back before him. He did not see one of the men race into the ger to check, his shout of anguish following Khasar as he mounted and raced across the camp. His rage had not been sated in cutting at dead flesh. Chakahai’s ger was nearby and he sought her children, determined to take a price for what she had done.

The ger was empty when he found it, stalking in and out again in just moments. He saw a Chin servant cowering from the blood-spattered general and grabbed her by the throat as she tried to kneel in terror.

“Chakahai’s children,” he said, squeezing ruthlessly. “Where are they?”

The woman choked, growing red until he released her. She coughed as she lay on the ground and he raised his sword to kill her.

“With Borte, lord. Please, I know nothing.”

Khasar was already moving. His horse was skittish at the smell of blood on him and had wandered away. He broke into a run, his sword held low as he loped between the gers, looking for the right one. Tears filled his eyes as he thought of his brother cooling on the plain. There would be a price.

There were many people around Borte’s ger. Word was already spreading through the camp and warriors and families had abandoned their meals and beds to come out. Khasar hardly saw them, his gaze searching and finally alighting on the home he wanted. He could hear the sounds of life within it, voices and laughter. He did not hesitate and threw himself at the door so that it fell flat, the leather hinges tearing free.

He ducked inside and stood to face the shocked family of his brother. Borte was there, with Ogedai. He was on his feet before Khasar had straightened, his hand on a sword hilt. Khasar barely registered him as his gaze fell on the four young children Chakahai had borne, two girls and two boys. In the lamplight, they stared at the bloody apparition, frozen.

Khasar lunged for them, his sword rising to kill. Borte screamed and Ogedai threw himself at his uncle, with no time to draw his own sword. The two men went down, but Khasar was too full of rage to be stopped easily. He threw Ogedai off as if he weighed nothing, and came lightly to his feet. In his madness, the sound of a drawn blade reached him, and his eyes turned slowly to see Ogedai standing ready.

“Get out of my way!” Khasar snapped.

Ogedai quivered as his heart raced, but he did not move. It was Borte who broke the tableau between the two men. Death was in the air and though she was terrified, she made her tone as gentle as she could.

“Are you here to kill me, Khasar?” she said. “In front of the children?”

Khasar blinked as if returning from far away. “Not you,” he said. “Genghis is dead. These are the children of his whore.”

With infinite slowness, Borte too rose to stand before him, moving as she might with a snake about to strike. She spread her arms to shelter those children behind her.

“You will have to kill me, Khasar,” she said. “You will not hurt them.”

Khasar hesitated. The searing rage that had carried him back to the camp and from ger to ger began to fade, and he clutched at it, longing for the simplicity of revenge. His eyes met those of Ogedai and he saw a dawning realization there amidst the grief. The younger man stood taller in front of his uncle and the quiver in his hands vanished.

“If my father is dead, Khasar,” Ogedai said, “then I am khan of the nation.”

Khasar grimaced, feeling sick and old as the rage left him. “Not until you have gathered the tribes and taken their oath, Ogedai. Until then, stand aside.” He could hardly bear to look into the yellow eyes of Genghis’s heir as he stood before him. There was too much an echo of the father, and Khasar heard it too in Ogedai’s voice as he spoke again.

“You will not kill my brothers and sisters, General,” he said. “Walk away and wash the blood from your face. I will come with you to my father, to see. There is nothing more for you here tonight.”

Khasar’s head dipped, grief coming at him in a great dark wave. The sword slipped from his hand and Ogedai moved quickly to hold him up before he could fall. Ogedai turned him toward the open doorway and glanced back only once at his mother as she watched, shaking with release.

EPILOGUE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HISTORICAL NOTE

We sleep safe in our beds because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm.

—GEORGE ORWELL

Describing lands as “conquered” by Genghis Khan always requires some qualification of the word. When the Romans conquered Spain and Gaul, they brought roads, trade, cities, bridges, aquaducts—all the trappings of civilization as they knew it. Genghis was never a builder. To be conquered by the Mongol army meant losing your kings, their armies, and most precious cities, but the Mongols never had the numbers to leave a large force behind when they moved on. Mongol warriors would have appeared in markets of Chinese cities, or retired in places as far apart as Korea and Afghanistan, but in general, once the fighting had stopped, there was little active government. In essence, being conquered by the Mongols meant that all local armed forces had to stand down. If word got out that anyone was moving soldiers, they could expect a tuman to turn up on the horizon. The Mongols accepted tribute and controlled the land, but never gave up their nomadic lifestyle while Genghis lived.

It is a difficult concept to understand eight hundred years later, but the fear induced by Genghis’s mobile forces was perhaps as effective in controlling a beaten province as the stolid presence of Romans. In the seventeenth century, the Muslim chronicler Abu’l Ghazi wrote: “Under the reign of Genghis Khan, all the country between Iran and the land of the Turks enjoyed such a peace that a man might have journeyed from sunrise to sunset with a golden platter on his head without suffering the least violence from anyone.”

Sheer speed and destruction were crucial to the Mongol success. After all, in the campaign against the Chin emperor, the armies of Genghis Khan attacked more than ninety cities in a single year. Genghis himself was involved in storming twenty-eight, while being repulsed from only four. Historically, he benefited from the fact that China had not yet begun to use gunpowder efficiently in war. Only six years after the fall of Yenking, in 1221, a Chin army used exploding iron pots against the southern Sung city of Qizhou, with a shrapnel effect very like modern grenades. Those who came after him would have to face the weapons of a new era.

The scene against Russian knights in the first chapter takes place around the same time as the fifth crusade to the Holy Land. To put Russia in historical perspective, the huge cathedral to Saint Sophia in Novgorod was built as early as 1045 and replaced a wooden church with thirteen domes that was built a century before that. Medieval Russia and indeed Europe were on the brink of the great period of cathedral building and Christian expansion that would clash with Islam for the next four centuries. I have described the period armor and weapons of the knights as accurately as possible.

The Mongols did reach Korea—though I used an older pronunciation of “Koryo” throughout. The name means the “high and beautiful land.” Mongol forces destroyed the Khara-Kitai, a branch of the Chin who had left their homeland and dug themselves into the mountains of Korea beyond the ability of that dynasty to root them out.

In men like his brother Khasar, Jebe, and Tsubodai, the khan had found a band of generals who justified the name of “the hunting dogs of Genghis.” They were practically unstoppable—and yet Genghis turned toward Islamic central Asia before the conquest of China, even northern China, was complete. In the history, Jebe, the Arrow, was established in his role earlier than I have it, but the pressures of plotting make changes sometimes inevitable. Tsubodai and Jebe became the two most famous generals of their day—twins in ability, ruthlessness, and absolute loyalty to the khan.

Genghis did not fight to rule cities, for which he had no use whatsoever. His purpose was almost always personal, to break or kill individual enemies, no matter how many armies and cities stood in the way. He was prepared to treat once with the Chin emperor over Yenking, but when the emperor ran for Kaifeng, Genghis burned the city and sent an army after him. As wide-ranging as the destruction was, it was still a battle between Genghis and one family.

Other events made Genghis look away from his single-minded and personal approach to warfare. It is true that one of the Mongol diplomatic—read spy—caravans was slaughtered by the Shah of Khwarezm. Genghis sent between 100 and 450 men (depending on the source), only to see them held by the governor of Otrar, a relative of the Shah. Even then, Genghis assumed the man was a rogue and sent three more men to accept the governor as prisoner and negotiate for the release of the first group. They too were killed and it was that act that brought Genghis into the Islamic nations. At that point in time, he almost certainly intended to complete the conquest of China. He had no desire to open up an entire new front against a teeming enemy. Yet he was not a man to ignore a naked challenge to his authority. The Mongol army moved and millions would die. Genghis went alone to the top of a mountain and prayed to the sky father, saying, “I am not the author of this trouble, but grant me the strength to exact vengeance.”

In infuriating Genghis, the governor of Otrar made what is perhaps one of the worst military decisions in history. Perhaps he thought he could scorn the khan of the Mongols with impunity. As a cousin to the Shah and with vast armies available, he may have thought little of the Mongol threat.

The original city of Otrar remains rubble today and has never been rebuilt. Inalchuk was executed by having molten silver poured into his eyes and ears. Though I have altered the order of falling cities, the Shah was routed and sent running with Tsubodai and Jebe on his trail, as I have described it. He stayed ahead of them for a thousand miles, crossing modern-day Uzbekistan and Iran to the shores of the Caspian Sea, where he took a boat with his sons to a small island. Exhausted, he died of pneumonia there and his son Jelaudin (or Jalal Ud Din) was left to take his father’s place at the head of the Arab armies. He faced Genghis at last against the Indus River and escaped almost alone, while his army was crushed. The boy who would become Kublai Khan was indeed there, and Genghis is said to have made a point of noting Jelaudin’s bravery to him, as an example of how a man should live and die.

The Arab assassins are perhaps most famous for giving us the word in English, from hashishin, by way of Marco Polo’s ashishin, following their practice of creating a mad frenzy with the drug. However, it may have the simpler route of coming from assasseen, Arabic for “guardian.” As Shia Moslems, they differed from the main Sunni branch of Islam. The practice of showing drug-dazed recruits a version of heaven and hell is true. One can only imagine the result of such experiences on impressionable young minds. Certainly their reputation was for ferocious loyalty to the “Old Man of the Mountains.” At their height, their influence was vast and the story is true about leaving a poisoned cake on Saladin’s chest as he slept, a clear message to leave them alone in his conquests. Though their strongholds were destroyed by Genghis and the khans after him, the sect remained active for many years.

Elephants were used against Mongols at Otrar, Samarkand, and other battles—a hopeless tactic against warriors whose first weapon was the bow. The Mongols were not at all intimidated by the enormous assault animals and hammered them with arrows. Each time, the elephants stampeded and crushed their own ranks. At one point, Genghis found himself in control of captured elephants, but turned them loose rather than use such unreliable creatures.

For reasons of plot, I moved the minaret to which Genghis “bowed” to Samarkand. It is in fact in Bukhara and stands to this day at around one hundred and fifty feet tall. Genghis is said to have addressed the wealthy merchants of that city, telling them through translators that they had clearly committed great sins and if they needed proof, they should look no further than his presence among them. Whether he actually saw himself as the punishment of God or was simply being whimsical can never now be known.

Note: In the Islamic faith, Abraham is considered the first Muslim, who submitted to one god. As with Moses and Jesus, the description of his life in the Koran differs at significant points from that of the Bible.

Genghis’s eldest son Jochi was the only general ever to turn against him. He took his men and refused to return home. Though it is well recorded, a writer of historical fiction sometimes has to explain how something like that could happen. His men would have left wives and children behind, and that seems extraordinary to modern sensibilities. Could he have truly been so charismatic? It may seem like an odd example, but I recalled the cult leader David Koresh, whose followers were killed in a siege in Waco, Texas, in 1993. Before the end, he had taken the wives of married followers to his own bed. Not only did the husbands not object, they even accepted his ruling that they would no longer lie with their wives themselves. That is the power of a charismatic leader. For those of us who do not command that sort of loyalty, men like Nelson, Caesar, and Genghis must always be something of a mystery. The exact manner of Jochi’s death remains unknown, though if it was at the order of his father, it would not have been recorded. The timing is, however, suspiciously convenient. It suited Genghis very well that the only man to betray him died shortly after taking his men north. We can be certain Genghis would not have employed assassins, but that is all.

The name of Tolui’s wife, Sorhatani, is one of those with many spelling variations. The most accurate is probably “Sorkhakhtani,” but I rejected that as too hard on the eye—and the “k” sounds would have been pronounced as “h” anyway. In a similar spirit, I have used the old-fashioned spelling of “Moslem” throughout, though “Muslim” is now the accepted form. Sorhatani plays only a small part in this book, but as mother to Mongke and Kublai, she had a huge influence over the future of the Mongol nation. As a Christian, she was one of those to influence Genghis’s grandsons, and yet she allowed Yao Shu, a Buddhist, to become Kublai’s mentor. Between them, they would create a man who embraced Chinese culture as Genghis never could.

Jelaudin gathered approximately sixty thousand men to his banners after his father’s death. Cut off from his own lands, he must also have been an extraordinary leader. At the valley of Panjshir in Afghanistan, he forced a Mongol army into retreat across a river. Underestimating him, Genghis sent only three tumans to crush the rebellion. For the only time in Genghis’s life, his army was routed by them. In just one year, the aura of invincibility he had worked so hard to create had been shattered. Genghis himself took the field with everything he had. He moved his men so quickly that they could not cook food, catching up with Jelaudin at last on the banks of the river Indus in what is now Pakistan. Genghis trapped the prince’s army against the banks. I have not continued Jelaudin’s story here, but after surviving the battle on the Indus, he made his way across Iran to Georgia, Armenia, and Kurdistan, gathering followers until he was murdered in 1231. It was his army that overran Jerusalem without him, so that it remained under Muslim control until 1917.

The man who fell from the walls at Herat is a peculiar part of the histories. The abandoned fortress city still stands today, much as I have described it. Genghis did indeed spare the man, astonished that he could have survived such a fall. As with so many other times, Genghis the man was quite different from Genghis the ruthless khan. As a man, he enjoyed displays of courage, as when Jelaudin took his horse over a sheer drop. As khan, Genghis ordered the slaughter of every living thing in Herat, knowing that it would send a message to all those who thought his control had been shaken by Jelaudin’s rebellion. The killing at Herat was his last major action in Afghanistan. Like that city, the Chinese region of Xi Xia thought the Mongols were too stretched to defend distant outposts, so stopped sending tribute. Their refusal would bring the khan out of Arab lands at last, intent on resuming the utter subjugation of the Chin empire, begun more than a decade before.

In 1227, only twelve years after taking Yenking in 1215, Genghis Khan was dead. He spent about eight of those twelve years at war. Even when there was no obvious enemy, his generals were always on the move, reaching as far as Kiev in Russia, where Tsubodai made the only successful winter attack in history. Of all Genghis’s generals, Tsubodai is rightly known as the most gifted. I have barely done him justice here.

Genghis died after falling from his horse in the process of attacking the Xi Xia for a second time. His last command was to wipe out Xi Xia. There is a persistent legend that the Great Khan was stabbed by a woman before that last ride. As he was on his way to destroy Xi Xia, it made sense to give that role to the princess he had taken as his wife. Given that his birthdate can only be estimated, he was between fifty and sixty years old. For such a short life, and from such humble beginnings, he left an incredible mark on the world. His immediate legacy was that his sons did not tear the nation to pieces in deciding who should lead. They accepted Ogedai as khan. Perhaps there would have been civil war if Jochi had still been alive, but he was gone.

The army of Genghis Khan was organized in tens upwards, with a rigid chain of command.

arban: ten men—with two or three gers between them if traveling

fully equipped

jagun: one hundred men

minghaan: one thousand men

tuman: ten thousand men

Commanders of one thousand and ten thousand were given the rank of noyan, though I used “minghaan” and “general” for simplicity. Above those, men like Jebe and Tsubodai were orloks, or eagles, the equivalent of field marshals.

It is interesting to note that although Genghis had little use for gold, plaques of the substance known as paitze became the symbol of rank for his armies and administration. Jagun officers carried one of silver, but noyans carried one weighing approximately twenty ounces of gold. An orlok would have carried one weighing fifty ounces.

At the same time, the growth of army organization, field weapons, and messenger routes required a quartermaster type of rank to come into existence. These were known as yurtchis. They chose campsites and organized the messengers across thousands of miles between armies. The most senior yurtchi was responsible for reconnaissance, intelligence, and the day-to-day running of the camp of Genghis.

Finally, for those who might want to learn more about Genghis and those who followed him, I recommend the wonderful John Man book Genghis Khan: Life, Death, and Resurrection; The Mongol Warlords by David Nicolle; The Devil’s Horsemen: The Mongol Invasion of Europe by James Chambers; Jenghiz Khan by C. C. Walker; and of course The Secret History of the Mongols (original author unknown, though I used an edition translated by Arthur Waley).

Khan: Empire of Silver is a work of historical fiction. Apart from the well-known actual people, events, and locales that figure in the narrative, all names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to current events or locales, or to living persons, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2010 by Conn Iggulden

All rights reserved.

Jacket art: Steve Stone

Published in the United States by Delacorte Press,

an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,

a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-440-33973-1

www.bantamdell.com

Title-page and part-title art: Silhouette Mongolian Warriors

by Murat Besler for Shutterstock Images

Cover design: Scott Biel.

Cover illustration: Mike Bryan

v3.1

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Khan: Empire of Silver

Copyright

Dedication

Family Tree

Prologue

Part I - A.D. 1230

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Part II - A.D. 1232

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Part III - A.D. 1240

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Epilogue

Historical Note

To Katie Espiner

PROLOGUE

He trudged through a landscape of gers, like grubby shells on the shore of some ancient sea. Poverty was all around him: in the yellowing felt, patched and repaired endlessly over generations. Scrawny kid goats and sheep ran bleating around his feet as he approached his home. Batu stumbled over the animals, cursing as water slopped from the heavy buckets. He could smell pungent urine in the air, a sourness that had been missing from the breeze over the river. Batu frowned to himself at the thought of the day he had spent digging a toilet pit for his mother. He had been as excited as a child when he showed the results of his labor. She had merely shrugged, saying she was too old to go so far in the night, when good ground was all around her.

She was thirty-six years old, already broken by sickness and the years passing. Her teeth had rotted in her lower jaw and she walked like a woman twice her age, bent over and limping. Yet she was still strong enough to slap him on the rare occasions Batu mentioned his father. The last time had been just that morning, before he began the trek to the river.

At the door of her ger, he eased the buckets down and rubbed his sore hands, listening. Inside, he could hear her humming some old song from her youth, and he smiled. Her anger would have vanished as quickly as always.

He was not afraid of her. In the last year, he had grown in height and strength to the point where he could have stopped every blow, but he did not. He bore them without understanding her bitterness. He knew he could have held her hands, but he did not want to see her weep—or worse, to see her beg or barter a skin of airag to ease her misery. He hated those times, when she used the drink to hammer herself into oblivion. She told him then that he had his father’s face and that she could not bear to look at him. There had been many days when he had cleaned her himself, her arms flopping over his back, her flat breasts against his chest as he used a cloth and bucket to scrub the filth from her skin. He had sworn many times he would never touch airag himself. Her example made even the smell of it hard on his stomach. When its sweetness was combined with vomit, sweat, and urine, it made him retch.

Batu looked up when he heard the horses, grateful for anything that would keep him outside a little longer. The group of riders was small by the standards of a tuman, barely twenty horsemen. To a boy brought up on the edges of the camp, it was a glorious sight for a morning, a different world.

The warriors rode with very straight backs, and from a distance, they seemed to radiate strength and authority. Batu envied them, even as he ached to be one of their number. Like any other boy of the gers, he knew that their red and black armor meant they were Ogedai’s own Guard, the elite warriors of the tumans. Stories of their battles were sung or chanted on feast days, as well as darker tales of betrayal and blood. Batu winced at the thought. His father featured in some of those, which prompted sidelong glances at his mother and her bastard son.

Batu hawked and spat on the ground at his feet. He could still remember when his mother’s ger had been of the finest white felt and gifts had arrived almost daily. He supposed she had once been beautiful, her skin fresh with youth, where now it was seamed and coarse. Those had been different days, before his father had betrayed the khan and been butchered for it like a lamb in the snow. Jochi. He spat again at the word, the name. If his father had bent to the will of the great khan, Batu thought he might have been one of the warriors in red and black, riding tall among the filthy gers. Instead, he was forgotten and his mother wept whenever he talked of joining a tuman.

Almost all the young men of his age had joined, except for those with injuries or defects of birth. His friend Zan was one, a mixed-blood Chin who had been born with a sightless white eye. No one-eyed man could ever be an archer, and the warriors had turned him away with kicks and laughter, telling him to tend his flocks. Batu had drunk airag for the first time with him that night and been sick for two days. The recruiters had not come for him either, not with the betrayer’s blood running in his veins. Batu had seen them out looking for strong lads, but when their gaze passed over him, they shrugged and turned away. He was as tall and strong as his father had been, but they did not want him.

With a shock, Batu realized the riders were not passing through. He watched as they stopped to speak to one of his mother’s neighbors, and he took a sharp breath in amazement as the old man pointed in Batu’s direction. The horsemen trotted toward him and he stood rooted, watching as they came closer. He found he did not know what to do with his hands and folded them over his chest twice before letting them dangle. From inside the ger, he heard his mother calling some question, but he did not reply. He could not. He had seen the man riding at the head of the group.

There were no pictures in the poor gers, though one or two Chin paintings had found their way into the homes of the wealthiest families. Yet Batu had seen his father’s brother once. On a feast day years before, he had crept up close, peering between warriors for a sight of the great khan. Ogedai and Jochi had been with Genghis then, and time had not faded the bright memory, among the most bittersweet in all his young years. It had been a glimpse of the life he might have had, before his father threw it all away for some petty squabble Batu did not even understand.

Ogedai rode bareheaded, in armor lacquered shining black. He wore his hair in the Chin style, as a heavy rope falling from a topknot on a bare, shaved scalp. Batu drank in every detail of the man as his mother’s voice called plaintively again from inside. He could see that the great khan’s son was looking directly at him and speaking, but Batu was tongue-tied, dumb. The yellow eyes were bright up close, and he was lost in the realization that he was staring at his uncle by blood.

“Is he slow-witted?” one of the warriors said. Batu shut his open mouth. “My lord Ogedai is speaking to you, boy. Are you deaf?”

Batu found himself flushing with great heat. He shook his head, suddenly irritated to have such men ride up to his mother’s ger. What would they think of the patched walls, the smell, the flies in the air? It was humiliating and his shock turned quickly to anger. Even then, he did not reply. Men like these had killed his father, his mother said. The life of a ragged son would mean little to them.

“Have you no voice at all?” Ogedai said. He was smiling at something and Batu responded crookedly.

“I have,” he said. He saw one of the warriors reach down, but he did not expect a blow and he staggered a step as a mailed glove connected with the side of his head.

“I have, my lord,” the warrior said without heat.

Batu shrugged as he straightened up. His ear was burning, but he’d known worse.

“I have a voice, my lord,” he said, doing his best to remember the warrior’s face.

Ogedai discussed him as if he wasn’t present. “It wasn’t just a story then. I can see my brother in his face, and he’s already as tall as my father. How old are you, boy?”

Batu stood very still, trying to collect himself. Some part of him had always wondered if his mother had been exaggerating his father’s position. To have it confirmed so casually was more than he could take in.

“Fifteen years,” he said. He saw the warrior begin to lean forward again and added “my lord” quickly. The warrior leaned back in his saddle and nodded to him complacently.

Ogedai frowned. “You’re old to be starting out. Training should begin at seven or eight at the latest, if you’re ever to draw a good bow.” He saw Batu’s confusion and smiled, pleased to be able to do such a thing. “Still, I will be watching you. Report to General Jebe tomorrow. He has his camp about a hundred miles to the north, near a village by a cliff. You can find it?”

“I have no horse, my lord,” Batu said.

Ogedai glanced at the warrior who had struck him, and the man raised his eyes to heaven before dismounting. He passed the reins into Batu’s hands.

“Can you ride at least?” the warrior said.

Batu was awed as he took the reins and patted the muscular neck. He had never touched an animal as fine.

“Yes. Yes, I can ride.”

“Good. This mare is not your horse, understand? She will carry you to your post, but then you will take some old swayback and return her to me.”

“I don’t know your name,” Batu said.

“Alkhun, boy. Ask anyone in Karakorum and they’ll know me.”

“The city?” Batu asked. He had heard of the stone thing rising from the soil on the back of a million workers, but until then, he had not believed it.

“More a camp than a city at the moment, though that is changing,” Alkhun confirmed. “You can send the horse by the way-station riders, but tell them to go easy with her. I’ll take any whip marks out of your hide. Oh, and welcome to the army, boy. My lord Ogedai has plans for you. Don’t disappoint him.”

ONE

The air swirled with marble dust that glittered as it caught the evening sun. Ogedai’s heart was full as he guided his horse down the main thoroughfare, taking in every sight and sound around him. There was a sense of urgency in the cacophony of hammer blows and shouted orders. The Mongol tumans had gathered outside the city. His generals, his people, had been summoned there to see what two years of labor had created: a city in a wilderness, with the Orkhon River tamed and bent to his will.

Ogedai reined in for a moment to watch a group of workmen unload a cart. Nervous under his gaze, the laborers used ropes, pulleys, and sheer numbers to maneuver blocks of white marble onto low sledges that could be dragged into the workshops. Each milky block was subtly veined in a light blue that pleased Ogedai. He owned the quarry that had birthed the stones, hundreds of miles to the east, just one of a thousand purchases he had made in the last years.

There was no doubt he had been extravagant, spending gold and silver as if it had no value. He smiled at the thought, wondering what his father would have made of the white city rising in the wilderness. Genghis had despised the anthills of humanity, but these were not the ancient stones and teeming streets of an enemy. This was new and it belonged to the nation.

There had never been a treasury like the one he had inherited, amassed from the wealth of China and Khwarezm, yet never spent by its khan. With the tribute from Yenking alone, Ogedai could have sheathed every new home in white marble or even jade if he had wanted. He had built a monument to his father on the plains, as well as a place where he himself could be khan. He had built a palace with a tower that rose above the city like a white sword, so that all men could see the nation had come far from simple gers and herds.

For his gold, a million men had come to work. They had crossed plains and deserts with just a few animals and tools, coming from as far off as Chin lands or the cities of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Kabul. Masons and carpenters from Koryo had made the journey, called to the west by rumors of a new city being built on a river of coins. Bulgars brought stocks of rare clays, charcoal, and hardwood in great caravans from their forests. The city filled with traders, builders, potters, foodsellers, thieves, and scoundrels. Farmers scenting a profit brought their carts for days of travel, all for the strings of metal coins. Ogedai gave them gold and silver from the earth, melted and shaped. In return they gave him a city, and he did not find it a bad bargain. For the present, they were the colorful crowds of his city, speaking a hundred tongues and cooking a thousand different foods and spices. Some of them would be allowed to stay, but he was not building it for them.

Ogedai saw green-handed dyers flatten themselves against the walls, their red turbans dipping in respect. His Guards cleared the way ahead, so the son of Genghis could ride almost in a dream. He had made this place from the camp of gers his father had known. He had made it real, in stone.

It still amazed him. He had not paid for women to travel with his workers, but they had come with their husbands and fathers. He had wondered for a time how he would establish the businesses every city needed to thrive, but traders had approached his chancellor, offering horses or more silver to lease new properties. The city was more than a simple collection of houses. Already it had a vitality of its own, far beyond his control.

Yet not completely. A quirk in the plans had created an area of small alleyways in the south of his city. Criminal gangs had begun to flourish there until Ogedai heard. He had ordered eight hundred buildings torn down, the whole area redesigned and rebuilt. His own Guard had supervised the hangings.

The street fell quiet as he passed, the laborers and their masters bowing their heads as they saw the man who held the power of life and death and gold over all of them. Ogedai took a deep breath of the dusty air, enjoying the taste of it on his tongue and the thought that he was literally breathing in his creation. Ahead, he could see the towers of his palace, crowned in a dome of gold beaten thinner than the paper of his scribes. It raised his spirits to see it, like sunlight trapped and held in his city.

The street widened as it grew before him, its stone gutters polished. That section had been finished months before and the bustling crowds of laborers fell behind. As Ogedai trotted on, he could not help glancing at the boundary walls that had so confused his Chin architects and laborers. Even from the low vantage point of a saddle, there were moments when he could see over them to the green plains beyond. The walls of Yenking had not saved that city from fire or siege, he knew. His walls were the warriors of the khan, the tribes who had brought a Chin emperor to his knees and razed a shah’s cities.

Already, Ogedai loved his creation, from the vast expanse of the central training ground, to the red-tiled roofs, the paved gutters, the temples and churches and mosques and markets and homes by the thousand, most still empty and waiting for life. Scraps of blue cloth fluttered in the plains wind on every corner, a tribute to the sky father above them all. In the south, green foothills and mountains stretched far away and the air was warm with dust as Ogedai rejoiced in Karakorum.

The twilight was deepening into a soft gloom as Ogedai handed his reins to a servant and strode up the steps to his palace. Before he entered, he looked back once more at the city straining to be born. He could smell fresh-turned earth and, over it, the fried food of the workmen on the evening air. He had not planned the herds of livestock in corrals beyond the walls, or the squawking chickens sold on every corner. He thought of the wool market that had sprung up by the western gate. He should not have expected trade to halt simply because the city was unfinished. He had chosen a spot on an ancient traders’ road to give it life—and life had begun pouring in while whole streets, whole districts, were still piles of lumber, tile, and stone.

As he looked into the setting sun, he smiled at the cooking fires on the plains surrounding the city. His people waited there, for him. His armies would be fed on rich mutton, dripping fat from the summer grass. It reminded him of his own hunger, and he moistened his lips as he passed through a stone gate the equal of anything in a Chin city.

In the echoing hall beyond, he paused for a moment at his most extravagant gesture. A tree of solid silver stretched gracefully up to the arched ceiling, where the center point was open to the sky like the ger of any herdsman. It had taken the silversmiths of Samarkand almost a year to cast and polish, but it served his purpose. Whoever entered his palace would see it and be staggered at the wealth it represented. Some would see an emblem for the silver people, the Mongol tribes who had become a nation. Those with more wisdom would see that the Mongols cared so little for silver that they used it as a casting metal.

Ogedai let his hand slide down the bole of the tree, feeling the metal chill his fingers. The spreading branches reached out in a parody of life, gleaming like a white birch in moonlight. Ogedai nodded to himself. He stretched his back as lamps were lit by slaves and servants all around him, throwing black shadows and making the evening seem suddenly darker outside.

He heard hurrying footsteps and saw his manservant, Baras’aghur, approaching. Ogedai winced at the man’s keen expression and the bundle of papers under his arm.

“After I have eaten, Baras. It has been a long day.”

“Very well, my lord, but you have a visitor: your uncle. Shall I tell him to wait on your pleasure?”

Ogedai paused in the act of unbuckling his sword belt. All three of his uncles had come to the plains around Karakorum at his order, gathering their tumans in great camps. He had forbidden them all from entering the city, and he wondered who would have disobeyed him. He suspected it would be Khasar, who regarded orders and laws as tools for other men rather than himself.

“Who is it, Baras?” Ogedai asked quietly.

“Lord Temuge, master. I have sent servants to tend him, but he has been waiting now for a long time.”

Baras’aghur made a gesture to indicate a sweep of the sun in the sky, and Ogedai pursed his lips in irritation. His father’s brother would be well aware of the nuances of hospitality. Simply by arriving when Ogedai was not there to greet him, he had created an obligation. Ogedai assumed it was deliberate. A man like Temuge was too subtle not to grasp the slightest advantage. Yet the order had gone out for the generals and princes to remain on the plains.

Ogedai sighed. For two years, he had readied Karakorum to be the jewel in an empire. His had been a splendid isolation and he had maneuvered to keep it so, his enemies and friends always off balance. He had known it could not last forever. He steeled himself as he walked after Baras’aghur to the first and most sumptuous of his audience rooms.

“Have wine brought to me immediately, Baras. And food—something simple, such as the warriors are eating on the plain.”

“Your will, my lord,” his servant said without listening, his thoughts on the meeting to come.

The footsteps of the two men were loud in the silent halls, clicking and echoing back to them. Ogedai did not glance at the painted scenes that usually gave him so much pleasure. He and Baras’aghur walked under the best work of Islamic artists, and it was only toward the end that Ogedai looked up at a blaze of color, smiling to himself at the image of Genghis leading a charge at the Badger’s Mouth pass. The artist had asked a fortune for a year’s work, but Ogedai had doubled his price when he saw it. His father still lived on those walls, as well as in his memory. There was no art of painting in the tribes he knew, and such things could still make him gasp and stand in awe. With Temuge waiting, however, Ogedai barely nodded to his father’s image before sweeping into the room.

The years had not been kind to his father’s brother. Temuge had once been as fat as a feasting calf, but then lost the weight rapidly, so that his throat sagged into flaps of skin and he looked far older than his years. Ogedai looked at his uncle coldly as he rose from a silk-covered chair to greet him. It was an effort to be courteous to a man who represented the end of his time apart. He had no illusions. The nation waited impatiently for him and Temuge was just the first to breach his defenses.

“You are looking well, Ogedai,” Temuge said.

He came forward as if he might embrace his nephew, and Ogedai struggled with a spasm of irritation. He turned away to Baras, letting his uncle drop his arms unseen.

“Wine and food, Baras. Will you stand there, staring like a sheep?”

“My lord,” Baras’aghur replied, bowing immediately. “I will have a scribe sent to you to record the meeting.”

He left at a run and both men could hear the slave’s sandals clattering into the distance.

Temuge frowned delicately. “This is not a formal visit, Ogedai, for scribes and records.”

“You are here as my uncle then? Not because the tribes have selected you to approach me? Not because my scholar uncle is the one man whom all the factions trust enough to speak to me?”

Temuge flushed at the tone and the accuracy of the remarks. He had to assume Ogedai had as many spies in the great camps as he had himself. That was one thing the nation had learned from the Chin. He tried to judge his nephew’s mood, but it was no easy task. Ogedai had not even offered him salt tea. Temuge swallowed drily as he tried to interpret the level of censure and irritation in the younger man.

“You know the armies talk of nothing else, Ogedai.” Temuge took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Under Ogedai’s pale yellow eyes, he could not shake the idea that he was reporting to some echo of Genghis. His nephew was softer in body than the great khan, but there was a coldness in him that unnerved Temuge. Sweat broke out on his forehead.

“For two years, you have ignored your father’s empire—” Temuge began.

“Do you think that is what I have done?” Ogedai interrupted.

Temuge stared at him. “What else am I to think? You left the families and tumans in the field, then built a city while they herded sheep. For two years, Ogedai!” He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “There are some who say your mind has broken with grief for your father.”

Ogedai smiled bitterly to himself. Even the mention of his father was like tearing the scab off a wound. He knew every one of the rumors. He had started some of them himself, to keep his enemies jumping at shadows. Yet he was the chosen heir of Genghis, the first khan of the nation. The warriors had almost deified his father, and Ogedai was certain he had nothing to fear from mere gossip in the camps. His relatives were a different matter.

The door swung open to reveal Baras’aghur and a dozen Chin servants. In moments, they had surrounded the two men, placing bronze cups and food on a crisp white cloth before them. Ogedai gestured for his uncle to sit cross-legged on the tiled floor, watching with interest as the older man’s knees creaked and made him wince. Baras’aghur sent the servants away and then served tea to Temuge, who accepted the bowl in relief with his right hand, sipping as formally as he would have in any ger of the plains. Ogedai watched eagerly as red wine gurgled into his own cup. He emptied it quickly and held it out before Baras’aghur could move away.

Ogedai saw his uncle’s gaze flicker over the scribe Baras’aghur had summoned, standing in a respectful attitude against the wall. He knew Temuge understood the power of the written word as well as anyone. It had been he who had collected the stories of Genghis and the founding of a nation. Ogedai owned one of the first volumes, copied carefully and bound in hard-wearing goatskin. It was among his most prized possessions. Yet there were times when a man preferred not to be recorded.

“Give us privacy, Baras,” Ogedai said. “Leave the jug, but take your scribe with you.”

His manservant was too well trained to hesitate, and it was but moments until the two men were alone once again. Ogedai drained his cup and belched.

“Why have you come to me tonight, Uncle? In a month, you can enter Karakorum freely with thousands of our people, for a feast and a festival they will talk of for years.”

Temuge studied the younger man before him. The unlined face looked weary and stern. Ogedai had chosen a strange burden for himself, with this city. Temuge knew there were only a handful of men in the camps who cared more than a bronze coin for Karakorum. To the Mongol generals who had known Genghis, it was a colossal conceit of white marble and Chin design. Temuge wished he could tell the young man how much he loved the creation without its seeming like greasy flattery. Yet he did love it. It was the city he had once dreamed of building, a place of wide streets and courtyards and even a library, with thousands of clean oak shelves lying empty for the treasures they would one day hold.

“You are not a fool, Ogedai,” Temuge said. “It was not by chance that your father chose you over your older brothers.” Ogedai looked up sharply and Temuge nodded to him. “At times I wonder if you are a strategist like General Tsubodai. For two years, the nation has been without a leader, without a path, yet there has been no civil war, no struggle between princes.”

“Perhaps they saw my personal tuman riding among them, my scribes and spies,” Ogedai replied softly. “There were always men in red and black watching them for treachery.”

Temuge snorted. “It was not fear but confusion that held them. They could not see your plan, so they did nothing. You are your father’s heir, but you did not call them to take the oath. No one understands it, so they wait and watch. They still wait to see what you will do next.”

Temuge saw Ogedai’s mouth twitch as if he wanted to smile. He longed to know his nephew’s mind, but with this new generation, who knew how they thought?

“You have built your city on the plains, Ogedai. The armies have gathered at your call, but now they are here and many of them have seen this glorious place for the first time. Do you expect them simply to bend the knee and give their oath? Because you are your father’s son? He has other surviving sons, Ogedai. Have you considered them at all?”

Ogedai smiled at his uncle, amused at the way the man seemed to be trying to pierce his secrets with his gaze. There was one he would not find, no matter how closely he peered. He felt the wine spread its glow inside him, easing his pain like a caress.

“If that was my intention, Uncle—to win two years of peace for myself and build a city—well, I have done it, have I not? Perhaps that is all I wanted.”

Temuge spread his hands. “You do not trust me,” he said, genuine hurt in his voice.

Ogedai chuckled. “As much as I trust anyone, I promise you.”

“A clever answer,” Temuge said coldly.

“Well, you are a clever man. It’s what you deserve,” Ogedai snapped. All the lightness had gone from his manner as he leaned forward. Imperceptibly, his uncle eased himself back.

“At the new moon,” Ogedai went on, “I will take the khan’s oath of every officer and prince of the blood in the nation. I do not have to explain myself, Uncle. They will bend the knee to me. Not because I am my father’s son, but because I am my father’s chosen heir and the leader of the nation.”

He caught himself, as if he was about to say too much, and Temuge watched a shutter drop over his emotions. Here was one son who had learned the cold face early.

“You did not tell me why you came to me tonight, Uncle,” Ogedai went on.

Temuge let out a sigh, knowing the moment had slipped away. “I came to make sure you understood the danger, Ogedai.”

“You are frightening me,” Ogedai said with a smile.

Temuge flushed. “I am not threatening you.”

“Where can this terrible danger spring from then, in my city of cities?”

“You mock me, though I traveled here to help you and to see this thing you have built.”

“It is beautiful, is it not?” Ogedai said.

“It is wonderful,” Temuge said, with such transparent honesty that Ogedai looked more thoughtfully at his uncle.

“In truth,” Ogedai said, “I have been considering the need for a man to oversee my library here, to collect scrolls from all corners of the world until men of learning everywhere know the name of Karakorum. It is a foolish dream, perhaps.”

Temuge hesitated. The idea was thrilling to him, but he was suspicious.

“Are you still mocking me?” he said softly.

Ogedai shrugged. “Only when you blow like an old sheep with your warnings. Will you tell me to watch my food for poison, I wonder?” He saw Temuge’s face grow mottled as his peevishness resurfaced, and he smiled.

“It is a real offer. Any other man in the tribes can herd sheep and goats. Only you could herd scholars, I think. You will make Karakorum famous. I want it to be known from sea to sea.”

“If you set such a value on my wits then, Ogedai,” Temuge said, “you will listen to me, this once.”

Ogedai sighed. “Speak then, Uncle, if you feel you must,” he said.

“For two years, the world has waited for you. No one has dared to move a soldier for fear they would be the first example you made. Even the Chin and the Sung have been quiet. They have been like deer who smell a tiger somewhere close. That has come to an end. You have summoned the armies of the nation, and a month from now, if you live, you will be khan.”

“If I live?” Ogedai said.

“Where are your Guards now, Ogedai? You have called them back and no one feels their suspicious eyes riding through the camps. Did you think it would be easy? If you fell from a roof tonight and broke your head on all this stone, who would be khan at the new moon?”

“My brother Chagatai has the best claim,” Ogedai said lightly. “Unless my son, Guyuk, is allowed to live. Tolui too is in the line of my father. He has sons grown strong: Mongke and Kublai, Arik-Boke and Hulegu. In time, they could all be khans.” He smiled, amused at something Temuge could not see. “The seed of Genghis is strong, it seems. We all have sons, but we still look to Tsubodai. Whoever has my father’s unbeatable general will carry the army, don’t you think? Without him, it would be civil war. Is that all those with power? I have not mentioned my grandmother. Her teeth and eyes are gone now, but she can still be fearsome when roused.”

Temuge stared at him. “I hope your actions are not as careless as your words. Double your personal guard at least, Ogedai.”

Ogedai nodded. He didn’t bother to mention that the ornate walls concealed watching men. Two different crossbows were centered on Temuge’s chest at that very moment. It would take only a particular gesture of Ogedai’s hand for his uncle to be ripped from life.

“I have heard you. I will consider what you have said. Perhaps you should not take on the role in my library and university until the new moon has come and gone. If I do not survive it, my successor may not have such an interest in Karakorum.” He saw the words sink in and knew that at least one of the men of power would be working to keep him alive. All men had a price, but it was almost never gold.

“I must sleep now, Uncle,” Ogedai said. “Every day is full of plans and work.” He paused in the moment of rising and went on. “I will tell you this much. I have not been deaf or blind these last years. My father’s nation has ceased to conquer for a time, but what of that? The nation has been fed on milk and blood, ready to be sent out into the world with fresh strength. And I have built my city. Do not fear for me, Uncle. I know everything I need to know of the generals and their loyalties.”

He came to his feet with the suppleness of youth, while his uncle had to accept his outstretched hand and winced as his knees cracked aloud.

“I think your father would be proud of you, Ogedai,” Temuge said.

To his surprise, Ogedai chuckled.

“I doubt it. I have taken Jochi’s bastard son and made him a prince and a minghaan officer. I will raise Batu further still, to honor my brother’s memory. Genghis would never forgive me for that.” He smiled at the thought. “And he would not have loved my Karakorum, of that I am certain.”

He called for Baras’aghur to lead Temuge out of the dark city, back to the stifling air of treachery and suspicion that was so thick in the great camps.

Ogedai picked up his jug and cup, filling the goblet once again as he walked to a stone balcony and looked out at the moonlit streets. There was a breeze blowing, cooling his skin as he stood there with his eyes shut. His heart ached in his chest and he gripped his arm as the pain spread. He felt fresh sweat break out as his veins throbbed and pulsed at frightening speed, soaring for moments until he felt dizzy. He reached out blindly and held the stone sill, breathing slowly and deeply until the weakness left him and his heart beat slowly once again. A great pressure released in his head, and the flashing lights dwindled to mere points, shadows that only he could see. He looked up at the cold stars, his expression bitter. Below his feet, another chamber had been cut from the stones. At times, when the pains came with a force that left him trembling and weak, he had not expected even to finish it. Yet he had. His tomb was ready and he still lived. Cup by cup he emptied the jug, until his senses swam.

“How long do I have left?” he whispered drunkenly to himself. “Is it days now, or years?” He imagined he talked to the spirit of his father and waved the cup as he spoke, spilling some wine. “I was at peace, Father. At peace, when I thought my time was at an end. What did I care for your generals and their … petty struggles? Yet my city has risen and the nation has come, and I am still here. What do I do now?”

He listened for an answer in the darkness, but there was nothing.

TWO

Tolui stroked his wife’s damp hair idly as he lay back and watched his four sons whoop and splash in the waters of the Orkhon. The sun was warm as they lay there, and only the presence of his guards nearby prevented complete relaxation. Tolui grimaced at the thought. There was no peace to be had in the camp, with every man wondering whether he was a supporter of Chagatai or Ogedai or the generals—or perhaps one who would inform for any of them. At times, he wished his two older brothers would settle it somewhere quiet, so that he could enjoy being alive on such a day, with a beautiful woman in his arms and four healthy sons pleading to be allowed to swim over a waterfall. He had forbidden it once, but he saw that Kublai had dared Mongke once again and the two of them were creeping closer and closer to the bank, where a goat path led up to the source of the roaring river. Tolui watched from under half-closed lids as the two older boys glanced guiltily at their parents, hoping they were asleep in the warm sun. Arik-Boke and Hulegu were in on it, of course, their bony boys’ frames almost shaking with excitement.

“Do you see them?” Sorhatani murmured.

Tolui smiled. “I am half tempted to let them try it. They swim like otters, both of them.”

It was still a new skill to tribes raised on grassy plains. For those who learned to ride before they could speak, the rivers were the source of life for the herds, or an obstacle when they were swollen in floods. Only recently had they become a source of pleasure to the children of the tribe.

“You won’t be the one who has to soothe their wounds when they take the skin off their backs,” Sorhatani said, relaxing into him, “or splint their bones.”

Yet she said nothing as Mongke suddenly darted for the track, his naked body gleaming. Kublai shot a last, sharp look at his parents, but neither moved, and in an instant, he was off as well.

Tolui and Sorhatani both sat up as soon as the boys were out of sight. They exchanged a private look of amusement as Arik-Boke and Hulegu craned to see the top of the plunging falls above.

“I don’t know who is worse, Mongke or Kublai,” Sorhatani said, pulling a grass stalk and chewing the end.

He chuckled and they both said “Kublai” together.

“Mongke reminds me of my father,” Tolui said a little wistfully. “He fears nothing.”

Sorhatani snorted softly. “Then you will remember what your father once said when he had to choose between two men to lead a thousand.”

“I was there, woman,” Tolui said, his mind leaping to her point. “He said Ussutai feared nothing and felt no hunger or thirst. That was why he was unfit to command.”

“Your father was wise. A man needs to feel a little fear, Tolui, if only to have the pride of conquering it.”

A wild shout made them both look up as Mongke came over the falls, yelling in excitement as he managed a crude dive and plunged into the pool at its foot. The drop was little more than ten feet, but to a boy of eleven, it must have been terrifying. Tolui relaxed and chuckled as he saw his oldest son surface, blowing and gasping, his teeth very white against his sun-browned skin. Arik-Boke and Hulegu cheered, their voices high as they looked up again for Kublai.

He came over backwards in a tumble of limbs, moving so fast that he left the torrent of water and fell through empty air. Tolui winced at the flat smack that carried clearly across the water. He watched as the other three looked for him, calling and pointing to one another. Sorhatani felt her husband’s arms tense as he prepared to leap up, but then Kublai surfaced, roaring. His entire body was flushed red on one side, and he limped as he climbed out, but they could see he was panting with exhilaration.

“I’ll have to beat some sense into them,” Tolui said.

His wife shrugged. “I’ll get them dressed and send them to you.”

He nodded, only half aware that he had waited for her approval to punish the boys. Sorhatani smiled at him as he walked away. He was a good man, she thought. Not perhaps the strongest of the brothers, nor the most ruthless, but in all other ways, the best of the sons of Genghis.

As she stood and gathered the clothes her sons had left on every bush around them, she recalled the one man who had made her afraid in her life. She cherished the memory of the time when Genghis had looked on her as a woman, rather than just the wife of one of his sons. It had been on the shore of a lake, thousands of miles away in a different land. She had seen the khan’s eyes brighten at her youth and beauty, just for an instant. She had smiled at him then, terrified and awed.

“Now, there was a man,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head with a smile.

Khasar stood on the wooden base of the cart, leaning back against the white felt of the khan’s ger. It was twice as wide and half as high again as the homes of their people, and Genghis had used it for meeting his generals. Ogedai had never claimed the enormous construction, so heavy that the cart had to be pulled by six oxen. After the death of the great khan, it had sat empty for months before Khasar made it his own. As yet, no one had dared to dispute his right to it.

Khasar smelled the fried marmot meat Kachiun had brought for the midday meal.

“Let’s eat outside. It’s too fine a day to sit in the gloom,” he said.

As well as the steaming platter, Kachiun carried a fat skin of airag, which he tossed to his brother.

“Where are the others?” he said, placing the platter on the edge of the boards and sitting with his legs swinging.

Khasar shrugged. “Jebe said he would be here. I sent a messenger to Jelme and Tsubodai. They’ll come or they won’t; it’s up to them.”

Kachiun blew air from his lips in irritation. He should have passed on the messages himself, to be sure his brother didn’t forget or use the wrong words. There was no point in berating the man who was digging his fingers into the pile of steaming scraps. Khasar didn’t change and it was both infuriating and comforting at times.

“He’s nearly finished that city of his,” Khasar said, chewing. “Strange-looking place, with those low walls. I could ride right over them.”

“I think that is his point,” Kachiun replied. He took a pouch of unleavened bread from another pot, waving his hand to clear the steam as he filled it with meat. Khasar looked baffled and Kachiun sighed.

“We are the walls, brother. He wants people to see that he does not have to hide behind stones like the Chin. Do you understand? The tumans of our army are the walls.”

“Clever,” Khasar said, munching. “But he’ll build walls eventually, you watch. Give him a year or two and he’ll be adding stones. Cities make you afraid.”

Kachiun stared at his brother, wondering if he had managed a bit of real wisdom. Khasar noticed his sudden interest and grinned.

“You’ve seen it. If a man has gold, he lives with the terror that someone will take it away from him, so he builds walls around it. Then everyone knows where the gold is, so they come and take it. That’s the way it always goes, brother. Fools and gold, together.”

“I never know if you think like a child or a very wise man,” Kachiun said, filling another pouch and chewing.

Khasar tried to say “wise man” around a large mouthful and choked, so that Kachiun had to pound him on his back. They had been friends for a very long time.

Khasar wiped tears from his eyes and took a deep breath and then a swig of airag from the bulging skin.

“He’ll need walls at the new moon, I should think.”

Automatically, Kachiun looked to see if anyone could overhear them. They were surrounded by empty grass, with just their two ponies grazing nearby. Beyond them, warriors were busy in the sun, preparing for the great competition Ogedai had promised. There would be prizes of gray horses and armor for wrestlers and archers, even for those who won footraces across the plains. Everywhere they looked, men were training in groups, but there was no one loitering too close. Kachiun relaxed.

“You have heard something?”

“Nothing, but only a fool would expect the oath-taking to go without a hitch. Ogedai’s not a fool and he’s not a coward. He faced me when I was running wild after …” He hesitated and his eyes grew distant and cold for a moment. “After Genghis died.” He took another swig of the harsh spirit. “If he’d taken the oaths immediately, not a man in the tribes would have dared raise a hand to him; but now?”

Kachiun nodded grimly. “Now Chagatai has come into his strength, and half the nation wonders why he isn’t going to be khan.”

“There will be blood, brother. One way or another,” Khasar replied. “I just hope Ogedai knows when to be forgiving and when to cut throats.”

“He has us,” Kachiun said. “That is why I wanted to meet here, to discuss our plans for seeing him safe as khan.”

“I haven’t been summoned to his white city for my advice, Kachiun, have you? You don’t know whether he trusts us more than anyone else. Why should he? You could be khan if you wanted. You were Genghis’s heir while his sons grew.” Khasar saw his brother’s irritation. The camp was full of such talk and both men were tired of it, but Khasar just shrugged. “Better you than Chagatai, anyway. Have you seen him out running, with his bondsmen? So young, so virile.” He leaned over the edge of the cart and spat deliberately on the ground.

Kachiun smiled. “Jealous, brother?”

“Not of him, though I do miss being young sometimes. Now some part of me is always aching. Old wounds, old knees, that time when you completely failed to stop me getting speared in my shoulder—it all hurts.”

“It is better than the alternative,” Kachiun said.

Khasar snorted.

They looked round as Jebe approached, with Tsubodai. Both of Genghis’s generals were in their prime, and Kachiun and Khasar shared a glance of private humor at the way they came striding confidently across the summer grass.

“Tea in the pot, meat in the bowl,” Khasar said without ceremony as they climbed the steps up to the old khan’s ger. “We are discussing how to keep Ogedai alive long enough for him to carry the white tails.”

The symbol of the united tribes still fluttered above his head, horse tails that had once been a riot of tribal colors, until Genghis had bleached them pale and made them one. No one had dared to remove the symbol of power, any more than they had queried Khasar’s use of the cart.

Tsubodai made himself comfortable on the wooden edge, his feet dangling as he dug into the meat and bread. He was aware that both Kachiun and Khasar were waiting for what he would say. He did not enjoy the attention and he ate slowly and cleared his throat with airag.

In the silence, Jebe leaned back against the felt wall and looked at the city in the distance, a white haze in the warm air. He could see the golden dome of Ogedai’s palace, and it struck him that it resembled a yellow eye staring out of the city.

“I have been approached,” Jebe said. Tsubodai stopped chewing and Khasar put down the skin of airag as he was about to drink. Jebe shrugged. “We knew one of us would be, sooner or later. It was a stranger to me, wearing no marks of rank.”

“Sent by Chagatai?” Kachiun said.

Jebe nodded. “Who else? But no names were mentioned. They do not trust me. It was just a light touch, to see which way I would jump.”

Tsubodai grimaced. “You jumped here, in full view of the tribes. No doubt they are watching you now.”

“What of it?” Jebe said, bridling. “I was loyal to Genghis. Do I demand to be known by my birth name, as Zurgadai? I carry the name Genghis gave me, and I am loyal to the son he named as heir. What do I care who sees me talking with his generals?”

Tsubodai sighed and put aside the final piece of his meal. “We know who is most likely to disrupt the oath-taking. We do not know how they will do it, or how many men will support them. If you had come to me quietly, Jebe, I would have told you to agree to anything they say and learn their plans.”

“Who wants to go creeping about in the dark, Tsubodai?” Khasar said scornfully. He looked to his brother for support, but Kachiun shook his head.

“Tsubodai is right, brother. This isn’t just a matter of showing we support Ogedai and all right-thinking men following us. I wish it was. There was never a khan of the nation before Genghis, so there are no laws for how he passes on his power.”

“The khan makes the laws,” Khasar replied. “I didn’t see anyone complaining when he made us all take an oath to Ogedai as heir. Even Chagatai got down on his knees for that.”

“Because his choice was to fall flat or die,” Tsubodai said. “Now Genghis is gone and the men around Chagatai are whispering in his ear. They are saying the only reason he was not heir was his struggle with his brother, Jochi, but Jochi is dead.”

He paused for a moment, thinking of the blood that had splashed on snow. His face was utterly blank and they could not read him.

“There are no traditions to tell us how to act,” Tsubodai went on wearily. “Yes, Genghis chose his heir, but his mind was clouded with anger over Jochi. It was not so many years ago that he favored Chagatai over all his brothers. The nation talks of nothing else. At times, I think Chagatai could press his claim openly and become khan. He could walk right up to Ogedai with a sword and fully half the army would not stop him.”

“The other half would tear him to shreds,” Khasar said.

“And in a stroke, we would have a civil war that would break the nation in two. Everything Genghis built, all our strength, wasted on an internal struggle. How long would it be then before the Chin rose against us, or the Arabs? If that is the future, I would rather see Chagatai take the horse-tail banner today.” Tsubodai held up his hand as they began to protest. “That is not a traitor speaking, do not think it. Have I not shown that I followed Genghis, even when everything in me cried out that he was wrong? I will not fail his memory. I will see Ogedai as khan, on my word.”

Once again he thought of a young man who had believed his promise of safe passage. Tsubodai knew his word was worthless, where it had once been iron. It was an old grief, but on some days he bled as if he had just been cut.

“You had me worried,” Khasar said.

Tsubodai did not smile. He was younger than both the brothers, but they waited patiently for him to speak. He was the great general, the master who could plan any attack on any terrain and somehow snatch victory. With Tsubodai, they knew Ogedai had a chance. Kachiun frowned at the thought.

“You should look to your own safety as well, Tsubodai. You are too valuable to lose.”

Tsubodai sighed. “To hear such words while I sit by the ger of my khan. Yes, I will be careful. I am an obstacle to the one we all fear. You should be sure that your guards are men you trust with your life, who cannot be bribed or threatened without them coming to you. If a man’s wife and children go missing, will you still trust him to watch you as you sleep?”

“That is an ugly thought,” Jebe said, with a wince. “You truly think we are at that point? On such a day, I can hardly believe in knives in every shadow.”

“If Ogedai becomes khan,” Tsubodai went on, “he could have Chagatai killed, or simply rule well or badly for forty years. Chagatai will not wait, Jebe. He will try to arrange a death, an accident, or he will try to take it by force. I cannot see him sitting idly by while his life and ambition is decided by others. Not the man I know.”

Somehow the sun seemed less bright after such cold words.

“Where is Jelme?” Jebe asked. “He told me he would be here.”

Tsubodai rubbed the back of his neck, making it crack. He had not slept well for many weeks, though he would not mention it to these men.

“Jelme is loyal; don’t worry about him,” he muttered. Some of the other men frowned.

“Loyal to which son of Genghis?” Jebe said. “There is no clear path in this, and if we do not find one, the nation could be torn apart.”

“Then we should kill Chagatai,” Khasar said. The others grew still and he grinned at them. “I am too old to be guarding my words,” he said with a shrug. “Why should he have it all his own way? Why should I check my personal guards, to be sure no one has turned them against me? We could end this today and Ogedai would be khan at the new moon with no threat of war.” He saw their cold expressions and spat once again. “I won’t dip my head at your disapproval, so don’t expect it. If you prefer to watch your backs for a month and make secret, clever plans, that is up to you. I could cut right through it and see an end. What do you think Genghis would say, if he were one of us, here? He’d walk right in and cut Chagatai’s throat.”

“He might,” Tsubodai admitted, who knew better than most how ruthless the khan had been. “If Chagatai was a fool, I would agree with you. If there could be surprise, yes, it could work. I’d ask you to test it, but you’d get yourself killed. Instead, take my word on this—Chagatai is ready for such a move. Any group of armed men approaching his tuman is met with bristling weapons and warriors ready to charge. He plans murder every day, so he fears it as well.”

“Between us we command enough men to get to him,” Khasar said, though less confidently.

“Perhaps. If only his ten thousand responded, we could still reach him, but I think it has already gone further than that. Whatever game Ogedai has been playing, he has given his brother two years to whisper and make promises. Without a khan’s shadow, all of us were forced to rule the lands around us, to act as if we were the only voice that mattered. I found I enjoyed it. Did you not feel the same?” Tsubodai glanced around at the others and shook his head. “The nation is falling apart into tribes of tumans, bound not by blood but by the generals who lead them. No, we will not attack Chagatai. My purpose is to prevent civil war, not to be the spark that sets it off.”

Khasar had lost his keen look as Tsubodai spoke, subsiding with an irritated expression.

“Then we are back to keeping Ogedai alive,” he said.

“More than that,” Tsubodai replied. “We are back to keeping enough of a nation intact for him to have something to rule as khan. I hope you did not expect me to have an answer on a single day, Khasar. We could win here and see Ogedai with the horse tails, yet watch as Chagatai takes away half the army and half the nation. How long would it be then before two khans and their armies were facing each other on a field of war?”

“You have made it clear, Tsubodai,” Kachiun said, “but we can’t just sit and wait for disaster.”

“No,” Tsubodai said. “Very well, I know enough to trust you. Jelme is not here because he is meeting two of the generals who may be loyal to Chagatai. I will know more when I have exchanged messages with him. I cannot meet him again—and yes, Khasar, this is the sort of secret game you despise. The stakes are too high to make a false step.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Khasar said thoughtfully.

Tsubodai shot a sharp glance at the older man. “I will also need your word, Khasar,” he said.

“On what?”

“Your word not to act on your own. It is true that Chagatai runs every day, though he does not go far from his warriors. There is a small chance you could arrange archers in place to take him from cover, but if you failed, you would ruin everything your brother worked for, everything that cost the lives of so many of those you loved. The entire nation would go up in flames, Khasar.”

Khasar gaped at the general, who seemed to be reading his very thoughts. His guilty expression was there for all to see as he forced the cold face. Before he could reply, Tsubodai spoke again.

“Your word, Khasar. We want the same thing, but I cannot plan around you, without knowing what you will do.”

“You have it,” Khasar said grimly.

Tsubodai nodded as if it were a minor point in a discussion. “I will keep you all informed. We cannot meet often, with the number of spies in the camp, so we will send trusted messengers. Write nothing down and never use the name of Chagatai again, not after today. Call him the Broken Lance if you must speak of him. Know that we will find a way through.”

Tsubodai rose smoothly to his feet and thanked Khasar for his hospitality.

“I must leave now, to find out what they promised Jelme in return for his support.” He bowed his head and climbed lithely down the steps, making Khasar and Kachiun feel old just to watch.

“Be grateful for one thing,” Kachiun said softly, watching the general stride away. “If he wanted to be khan, it would be even harder.”

THREE

Ogedai stood in shadows, at the base of the ramp that led to light and air above. The great oval was finished at last, the smell of wood, paint, and varnish strong in the air around him. It was easy to imagine the athletes of his people walking out to the roar of thirty thousand men and women. Ogedai saw it all in his mind, and he realized he was feeling better than he had for many days. The Chin healer had spoken much about the dangers of foxglove powder, but Ogedai only knew that it eased the constant ache in his chest. Two days before, a sharp pain had driven him to his knees in his private apartments. He grimaced at the remembered pressure, like being trapped in a small space and unable to open his lungs to air. A pinch of the dark powder mixed in red wine had brought release like ropes snapping around his chest. He walked with death, he was certain of it, but it was still two steps behind.

The builders were leaving the great stadium in their thousands, though Ogedai barely looked at the river of exhausted faces passing him. He knew they had worked all night so he would be satisfied, and that was only right. He wondered how they felt about the emperor of the Chin kneeling to his father. If Genghis had been forced to such shame, Ogedai doubted he could be so calm, so accepting. Genghis had told him that the Chin had no concept of nation. Their ruling elite talked of empires and emperors, but the peasants could not stand high enough to see so far. Instead, they found smaller loyalties to cities and local men. Ogedai nodded to himself. It was not so long since the tribes of his people had done the same. His father had dragged them all into a new era, and many of them still did not understand the breadth of his vision.

Most of the crowd stared at the ground as they walked past, terrified of attracting his notice. Ogedai’s heart began to beat faster as he saw a different reaction in some of those approaching him. He felt the need to walk out of the shadows into light and had to strangle the urge. His chest ached, but there was none of the terrible weariness that usually dogged him no matter how much he slept. Instead, his senses were alive. He could smell and hear everything around him, from the garlic-laced food of the workmen to the whispered voices.

The world seemed to strain and then burst, leaving him almost dazed. Ahead of him were men who stared and then deliberately turned away, their reaction marking them out like a raised flag. Ogedai saw no signal, but almost as one they drew knives from their clothing; short, hacking blades of the sort carpenters used to trim posts. The crowd began to swirl as more and more people realized what was happening. Voices cried out hoarsely, but Ogedai remained very still, the center of the growing storm. He had locked eyes with the closest of the men as he shoved his way past others, his blade held high.

Ogedai watched the man approach. Slowly he opened his arms wide, then wider, his outstretched hands buffeted by the fleeing crowd. The attacker shouted something, a wild sound lost in the clamor. Ogedai showed his teeth as the man was struck from the side, his body crumpling away from the armored Guard who had hit him.

As his Guards trampled and slaughtered the men in the shadowy tunnel, Ogedai slowly lowered his arms, watching coldly. They left two alive, as he had ordered, clubbing them down with sword hilts until their faces were swollen masks. The rest were killed like goats.

In just moments, the first officer stood before him, his chest heaving and his pale face spattered with filth.

“Lord, are you well?” the man said, a study of confusion.

Ogedai turned his gaze away from the soldiers still thumping at the dead flesh of men who had dared to attack their master.

“Why would you think otherwise, Huran? I am unharmed. You have done your work.”

Huran bowed his head and almost turned away, but he could not.

“My lord, there was no need for this. We have followed these men for two days. I have searched their lodgings myself and there has never been a moment in Karakorum when I did not have eyes on them. We could have taken them without any risk to you.”

He was clearly struggling to find the right words, but Ogedai felt lighter and stronger than he had in too long. His mood was mellow as he replied.

“Say what you have to say, Huran. You will not offend me.” He had released the man from any need to guard his speech, and he watched the tension and stiffness vanish.

“I live, I work, to protect you, lord,” Huran said. “On the day you die, I die, I have sworn it. But I cannot protect you if you are … if you are in love with death, lord, if you want to die …” Under Ogedai’s cool gaze, Huran stumbled over the last words and fell silent.

“Put your fears to rest, Huran. You have served me since I was a boy. I took risks then, did I not? Like any other lad who thinks he will live forever?”

Huran nodded. “You did, but you would not have stood with your arms wide then, not with a killer running at you. I saw it, lord, but I did not understand it.”

Ogedai smiled, as if instructing a child. Perhaps it was his closeness to eternity in those moments, but he felt almost light-headed.

“I do not want to die, I promise you, Huran. But I am not afraid of it, not at all. I held open my arms because, in that moment, I did not care. Can you understand that?”

“No, lord,” Huran said.

Ogedai sighed, wrinkling his nose at the smell of blood and excrement in the tunnel.

“The air is foul here,” he said. “Walk out with me.”

He skirted the heaped bodies. Many had been killed by accident in the fray, simple workmen trying to get out of the darkness. He would have some payment made to their families, he thought.

Huran stayed at his side as the light brightened and Ogedai’s gaze fell on the completed arena. His mood soared higher at the sight of the tiered seating, thousands upon thousands of benches stretching into the distance. After the bloodshed at the entrance, it had emptied at astonishing speed, so that Ogedai could hear the song of a bird in the distance, clear and sweet. He was tempted to call across the space to see if his voice would echo. Thirty thousand of his people could sit and watch races and wrestling and the archery wall. It would be glorious.

A spot on his face itched and he rubbed it, raising a reddened finger before his eyes. Someone else’s blood.

“Here, Huran, in this place, I will be khan. I will take the oath from my people.”

Huran nodded stiffly and Ogedai smiled at him, knowing his loyalty was absolute. Yet he did not mention the weakness of the heart that could take his life at any moment. He did not tell Huran that he woke each morning with sharp relief that he had survived the night to see one more dawn, nor how he stayed awake later and later each evening in case that day was his last. The wine and the foxglove powder had brought him relief, but he knew every day, every breath, was a blessing. How could he fear a killer when he was always in death’s shadow? It was amusing and he chuckled until he felt the ache in his chest again. He considered taking a pinch of the powder under his tongue. Huran would not dare ask about it.

“There are three days until the new moon, Huran. You have kept me alive until now, have you not? How many attacks have you thwarted?”

“Seven, lord,” Huran said softly.

Ogedai looked sharply at him. “I know of only five, including today. How do you make seven?”

“My man in the kitchens stopped a poisoning this morning, lord, and I had three warriors of your brother murdered in a brawl.”

“You were not certain that they were here to kill me?”

“No, lord, not certain,” Huran admitted. He had left one alive and worked on him for part of the morning, earning nothing but screaming and insults for his trouble.

“You have been rash, Huran,” Ogedai said, without regret. “We have planned for such attacks. My food is tasted, my servants are hand-picked. My city is under siege from the sheer number of spies and warriors pretending to be simple painters and carpenters. Yet I have opened Karakorum and people are still flooding in. I have three Chin lords staying in my own palace and two Christian monks who have taken a vow of poverty, so bed down in the straw of my royal stables. The oath-taking will be … an interesting time, Huran.” He sighed at the soldier’s grim worry. “If all we have done is not enough, perhaps I am not meant to survive. The sky father loves a good game, Huran. Perhaps I will be taken from you, despite all your efforts.”

“Not while I live, lord. I will call you khan.”

The man spoke with such assurance that Ogedai smiled and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Escort me back to the palace then, Huran. I must resume my duties, after this small amusement. I have kept Orlok Tsubodai waiting long enough, I think.”

Tsubodai had left his armor in the palace rooms he had been given. Every warrior in the tribes knew that Genghis had once approached an enemy without weapons, then used a scale of his armor to cut the man’s throat. Instead, Tsubodai wore a light deel robe over leggings and sandals. They had been laid out for him, clean and new, of the best materials. Such luxury in those rooms! Ogedai had borrowed from every culture they had encountered in conquest. It made Tsubodai uncomfortable to see it, though he could not find words for his discomfort. Worse was the bustle and hurry of the palace corridors, packed with people, all intent on errands and work he did not understand. He had not realized there were so many involved in the oath-taking. There were Guards at every corner and alcove, but with so many strange faces, Tsubodai felt a constant itch of worry. He preferred open spaces.

The day had half gone when he grabbed a servant running past him, making the man yelp in surprise. It seemed Ogedai had been busy with some task in the city, but he knew Tsubodai was waiting.

Tsubodai could not leave without giving insult, so he stood in a silent audience room, his impatience growing harder to mask as the hours fled.

The room was empty, though Tsubodai still felt crawling eyes on him as he strolled to a window and looked over the new city and beyond to the tumans on the plains. The sun was setting, throwing long lines of gold and shadow on the ground and streets below. Ogedai had chosen the site well, with the mountains to the south and the nearby river wide and strong. Tsubodai had ridden along part of the canal Ogedai had built to bring water into the city. It was astonishing, until you considered that a million men had worked for almost two years. With enough gold and silver, anything was possible. Tsubodai wondered if Ogedai would survive to enjoy it.

He had lost track of time when he heard voices approaching. Tsubodai watched closely as Ogedai’s Guards entered and took positions. He felt their gaze pass over him and then settle, as the only possible threat in the room. Ogedai came last, his face puffier and far paler than Tsubodai remembered. It was hard not to remember Genghis in those yellow eyes, and Tsubodai bowed deeply.

Ogedai returned the bow, before taking a seat on a wooden bench under the window. The wood was polished and golden and he let his hands enjoy the feel of it as he glanced out at Karakorum. He closed his eyes for a moment as the setting sun cast a last glimpse of gold into the high room.

He had no love for Tsubodai, for all he needed him. If the general had refused Genghis’s most brutal order, Ogedai’s older brother Jochi would have been khan long since. If Tsubodai had stayed his hand, disobeyed just once, there would be no crisis of leadership heading toward them, threatening to destroy them all.

“Thank you for waiting. I hope my servants have made you comfortable?” he asked at last.

Tsubodai frowned at the question. He had expected the rituals of ger courtesy, but Ogedai’s face was open and visibly weary.

“Of course, lord. I need very little.”

He paused as footsteps sounded outside the doors, and Ogedai rose as new Guards entered, followed by Tolui and his wife, Sorhatani.

“You are welcome in my home, brother,” Ogedai said, “but I did not expect your beautiful wife to attend me.” He turned to Sorhatani smoothly. “Your children are well?”

“They are, my lord. I brought only Mongke and Kublai. I do not doubt they are causing trouble for your men at this very moment.”

Ogedai frowned delicately. He had asked for Tolui to come to the palace for his own safety. He knew of at least two plots that sought to dispose of the younger brother, but he had expected to explain in private. He glanced at Tolui and saw his brother’s gaze rise and drop for a moment. Sorhatani was hard to refuse in anything.

“Your other sons? They are not with you?” Ogedai said to his brother.

“I have sent them to a cousin. He is taking a fishing trip out west for a few months. They will miss the oath-taking, but I will have them make it good when they return.”

“Ah,” Ogedai said, understanding. One pair of sons would survive, no matter what happened. He wondered if it had been Sorhatani who had changed his order for the whole family to appear at the palace. Perhaps she was right to be less than trusting in such bleak times.

“I have no doubt General Tsubodai is bursting with news and dire warnings, brother,” Ogedai said. “You may return to your rooms, Sorhatani. Thank you for taking a moment to visit me.”

The dismissal could not be refused and she bowed stiffly. Ogedai noticed the furious glance she shot at Tolui as she turned. The gates swung open again and the three men were left alone, with eight Guards along the walls.

Ogedai gestured to a table and they sat, all warier than he could once have believed possible. Losing patience with it all, Ogedai clinked cups together and filled each one, pushing them toward his guests. They reached for them at the same time, knowing that to hesitate would show they feared poison. Ogedai did not give them long, emptying his own in three quick gulps.

“You two I trust,” he said bluntly, licking his lips. “Tolui, I have stopped one attempt to kill you, or your sons.” Tolui narrowed his eyes a fraction, growing tense. “My spies have heard of one other, but I do not know who it is and I am out of time. I can deal with those who seek my death, but I must ask that you stay in the palace. I cannot protect you otherwise, until I am khan.”

“Is it so bad then?” Tolui asked, astonished. He had known the camp was in turmoil, but to hear of open attacks had shaken him. He wished that Sorhatani were there to hear it. He would only have to repeat it all later.

Ogedai turned to Tsubodai. The general sat in simple clothes, but he radiated authority. Ogedai wondered for a moment if it was simply reputation. It was difficult not to look on Tsubodai with awe if you knew what he had achieved in his life. The army owed their success to him as much as to Genghis. Yet for Ogedai it was harder not to look on him with hatred. He locked it away, as he had for more than two years. He still needed this man.

“You are loyal, Tsubodai,” he said softly, “to my father’s will, at least. From your hand, I have word of this ‘Broken Lance’ each day.” He hesitated, struggling for calm. Part of him wanted to leave Tsubodai outside Karakorum on the plains, to ignore the strategist his father had valued over all others. Yet only a fool would waste such a talent. Even now, challenged openly, Tsubodai did not confirm he was the source of the messengers who appeared at the palace, though Ogedai was almost certain.

“I serve, lord,” Tsubodai said. “You had my oath, as heir. I have not wavered in that.”

For an instant, Ogedai’s anger rose in him like a white spike in his head. This was the man who had cut Jochi’s throat in the snow, sitting there and talking of his oath. Ogedai took a deep breath. Tsubodai was too valuable to waste. He had to be managed, thrown off balance.

“My brother Jochi heard your promises, did he not?” he said softly. To his pleasure, the color fled from the general’s face.

Tsubodai remembered every detail of the meeting with Jochi in the northern snows. The son of Genghis had exchanged his life for his men and their families. Jochi had known he was going to die, but he had expected a chance to speak again to his father. Tsubodai was too much of a man to quibble over the rights and wrongs of it. It felt like a betrayal then and it still did. He nodded, jerkily.

“I killed him, lord. It was wrong and I live with it.”

“You broke your word, Tsubodai?” Ogedai pressed, leaning across the table.

His cup fell with a metallic clang, and Tsubodai reached out and set it upright. He would not take less than his full share of blame; he could not.

“I did,” Tsubodai replied, his eyes blazing with anger or shame.

“Then redeem your honor!” Ogedai roared, slamming his fists into the table.

All three cups crashed over, spilling wine in a red flood. The Guards drew swords and Tsubodai came to his feet in a jerk, half expecting to be attacked. He found himself staring down at Ogedai, still seated. The general knelt as suddenly as he had risen.

Ogedai had not known how the death of his brother had troubled Tsubodai. The general and his father had kept all that between them. It was a revelation and he needed time to think about what it meant. He spoke instinctively, using the man’s own chains to bind him.

“Redeem your word, General, by keeping another son of Genghis alive long enough to be khan. My brother’s spirit would not want to see his family torn and abandoned. My father’s spirit would not. Make it so, Tsubodai, and find peace. After that, I do not care what happens, but you will be among the first to take the oath. That would be fitting.”

Ogedai’s chest hurt and he could feel sour sweat under his arms and on his brow. A great lethargy settled across his shoulders as his heart thumped slower and slower, reducing him to dizzy exhaustion. He had not slept well for weeks, and the constant fear of death was wearing him to a shadow, until only his will remained. He had shocked those present with his sudden rage, but at times he could barely control his temper. He had lived under a great weight for too long, and sometimes he simply could not remain calm. He would be khan, if even for just a day. His voice was slurred as he spoke. Both Tsubodai and Tolui watched him with worried expressions.

“Stay here tonight, both of you,” Ogedai said. “There is nowhere safer on the plains, or in the city.”

Tolui nodded immediately, already ensconced in his suite of rooms. Tsubodai hesitated, failing to understand this son of Genghis or what drove him. He could sense a subtle sadness in Ogedai, a loneliness, for all he was surrounded by a great host. Tsubodai knew he could serve better on the plains. Any real threat would come from there, from the tuman of Chagatai. Yet he bowed his head to the man who would be khan at sunset of the following day.

Ogedai rubbed his eyes for a moment, feeling the dizziness clear. He could not tell them that he expected Chagatai to be khan after him. Only the spirits knew how long he had left, but he had built his city. He had left a mark on the plains, and he would be khan.

In darkness, Ogedai awoke. He was sweating in the warm night and he turned over in bed, feeling his wife stir beside him. He was drifting back into sleep when he heard a rattle of running footsteps in the distance. He came alert instantly, raising his head and listening until his neck ached. Who would be running at such an hour—some servant? He closed his eyes again and then heard a faint knock at the outer door of his rooms. Ogedai swore softly and shook his wife by the shoulder.

“Get dressed, Torogene. Something is happening.” In recent days, Huran had begun the habit of sleeping outside the rooms, with his back to the outer door. The officer knew better than to disturb his master without good reason.

The knock sounded again as Ogedai belted a deel robe. He closed the double door on his wife and crossed the outer room, padding barefoot past the Chin tables and couches. There was no moon above the city, and the rooms were dark. It was easy to imagine assassins in every shadow, and Ogedai lifted a sword from where it hung on the wall. In silence, he removed the scabbard and listened at the door.

Somewhere far away, he heard a distant scream and he jerked back.

“Huran?” he said.

Through the heavy oak, he heard the relief in the man’s voice. “My lord, it is safe to open the door,” Huran said.

Ogedai threw back a heavy bolt and lifted an iron bar that anchored the door to the stone wall. In his nervous state, he had not noticed that the corridor cast no threads of light through the cracks. It was darker out there than in his rooms, where dim starlight gleamed through the windows.

Huran came in quickly, stepping past Ogedai to check the rooms. Behind him, Tolui ushered in Sorhatani and his two eldest sons, wrapped in light robes over their sleeping clothes.

“What is happening here?” Ogedai hissed, using anger to cover his spreading panic.

“The guards on our door went away,” Tolui said grimly. “If I hadn’t heard them leave, I don’t know what would have happened.”

Ogedai tightened his grip on the sword, taking comfort from the weight of it. He turned at a spill of light from the inner doorway, his wife silhouetted against the lamplight.

“Be still, Torogene, I will attend to this,” he said. To his irritation, she came out anyway, her night robe clutched around her.

“I went to the nearest guardroom,” Tolui went on. He glanced at his sons, who stood watching in openmouthed excitement. “They were all dead, brother.”

Huran grimaced as he peered out into the dark corridors. “I hate to lock us in, my lord, but this is the strongest door in the palace. You will be safe here tonight.”

Ogedai was torn between outrage and caution. He knew every stone of the vast building around them. He had watched each one cut and shaped and polished and fitted into place. Yet all his halls, all his power and influence, would be reduced to just a few rooms when the door closed.

“Keep it open as long as you can,” he said. Surely there were more of his Guards on their way? How could such an attempt have slipped past him?

Somewhere nearby they heard more running footsteps, the echoes clattering from all directions. Huran put his shoulder to the door. From the blackness, a figure loomed suddenly and Huran struck with his sword blade, grunting as it slid off scaled armor.

“Put that away, Huran,” a voice came, slipping into the room.

In the dim light, Ogedai breathed in relief. “Tsubodai! What is happening outside?”

The general said nothing. He dropped his sword on the stone floor and helped Huran bar the door, before taking up the blade once again.

“The corridors are full of men; they’re searching every room,” he said. “If it were not for the fact that they have never been inside your palace before, they would be here already.”

“How did you get past?” Huran demanded.

Tsubodai scowled in angry memory. “Some of them recognized me, but the common warriors have not yet been told to cut me down. For all they know, I am part of the plot.”

Ogedai sagged as he stared round at the small group who had run to his rooms.

“Where is my son, Guyuk?” he said. “My daughters?”

Tsubodai shook his head. “I did not see them, lord, but there is every chance they are safe. You are the target tonight, no one else.”

Tolui winced as he understood. He turned to his wife. “Then I have brought you and my sons to the most dangerous place.”

Sorhatani reached out to touch his cheek. “Nowhere is safe tonight,” she said softly.

They could all hear voices and running feet coming closer. Outside the city, the tumans of the nation slept on, oblivious to the threat.

FOUR

Kachiun walked his pony across the churned grass of the encampment, listening to the sounds of the nation all around him. Despite the stillness of the night, he did not ride alone. Thirty of his personal bondsmen went with him, alert for any attack. No one traveled alone in the camps anymore, not with the new moon almost upon them. Lamps and mutton fat torches spat and fluttered at every intersection of paths, revealing dark groups of warriors watching him as he passed.

He could hardly believe the current level of suspicion and tension in the camps. At three points, he was challenged by guards as he approached Khasar’s ger. In the night breeze, two lamps cast writhing yellow shadows at his feet. Even as Khasar came yawning out onto the cart, Kachiun could see bows drawn and sighted on him.

“We need to talk, brother,” he said.

Khasar stretched, groaning. “Tonight?”

“Yes, tonight,” Kachiun snapped.

He didn’t want to say more, with so many listeners nearby. For once, Khasar sensed his mood and nodded without any more argument. Kachiun watched as his brother whistled softly. Men in full armor walked in from the outer darkness, hands near their swords. They ignored Kachiun and walked to their general, standing close by his feet and looking up at him for orders. Khasar crouched and murmured to them.

Kachiun mastered his impatience until the men bowed their heads and moved away. One of them brought Khasar’s current mount, a gelding near black in color that whickered and kicked out as they saddled it.

“Bring your bondsmen, brother,” Kachiun said to him.

Khasar peered at him in the dim light, seeing the strain in Kachiun’s face. He shrugged and gestured to the officers nearby. Another forty warriors trotted to his side, long woken from sleep by the presence of armed men near their master. It seemed that even Khasar was taking no chances on those nights while they waited for the new moon.

Dawn was still hours away, but with the camp in such a state, the movement of so many men woke everyone they passed. Voices called out around them and somewhere a child began wailing. Grim-faced, Kachiun trotted his mount beside his brother, silent as they headed toward Karakorum.

Torches lit the gates in dim gold that night. The walls were pale gray shadows in the darkness, but the western gate gleamed, oak and iron, and clearly shut. Khasar frowned, leaning forward in his saddle to strain his eyes.

“I haven’t seen it closed before,” he said over his shoulder. Without thought, he dug in his heels and increased his pace. The warriors around him matched him so smoothly it could have been a battlefield maneuver. The noises of the camp, the calling voices, all were lost in the thump of hooves, the breath of horses, the jingle of metal and harness. The western gate of Karakorum grew before them. Khasar could now see ranks of men, facing outward as if challenging him.

“This is why I woke you,” Kachiun replied.

Both men were brothers to the great khan, uncles to the next. They were generals of proven authority, their names known to every warrior who fought for the nation. When they reached the gate, a visible ripple ran through the ranks of men there, vanishing into the darkness. The bondsmen halted around their masters, hands on sword hilts. On both sides, the men were strung as tightly as their bows. Kachiun and Khasar glanced at each other, then dismounted.

They stood on dusty ground, the grass long since worn away by traffic through the gate. Both men felt the sullen gaze of those who faced them. The men at the gate bore no marks of rank, no flags or banners to identify them. For Kachiun and Khasar, it was as if they looked upon the raiders of their youth, with no allegiance to the nation.

“You know me,” Khasar roared suddenly over their heads. “Who dares to stand in my way?”

The closest men jerked under a voice that could carry across battlefields, but they did not respond, or move.

“I see no signs of tuman or minghaan in your ranks. I see no flags, just dog-meat wanderers with no master.” He paused and glared at them. “I am General Khasar Borjigin, of the Wolves, of the nation under the great khan. You will answer to me tonight.”

Some of the men shuffled nervously in the lamplight, but they did not flinch from his gaze. Khasar guessed the best part of three hundred men had been sent to close the gate, and no doubt it was the same on the other four walls of Karakorum. The bondsmen snarling at his back were outnumbered, but they were the best swordsmen and archers he and Kachiun could field. At a word from either of them, they would attack.

Khasar looked at Kachiun once again, controlling his anger at the dumb insolence of the warriors facing them. His hand dropped to his sword hilt in unmistakable signal. Kachiun held his gaze for a moment, and the warriors on both sides tensed for bloodshed. Almost imperceptibly, Kachiun moved his head a finger’s width left and right. Khasar frowned, showing his teeth in frustration for an instant. He leaned in to the closest of those before the gate, breathing into his face.

“I say you are tribeless wanderers, without marks of rank or blood,” Khasar said. “Don’t leave your posts while I am gone. I am going to ride into the city over your bodies.”

The man was sweating and he blinked at the growling voice too close to his neck.

Khasar remounted and he and Kachiun swung away from the pools of light and the promise of death. As soon as they were clear, Kachiun edged his mare over and tapped a hand to his brother’s shoulder.

“It has to be the Broken Lance. Ogedai is in the city and someone does not want us riding to his aid tonight.”

Khasar nodded, his heart still hammering. It had been years since he had seen such a show of rebellion from warriors of his people. He was raging, his face flushed.

“My ten thousand will answer the insult,” he snapped. “Where is Tsubodai?”

“I have not seen him since he went to Ogedai today,” Kachiun replied.

“You are senior. Send runners to his tuman and to Jebe. With them or without them, I am going into that city, Kachiun.”

The brothers and their bondsmen split up, riding different paths that would bring forty thousand men back to the gates of Karakorum.

For a time, the noises on the other side of the door died to almost nothing. With silent gestures, Tsubodai and Tolui lifted a heavy couch, grunting with the effort. It took both of them to shove it across the entrance.

“Are there any other ways in?” Tsubodai murmured.

Ogedai shook his head, then hesitated.

“There are windows in my sleeping chamber, but they open onto a sheer wall.”

Tsubodai cursed under his breath. The first rule of battle was to choose the ground. The second was to know the ground. Both had been taken from him. He looked around at the shadowy gathering, judging their mood. Mongke and Kublai were wide-eyed and thrilled to be part of an adventure. Neither realized the danger they were in. Sorhatani returned his gaze steadily. Under that silent stare, he took a long knife from his boot and passed it into her hands.

“A wall won’t stop them tonight,” he said to Ogedai, pressing his ear to the door.

They fell silent as he strained to hear, then jumped at a crash that made Tsubodai leap back. A thin trail of plaster dust curled down from the ceiling, and Ogedai winced to see it.

“The corridor is narrow outside,” Ogedai muttered, almost to himself. “They don’t have room to run at it.”

“That is good. Are there weapons here?” Tsubodai asked.

Ogedai nodded. He was his father’s son. “I’ll show you,” he said, beckoning.

Tsubodai turned to Huran and found the senior man ready at the door. Another crash sounded and voices rose in anger outside.

“Get a lamp lit,” Tsubodai ordered. “We don’t need to stay in the dark.”

Sorhatani set about the task as Tsubodai strode through to the inner rooms. He bowed formally to Ogedai’s wife, Torogene. She had lost her sleepy look and smoothed down her hair with water from a shallow bowl, placed there ready for the morning. Tsubodai was pleased that neither she nor Sorhatani seemed to be panicking.

“Through here,” Ogedai said ahead of him.

Tsubodai entered the sleeping chamber and nodded in appreciation. A small lamp still glowed there and he saw the wolf’s-head sword of Genghis on the wall above the bed. A bow gleamed on the opposite side, each layer of horn and birch and sinew polished to a rich color.

“Do you have arrows for it?” Tsubodai asked, bending the hooks open with his thumbs and hefting the weapon.

Ogedai smiled at the general’s evident pleasure. “It is not a decoration, General. Of course I have arrows,” he replied. A chest produced a quiver of thirty shafts, each the product of a master fletcher and still bright with oil. He tossed it to Tsubodai.

Outside, the crashing went on. Whoever it was had brought up hammers for the task, and even the floor trembled with the blows. Tsubodai crossed to the windows set high in the outer wall. Like the ones in the outer room, they were barred in iron. Tsubodai could not help thinking how he would break in, if he were attacking the rooms. Though they were solid enough, they had not been designed to withstand a determined enemy. That enemy was never meant to get close enough, or to have time to hammer out the bars before Ogedai’s Guards cut them to pieces.

“Cover the lamp for a moment,” Tsubodai said. “I do not want to be visible to an archer outside.” He pulled a wooden chest to the window and crouched on it, then rose suddenly to the barred space, ducking back just as quickly.

“There’s no one in sight, lord, but the wall to the courtyard below is barely the height of two men. They will come here, if they can find it.”

“But first they’ll try the door,” Ogedai said grimly.

Tsubodai nodded. “Have your wife wait here, perhaps, ready to call if she hears anything.” Tsubodai was trying to defer to Ogedai’s authority, but his impatience showed with every thump from the corridor outside.

“Very well, General.”

Ogedai hesitated, fear and anger mingling, swelling in him. He had not built his city to be torn screaming from life. He had lived with death for so long that it was almost a shock to feel such a powerful desire to live, to avenge. He dared not ask Tsubodai if they could hold the rooms. He could see the answer in the man’s eyes.

“It is strange that you are present for the death of another of Genghis’s sons, don’t you think?” he said.

Tsubodai stiffened. He turned back and Ogedai saw no weakness in his black stare.

“I carry many sins, lord,” Tsubodai said. “But this is not the time to talk about old ones. If we survive, you may ask whatever you need to know.”

Ogedai began to reply, bitterness welling up in him. A new sound made them both whip round and run. An iron hinge had cracked and the wood of the outer door splintered, a panel yawning open. The lamplight from the room spilled out into the darker corridor, illuminating sweating faces. At the door, Huran speared his blade into them, so that one at least fell back with a cry of pain.

•   •   •

The stars had moved partway across the sky by the time Khasar roused his tuman. He rode at the head in full armor, his sword drawn and held low by his right thigh. In formation behind him were ten groups of a thousand, each with its minghaan officer. Each thousand had its jaguns of a hundred men, led by officers bearing a silver plaque. Even they had their structures: ten groups of ten, with equipment to raise a ger between them and food and tools to survive and fight. Genghis and Tsubodai had created the system, and Khasar hadn’t given it a thought when he issued just one order to his yurtchi, his quartermaster. The tuman of ten thousand had formed on the plain, men running to their horses in what looked like chaos before the ranks coalesced and they were ready. Ahead lay Karakorum.

Khasar’s outriders reported other tumans on the move all around him. No one in the nation slept now. To the smallest child, they knew this was the night of crisis, so long feared.

Khasar had his naccara drummers sound a rhythm: dozens of unarmed boys on camels whose sole task was to inspire fear in an enemy with a rolling thunder. He heard it answered ahead and on the left, as other tumans took up a warning and a challenge. Khasar swallowed drily, looking for Kachiun’s men ahead. He had the feeling that events were slipping from his control, but he could do nothing else. His path had been set when men at the gate had dared to refuse a general of the nation. He knew they were Chagatai’s, but the arrogant prince had sent them out without his unit markings, to do his work like assassins in the night. Khasar could not ignore such a threat to his authority—to all the stages of authority that he represented, down to the youngest drummer on a swaybacked beast. He dared not think of his nephew Ogedai trapped in his own city. He could only react and force his way in, hoping there would be someone still alive to save.

Kachiun joined him, with Jebe’s Bearskin tuman and Tsubodai’s ten thousand. Khasar breathed in relief as he saw the banners stretching away into the dark, a sea of horses and flags. Tsubodai’s warriors knew their general was in the city. They had not disputed Kachiun’s right to order them in his place.

Like a mountain slowly falling, the vast array of four tumans drew close to the western gate of Karakorum. Khasar and Kachiun rode forward, hiding their impatience. There was no need for bloodshed, even then.

The men at the gate remained still, their weapons sheathed. Whatever their orders had been, they knew that to draw a blade was to invite instant destruction. No man wanted to be first.

The tableau held, with just the snorting of horses and fluttering banners. Then out of the darkness rode a new group of men, their passage lit with burning torches held by bannermen, so that in an instant, every man there knew that Chagatai had arrived.

Kachiun could have ordered Khasar to block Genghis’s son and had his own tumans cut a way into the city. He felt the weight of the decision hang on him, time running slowly as his pulse raced. He was not a man to hesitate, but he was not at war. This was not the desert of Khwarezm or the walls of a Chin city. He let the moment pass, and as it went, he clutched at it desperately, almost throwing away his life when it was too late.

Chagatai rode in like a khan, his bondsmen surrounding him in square formation. Some of the men at the gate went sprawling as horses knocked them down, but he did not look round. His gaze was fixed firmly on the two older generals, his father’s brothers, and the only men who mattered in the camp that night. He and his horse were armored and the air was cold enough for Kachiun to see plumes of mist from man and beast alike. Chagatai wore an iron helmet, with a horse’s-mane crest whipping through the air as he came in. He was no longer the boy they had known, and both men tensed under his flat stare.

Khasar made a hissing sound under his breath, signaling his anger to his brother. They knew Chagatai was there to prevent them entering Karakorum. They were not yet sure how far he would go to keep them outside.

“It is late to be training your men, Chagatai,” Khasar snapped, his voice loud.

They were separated by less than fifty paces, closer than he had been allowed to the man in a month. Khasar ached to reach for his bow, though the armor would likely save his target and then there would be a bloodletting on a scale unseen since they had destroyed the Xi Xia. The prince shrugged as he sat his horse, smiling with cold confidence.

“I am not training, Uncle. I am riding to see who threatens the peace of the camp in darkness. I find it is my own uncles, moving armies in the night. What am I to make of it, eh?” He laughed and the men around him showed their teeth, though their hands never left the bows, swords, and lances with which they fairly bristled.

“Be careful, Chagatai,” Khasar said.

The prince’s expression went hard at the words. “No, Uncle. I will not be careful when armies ride through my land. Return to your ger, your wives and children. Tell your men to go back to theirs. You have no business here tonight.”

Khasar took a breath to roar an order, but Kachiun shouted before he could unleash the tumans.

“You have no authority over us, Chagatai! Your men are outnumbered, but there is no need for blood to be spilled. We will enter the city tonight, now! Stand aside and there will be no strife between us.”

Chagatai’s horse sensed his surging emotions, and he had to turn it on the spot to stay in position, sawing its mouth with the reins. They could read the triumph on his face, and privately, both men despaired for Ogedai in the city.

“You misjudge me, Uncle,” Chagatai shouted, making sure he was heard by as many ears as possible. “You are the ones trying to force your way into Karakorum! For all I know, you are planning bloody murder in the city, a coup, with my brother’s head as the prize. I have come to stop you entering, to keep the peace.” He sneered at their surprise, his face savage as he waited for the arrows to fly.

Kachiun heard movement on his right and jerked in the saddle to see vast ranks of men moving into position around him, their officers lit with torches. He could not judge the numbers in the starlight, but his heart sank as he saw the banners of those loyal to Chagatai. The two sides glowered at each other, roughly equal, but Chagatai had done enough and he knew it. Kachiun and Khasar could not begin a civil war in the shadow of Karakorum. Kachiun looked east for the first signs of dawn, but the sky was dark and Ogedai was on his own.

FIVE

Down, Huran!” Tsubodai snapped.

He notched an arrow on the string as he ran. Huran dropped flat below the hole in the door, and Tsubodai sent a shaft hissing through into the darkness beyond. He was rewarded by a choking cry as he drew and loosed again. The distance was no more than ten paces. Any warrior of the tribes could have hit the gap, even under pressure. As soon as Tsubodai shot the second arrow, he dropped to one knee and rolled out of the way. Before he had stopped moving, a shaft buzzed into the room, going almost too fast to see. It struck behind Tsubodai with a loud thump, quivering in the wooden floor.

Huran had taken up a position with his back flat to the door, his head turned toward the hole. He was rewarded as a hand darted through, fingers scrabbling for the locking bar below. Huran swung his sword horizontally, cutting through meat and bone and almost jamming the blade into the wood. The hand and part of the forearm dropped to the ground, and an unearthly screaming sounded before it too was choked off. Perhaps those outside had led the man away to be tended, or killed him themselves.

Tsubodai nodded to Huran as their eyes met. Regardless of rank, they were the two most capable warriors in the room, able to remain calm and think, even when the smell of blood was thick.

Tsubodai turned to Ogedai. “We need a second position, lord.”

The man who would be khan was standing with his father’s wolf’s-head sword drawn, breathing too shallowly and looking paler than Tsubodai had seen him before. Tsubodai frowned to himself as Ogedai didn’t respond. He spoke louder, using his voice to snap the younger man out of his trance.

“If the door goes, they will rush us, Ogedai. You understand? We need a second place, a line of retreat. Huran and I will stay by this door, but you must get the boys and women back to the inner rooms and block the door as best you can.”

Ogedai turned his head slowly, dragging his eyes away from the dark hole that seemed to vomit forth the hatred of those behind it.

“You expect me to burrow myself away to gain a few more heartbeats of life? With my own children being hunted somewhere out there? I would rather die here, on my feet and facing my enemies.”

He meant it, Tsubodai saw, but Ogedai’s gaze drifted over Sorhatani and her two sons. For a moment, he locked eyes with his younger brother Tolui. Ogedai wilted under the stares of the family.

“Very well, Tsubodai, but I will return here. Tolui, bring your wife and sons and help me block up the inner door.”

“Take the bow with you,” Tsubodai said, yanking the quiver from his shoulders and tossing it to Ogedai.

The group of five moved back carefully, always aware of the line of sight for an archer in the halls outside. They knew a bowman was waiting in the darkness, and they knew the patience of their people, used to hunting marmots on the plains. The archer’s field of vision formed a cone that crossed the outer room down the center.

Without warning, Ogedai darted across the space and Sorhatani rolled, coming smoothly to her feet like a dancer. No arrow came as they reached a safe spot and turned.

Tolui stood on the other side. He had found a place in the shelter of a heavy beam with his sons, his face stiff with fear for them.

“I will go last, lads, understand?” he told them.

Mongke nodded immediately, but Kublai shook his head.

“You are the largest and the slowest,” he said, his voice quavering. “Let me go last.”

Tolui considered. If the archer was waiting with an arrow on the string and the bow half bent, he could loose a shot in an eyeblink, almost without aiming. Any of the men there would have wagered on the archer over them. The crashing at the door had stopped, as if the men outside were waiting. Perhaps they were. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ogedai’s wife Torogene beckoning to him.

It was just a few feet across a room, but it had become a chasm. Tolui took a deep, slow breath, calming himself and thinking of his father. Genghis had told him about breath, how men will hold theirs when they are frightened, or take a sudden breath before they launch an attack. It was a sign to watch for in an enemy. In yourself, it was a tool to manage fear. He took another slow breath and his hammering heart eased slightly in his chest. Tolui smiled at Kublai’s nervous defiance.

“Do as you’re told, boy. I’m quicker than you think.” He laid a hand on each son’s shoulder and whispered, “Go together. Ready? Now!”

Both boys sprinted across the innocent-looking space. An arrow flashed through the gap, passing behind Kublai’s back. He fell sprawling and Sorhatani dragged him clear, hugging him to her in desperate relief. She turned with her sons to look at Tolui, who nodded to them, sweat beading his brow. He had married a woman of aching beauty, and he smiled at her fierce expression, like a mother wolf with her cubs. The archer was clearly ready and they had been lucky. He cursed himself for not following immediately, before the archer could notch another shaft. He had lost the moment and perhaps his life as a result. He looked around for some sort of shield—a table, or even a thick cloth to spoil the man’s aim. The corridor was still silent as the attackers let their bowman work. Tolui took another slow breath, readying his muscles to spring across the gap and dreading the thought of a shaft tearing into him, smashing him off his feet in front of his family.

“Tsubodai!” Sorhatani called.

The general glanced back at her, catching her beseeching gaze and understanding. He had nothing to block the hole for the time they needed. His gaze fell on the single lamp. He hated the thought of plunging the room into darkness once again, but there was nothing else. He swept it up, flinging it through the hole from the side of the door. The crash sent Tolui safely across the gap to his family, and Tsubodai heard the thump of an arrow released into the door itself, the aim ruined. Kublai cheered the act and Mongke joined him.

For a few moments, the room remained lit by the flaming oil on the other side, but the men there stamped the flames out and they were left in blackness once again, far deeper than before. There was still no sign of dawn. The furious crashing resumed and splinters flew as the door groaned in its frame.

Tolui worked quickly at the entrance to the inner room. The door there had none of the strength of the outer one. It would not delay the attackers beyond the first few moments. Instead, Tolui kicked out the delicate hinges and began to make a barricade across the doorway. As he worked, he gripped his sons by the neck in quick affection, then sent them scurrying into Ogedai’s sleeping chamber to gather anything they could lift. He saw Torogene murmuring to them and they relaxed as she directed them. Both young men were used to their mother’s commands, and Torogene was a large woman, motherly and brisk in her manner.

There was another small lamp there. Torogene handed it out to Sorhatani, who placed it so that some of its light reached Tsubodai. It made huge shadows in the rooms, great dark figures that leapt and danced, dwarfing them all.

They worked in grim concentration. Tsubodai and Huran knew they would have just moments to retreat when the outer door gave way. The couch braced against it would be no more than a nuisance to the attackers as they poured in. Behind them, Sorhatani and Tolui built their barricade without speaking, jittery from fear and lack of sleep. The boys brought them wood paneling, bedclothes, even a heavy pedestal that had to be dragged over the floor, leaving a long scar. It would not hold against determined men. Even young Kublai understood that, or saw it in his parents’ bleak expressions. When their pitiful collection of debris was in place, they stood behind it with Ogedai and Torogene, panting and waiting.

Sorhatani rested one hand on Kublai’s shoulder, holding Tsubodai’s long knife in the other. She wished desperately for more light, terrified of being killed in the gloom, overwhelmed by struggling, bloody bodies. She could not consider losing Kublai and Mongke. It was as if she stood on the edge of a high cliff and to look at them was to step off and drop. She heard Tolui’s long, slow breaths and copied him, breathing through her nose. It helped a little, in the dark, as the outer door cracked suddenly down its length and the men outside grunted and howled in anticipation.

Tsubodai and Huran were both wary of the archer on the other side of the door. Each man had to judge when the blows against the rapidly splintering wood would obstruct the hidden man, then strike a blow into the faces in the dark. The attackers were pressing, knowing they were near to getting in at last. More than one fell back with a cry from a sword blade, licking out like a fang and withdrawing before the archer could see through his own people. Someone out there was dying noisily and Huran was panting. He was in awe of the ice general fighting at his side. Tsubodai could have been at a training bout for all the emotion his face showed.

Yet they could not hold the door. Both men tensed as a low panel broke into splinters. Half the door remained, cracked and loose. Crouching men came struggling under the locking bar, and both Huran and Tsubodai stood their ground, plunging their blades into exposed necks. Blood splashed them both as they refused to yield, though the archer had moved and sent a shaft that spun Huran around, winding him.

He knew his ribs had broken. Every breath was agony, as if his lungs inflated against a shard of glass, but he could not even check the wound to see if his armor had saved him. More men were kicking at the bar, loosening its bolts in the wall. When that finally gave way, the two warriors would be swallowed in the flood.

Huran gasped hoarsely as he continued to strike out, seeking bare necks and arms beyond the hole. He saw blades jabbing at him and felt blows on his shoulders and legs. He could taste iron bitterness in his mouth, and his arms seemed slower as he swung and swung, each breath burning him with its sweetness and heat.

He fell then, thinking he must have slipped in someone’s blood. Huran saw the iron bar spring out. The room seemed lighter somehow, as if the wolf’s dawn had come at last. Huran gasped as someone trod on his outstretched hand, breaking bones, but the pain was fleeting. He was dead before Tsubodai had turned at bay to face the men who roared into that room, wild with release and hungry to do their work.

The stalemate at the gates had become Chagatai’s triumph. He had enjoyed his uncles’ expressions as Jelme brought a tuman up to his side. Tolui’s tuman had matched him on the other side, its men straining at the leash with knowledge that their lord and his family were trapped in the city, perhaps already dead.

One by one, all the generals of the nation brought their men to the city walls, stretching away into the darkness. More than a hundred thousand warriors stood ready to fight if they had to, but there was no battle heat in them while their commanders sat and stared coldly at each other.

Jochi’s son Batu had declared for Kachiun and Khasar. He was barely seventeen years old, but his thousand men followed his lead and he rode with his head high. He was a prince of the nation despite his youth and his father’s fate. Ogedai had seen to that, promoting him as Genghis would never have done. Even so, Batu had chosen to stand against the most powerful man in the tribes. Kachiun sent a runner to him to thank him for the gesture.

In Tsubodai’s absence, Kachiun’s mind was running faster than his peaceful look suggested. He thought Jelme was still loyal to Ogedai, though Chagatai had accepted him. It was no small thing to have perhaps a sixth of an enemy’s army ready to turn against him at a crucial point. Yet the sides were too evenly matched. Kachiun had a vision of the army falling in on itself until there were just hundreds left alive, then dozens, then just one or two. What then of the great dream Genghis had given them? He at least would never have countenanced such a waste of life and strength—not among their own people.

The wolf dawn showed in the east, the faint graying of the land before the sun rose above the horizon. The light spread over the host gathered by Karakorum, illuminating the faces of the generals and their men so that there was no need for torches. Even then, they did not move and Chagatai sat and chatted with his bondsmen, barking out laughter as he enjoyed the new day and everything it would bring.

When the first thin line of gold appeared in the east, Chagatai’s second in command clapped him on the back and the men around him cheered. The sound was quickly taken up by the other tumans on his side. Those with Khasar and Kachiun sat in sullen and thoughtful silence. It did not take a mind like Tsubodai’s to interpret Chagatai’s pleasure. Kachiun watched with narrow eyes as Chagatai’s men began to dismount, so that they could kneel to him as khan. He pursed his mouth in rising fury. He had to stop it, before it became a wave across all the tumans and Chagatai was made khan on a wave of oaths, before Ogedai’s fate was even known.

Kachiun moved his horse forward, holding up a hand to the men who would have followed him. Khasar too came forward, so that they rode alone through the ranks of men toward Chagatai.

Their nephew was ready from the first step they took in his direction, as he had been all night. Chagatai drew his sword in unmistakable threat, but he still smiled as he gestured to his bondsmen to let them through. The rising sun lit the host of warriors. Their armor glimmered like a sea of iron fish, scaled and dangerous.

“It is a new day, Chagatai,” Kachiun said. “I will see your brother Ogedai now. You will open the city.”

Chagatai glanced once more at the dawn and nodded to himself.

“I have done my duty, Uncle. I have protected his city from those who might have run riot inside on the eve of the oath-taking. Come, ride with me to my brother’s palace. I must be certain he is safe.” He grinned as he spoke the last words, and Kachiun looked away rather than see. He watched the gates begin to open, laying the empty streets of Karakorum bare before them.

Tsubodai was no longer a young man, but he wore full armor and he had been a soldier longer than most of the attackers had been alive. As they came in a welter of limbs and blades, he darted six steps away from the door. Without warning, he spun and lunged, taking the closest man to him through the throat. Two more brought their blades down in reaction, hacking wildly at his scaled armor and leaving bright marks in the tarnish. Tsubodai’s mind was perfectly clear, faster than their movements. He had expected to retreat immediately, but the hurried blows showed him their weariness and desperation. He struck again, reversing his blade for a pull stroke that jerked the steel across a man’s forehead, opening a flap so that he was blinded with blood. It was a mistake. Two men grabbed hold of Tsubodai’s right arm. Another kicked his legs away and he fell with a crash.

On the ground, Tsubodai exploded into a frenzy. He lashed out in all directions, using his armor as a weapon and always moving, making himself harder to hit. The metal plates on his leg opened a gash in someone’s thigh, and then he heard roaring and still more men poured into the room, more than it could hold. Tsubodai struggled on desperately, knowing he had lost and Ogedai had lost. Chagatai would be khan. He tasted his own blood in the back of his throat, as bitter as his rage.

At the barricade, Ogedai and Tolui waited shoulder to shoulder. Sorhatani stood with the bow, unable to shoot while Tsubodai still lived. When he went down, she sent two shafts between her husband and his brother. Her arms were nowhere near strong enough for a full draw, but one of the arrows checked a man in his rush while the other ricocheted away into the ceiling. Ogedai stepped in front of her as she struggled to notch a third with shaking fingers. The view beyond the barricade was blocked with grasping hands and blades and bloody faces. She did not understand what was happening at first. She flinched at a roar as more men came into the outer room. Some of those struggling with Ogedai and Tolui turned at the sound, and then they were yanked back. Sorhatani saw a sword appear through the throat of a man facing her, as if he had grown a long and bloody tongue. He fell jerking and the view was suddenly clear.

Ogedai and Tolui panted like dogs in the sun. In the other room, a group of armored men were finishing off the attackers with quick, efficient blows.

Jebe stood there, and at first he ignored the survivors, even Ogedai. He had seen Tsubodai on the ground and knelt at his side just as the general struggled to his knees. Tsubodai was shaking his head; dazed and gashed, but alive.

Jebe rose and saluted Ogedai with his sword.

“I am pleased to see you well, my lord,” he said, smiling.

“How are you here?” Ogedai snapped, his blood still surging with anger and fear.

“Your uncles sent me, lord, with forty bondsmen. We had to kill a lot of men to reach you.”

Tolui clapped his brother on the back in delight before he turned and embraced Sorhatani. Kublai and Mongke punched each other on the shoulders and mock-scuffled until Kublai was in Mongke’s headlock.

“Tsubodai? General?” Ogedai said.

He watched as Tsubodai’s glazed eyes cleared. A warrior put out his hand to steady the general, and Tsubodai batted it away irritably, still shaken by how close he had come to death at the feet of the attackers. When Tsubodai got to his feet, Jebe turned to him, as if reporting.

“The Broken Lance closed the gates of the city. All the tumans are outside, on the plain. It may be war yet.”

“How then did you get inside my city?” Ogedai demanded. He looked for Huran and remembered with a pang of loss that the man had given his life at the first door.

“We climbed the walls, my lord,” Jebe said. “General Kachiun sent us before he rode to try to force his way in.” He saw Ogedai’s look of surprise and shrugged. “They are not so very high, my lord.”

The rooms were lighter, Ogedai realized. Dawn had come to Karakorum and the day promised to be fine. With a start, he remembered this was the day of the oath-taking. He blinked, trying to put his thoughts in some sort of order, to see a way through after such a night. That there even was an “after” was more than he had expected in the last moments. He felt dazed, lost in events beyond his control.

In the corridor outside, running footsteps could be heard. A messenger came pelting into the room and skidded to a halt, shocked by the mass of dead flesh and the collection of blades leveled at him. The room stank of opened bowels and urine, thick and choking in the enclosed space.

“Report,” Jebe said, recognizing the scout.

The young man steadied himself. “The gates have reopened, General. I ran all the way, but there is an armed force coming.”

“Of course there is,” Tsubodai said, his deep voice startling everyone there. They all looked to him, and Ogedai felt a surge of relief that he was there. “Everyone who was outside the walls last night will be coming here to see who survives.” He turned to Ogedai then.

“My lord, we have just moments. You must be clean and changed when they see you. This room must be sealed. It will keep for today at least.”

Ogedai nodded gratefully and Tsubodai snapped quick orders. Jebe went first, leaving six men to form a guard for the one who would be khan. Ogedai and Torogene followed, with Tolui and his family close behind. As they hurried down a long corridor, Ogedai saw that Tolui’s hand kept drifting to his wife or his sons as he strode, still hardly able to believe they were all safe.

“The children, Ogedai,” Torogene said.

He glanced at her and saw that her face was pale and drawn with worry. He put his arm around her shoulders, and each took comfort from the other. Looking over her head, Ogedai could see no one who knew the palace well. Where was his servant, Baras’aghur? He addressed Jebe, as the closest man.

“General, I must know if my son, Guyuk, survived the night. My daughters also. Have one of your men find their quarters—ask a servant. Bring me the news as quickly as you can. And find my chancellor, Yao Shu—and Baras’aghur. Get them moving. See who still lives.”

“Your will, my lord,” Jebe said quickly, bowing his head. Ogedai seemed almost manic, his mood hard to read. It was more than the excitement that can come after a battle, when life courses more strongly in the veins.

Ogedai rushed on, his wife and Guards struggling to keep up. Somewhere ahead, he could hear marching feet, and he darted down another corridor away from the sound. He needed fresh clothes and to wash the blood and filth off him. He needed time to think.

Kachiun had become cold and pale as they rode through the streets, approaching Ogedai’s palace. There seemed to be bodies everywhere, with pools of darkening blood staining the polished stone gutters. Not all of them bore the marks of Ogedai’s Guard tuman. Others wore dark deels or armor rubbed with lampblack, dull and greasy in the dawn light. The night had been bloody and Kachiun dreaded what he would see in the palace itself.

Chagatai rode lightly, shaking his head at such destruction until Khasar considered cutting his throat and wiping the expression off his face. The presence of three of Chagatai’s bondsmen kept his hand from his sword hilt. They did not stare at the dead. Their eyes were only for the two men riding with their lord, the man who would be khan before the end of the day.

The streets were silent. If any workers had left their homes after the clashes and screams of the night, the sight of so many bodies had sent them scurrying back to bar the doors. The six horsemen made their way to the steps leading up to the palace doors. Dead men lay splayed on the pale marble, their blood in patterns along the veins of stone.

Chagatai did not dismount, but urged his pony up the steps, clicking his tongue as it trod gingerly past the corpses. The main door to the first courtyard stood open, and there was no one to challenge his right to enter. Crows called to one another and there were hawks and vultures already overhead, drawn by the scent of death on the breeze. Kachiun and Khasar looked at each other in grim surmise as they passed under a bar of shadow into the yard beyond. The tree of silver shone there in the dawn, beautiful and lifeless.

The generals could read the patterns of dead well enough. There had been no fixed battle, with lines of men cut down. Instead, the bodies lay randomly, killed from behind or taken by shafts they never saw. They could almost sense the defenders’ surprise as men dressed in shadows had appeared and killed, cutting through them before anyone could organize a defense. In the silence, Chagatai was rapt as he dismounted at last. His pony was skittish with the smell of blood, and he made a point of tying the reins securely to a post.

“I begin to fear for my brother,” Chagatai said.

Khasar tensed and one of the bondsmen raised a hand to him, reminding him of their presence. The man was grinning, enjoying his master’s show.

“You need not fear,” came a voice, making them all jump.

Chagatai spun instantly, his sword leaping out of its scabbard in one movement. His bondsmen were barely slower, ready for any attack.

Tsubodai stood there under an arch of carved limestone. He wore no armor and the morning breeze had not dried the patches of sweat on his silk tunic. A strip of cloth bound his left forearm, and Chagatai could see a smear of blood seeping through it. Tsubodai’s face was weary but strong and his eyes were terrible as they met those of the man responsible for the death and destruction all around them.

Chagatai opened his mouth to demand some explanation, but Tsubodai went on.

“My lord Ogedai is waiting for you in his audience hall. He bids you welcome in his home. He guarantees your safety.” He spoke the last words as if they stuck in his throat.

Chagatai looked away from the rage he saw in the general. For an instant, his shoulders sagged as he understood his defeat. He had gambled it all on a single night. He did not look up at the slight sound of boots on stone above his head as archers appeared. He bit his lower lip and nodded to himself. Even so, he was his father’s son. He stood straight and sheathed his sword with the care of ritual. No trace of his shock or disappointment showed on his face as he smiled wryly at Tsubodai.

“Thank the spirits he has survived,” Chagatai said. “Take me to him, General.”

SIX

Chagatai’s bondsmen remained in the courtyard. They would have fought if he had asked them. Instead, he clapped one of them on the shoulder and shook his head before striding into the cloister behind Tsubodai. Chagatai did not look back as his men were surrounded by warriors of Ogedai and beaten to the ground. When one of them cried out, Chagatai set his jaw, disappointed the man could not die quietly for the honor of his master.

Khasar and Kachiun followed in silence. They watched Chagatai fall in beside Tsubodai, neither man looking at the other. At the audience chamber, Guards were all around and Chagatai merely shrugged and gave up his sword.

The door was of polished copper, red-gold in the morning light. Chagatai expected to enter, but the Guard officer tapped him on the armor and stood back, waiting. Chagatai grimaced, but he removed his long, scaled jacket and thigh pieces, as well as the heavy gloves and arm protectors. It was not long before he stood in just his jerkin, leggings, and boots. It might have diminished another man to be so stripped, but Chagatai had been training for the festival for many months, wrestling, running, and shooting hundreds of arrows each day. He was in superb physical condition and he made most of those around him look smaller and weaker than they were.

Not so Tsubodai. None of the Guards dared to come close to that man as he stood and silently dared Chagatai to protest. Though Tsubodai remained still, it was the stillness of a snake, or a sapling bent and ready to spring back.

Finally, Chagatai faced the Guard officer with one eyebrow raised. He endured being patted down, but he had no hidden weapons and the door swung open. He walked in alone. As it closed behind him, he heard Khasar begin to argue as he was held back. Chagatai was pleased Tsubodai and his uncles would not be witnesses. He had gambled and lost, but there was no shame in it, no humiliation. Ogedai had gathered loyal men to him, just as Chagatai had. His brother’s generals had proved more resourceful than his own. As it had been the night before, one brother would still be khan, and the other? Chagatai grinned suddenly as he saw Ogedai at the far end of the hall, sitting on a throne of white stone inlaid with patterns of gold. It was an impressive sight, as it was intended to be.

As he walked closer, Chagatai saw Ogedai’s hair was damp, loose and black on his shoulders. A purple mark on his cheek was the only visible proof of the night before. Despite the grandeur of the throne, his brother wore a simple gray deel over leggings and a tunic, with no more decoration than any herder of the plains.

“I am glad to see you well, brother,” Chagatai said.

Ogedai tensed as Chagatai walked smoothly toward him, his steps echoing.

“Let us not play games,” he replied. “I have survived your attacks. I will be khan at sunset today.”

Chagatai nodded, still smiling. “No games then, but you know, the strange thing is I spoke the truth. Part of me was dreading finding you killed. Ridiculous, yes?” He chuckled, amused at the complexity of his own emotions. Family was a peculiar thing. “Still, I did what I thought best. I have no regrets or apologies. I think Father would have enjoyed the risks I took.” He bowed his head. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t congratulate you on your triumph.”

Ogedai relaxed subtly. He had spent years thinking of Chagatai as an arrogant idiot. He had almost missed him growing into a man used to responsibility and power. As Chagatai came to stand before him, Ogedai’s Guards stepped out and commanded him to kneel. He ignored them, remaining on his feet and looking around the room with an interested expression. It was a huge space to a warrior more used to the gers of the plains. The morning light flooded in from a window overlooking the city.

One of the Guards turned to Ogedai for permission, and Chagatai smiled slightly. With any other prisoner, the man would have struck him down, or even hamstrung him to make him kneel. The hesitation acknowledged Chagatai’s power even as they sought to humble him.

Ogedai could almost admire his brother’s careless courage. No, he could admire it, even after such a night. The shadow of Genghis hung over them both, and perhaps it always would. Neither they nor Tolui could ever match their father’s achievement. By any standard, they were lesser souls and had been from the moment they were born. Yet they had to live and grow and become men, skillful in their crafts. They had to thrive in that shadow—or let it smother them.

No one else understood Ogedai’s life as Chagatai did, not even their brother Tolui. He wondered again if he was making the right decision, but in that too he had to be strong. A man could waste his life worrying, that was all too clear. Sometimes you simply had to choose and shrug, however it came out, knowing that you could not have done more with the bones you were given.

Ogedai faced his brother and wished one last time that he could know how long he had to live. Everything depended on it. His son did not have the ruthless will to inherit. If Ogedai died that very day, Guyuk would not follow in the line of their father, the line of Genghis. It would pass to the man standing before him. Ogedai searched for calm, though his heart thumped and pattered in his chest, spreading a constant ache until it became like a blade between his ribs. He had not slept and he knew he ran the risk of collapse in dealing with Chagatai that morning. He had drunk a jug of red wine to steady his nerves and used a pinch of the foxglove powder. He could still taste the bitterness on his tongue, and his head ached as if it were being slowly crushed.

For all he knew, he might rule as khan for just days before his heart gave out and burst in his chest. If that was his fate and he had killed Chagatai, the nation would tear itself apart in civil war. Tolui was not strong enough to hold them together. Neither he nor Ogedai’s son had gathered loyal generals to protect them through such an upheaval. Power would triumph over blood in that struggle.

The man who stood before him, his tension hidden, was perhaps the best hope for the nation. More, Chagatai was the one Genghis would have chosen if their brother Jochi had never been born. Ogedai felt his damp hair itch and he rubbed it unconsciously. The Guards still looked to him, but he would not let them beat Chagatai to his knees, not that day, though part of him yearned to see it.

“You are safe here, brother,” he said. “I have given my word.”

“And your word is iron,” Chagatai murmured, almost automatically.

Both of them recalled their father’s beliefs and honored them. The great khan’s shadow clung to them like a cloak. The shared memories made Chagatai look up and frown, suddenly at a loss. He had expected to be killed, but Ogedai seemed troubled rather than triumphant or even vengeful. He watched with interest as Ogedai turned to his Guard officer.

“Clear the room. What I have to say is for my brother alone.” The man began to move but Ogedai stopped him with a raised hand. “No, bring Orlok Tsubodai as well.”

“Your will, my lord,” the officer replied, bowing deeply.

In just moments, the Guards along the walls were marching to the great copper doors. Tsubodai came in at their call. Outside, Khasar could be heard still arguing with the officers before the door swung shut, leaving the three men alone in the echoing space.

Ogedai rose from the throne and stepped down so that he was at Chagatai’s level. He crossed to a small table and poured himself a cup of airag from a jug, drinking deeply and wincing as it stung ulcers in his mouth.

Chagatai glanced at Tsubodai only to find the man glaring at him like an enemy. He winked at the general and looked away.

Ogedai took a slow breath and his voice shook with the strain of saying what he had kept hidden for so long.

“I am my father’s heir, Chagatai. Not you, or Tolui, or Kachiun, or Jochi’s son, or any of the generals. As the sun sets today, I will accept the oath of the nation.” He paused and neither Chagatai nor Tsubodai interrupted as the silence stretched. Ogedai looked out of the tall window, enjoying the sight of his city, though it was quiet and frightened after such a night.

“There is a world outside the one we know,” he said softly, “with cultures and races and armies who have never heard of us. Yes, and cities greater than Yenking and Karakorum. To survive, to grow, we must remain strong. We must conquer new lands, so that our army is always fed, always moving. To stop is to die, Chagatai.”

“I know this,” Chagatai said. “I am not a fool.”

Ogedai smiled wearily. “No. If you were a fool, I would have had you killed in the courtyard with your bondsmen.”

“Then why am I still alive?” Chagatai said. He tried to keep his tone casual, but this was the question that had burned within him ever since he saw Tsubodai in the courtyard of the palace.

“Because I may not live to see the nation grow, Chagatai,” Ogedai said at last. “Because my heart is weak and I could die at any moment.”

The two men facing him stared as if struck. Ogedai couldn’t bear to wait for their questions. Almost with relief, he went on, the words spilling out.

“I remain alive with the help of bitter Chin powders, but I have no way of knowing how long I have left. I wanted just to see my city finished and to be khan. Here I am, still alive, though I live in pain.”

“Why was I not told this before?” Chagatai said slowly, stunned by the implications. He knew the answer before Ogedai replied, and nodded as his brother spoke.

“Would you have given me two years to build a city, a tomb? No, you would have challenged me as soon as you heard. Instead, I have made Karakorum and I will be khan. I think Father would have appreciated the risks I took, brother.”

Chagatai shook his head as things he had puzzled over began to fall together.

“Then why …?” he began.

“You said you are no fool, Chagatai. Think it through, as I have done a thousand times. I am my father’s heir, but my heart is weak and I could fall at any moment. Who would lead the nation then?”

“I would,” Chagatai said softly.

It was a hard truth, that Ogedai’s son would not live to inherit, but neither man looked away from the other. Chagatai began to appreciate something of what Ogedai had gone through in the years since their father’s death.

“How long have you known of the weakness?” he asked.

Ogedai shrugged. “I’ve had twinges as long as I can remember, but it has grown worse in the last few years. There have been … more serious pains. Without the Chin powders, I do not think I have much time.”

“Wait,” Chagatai said, frowning. “You say I am safe? You will let me leave with this information? I don’t understand.”

It was Tsubodai who replied and he too stared at Ogedai as if seeing him for the first time.

“If you died, Chagatai, if you were killed as you deserve for the attacks last night, who would keep the nation whole when the khan falls?” Tsubodai’s face twisted into a furious sneer. “It seems you will be rewarded for your failures, my lord.”

“That is why you too had to hear this, Tsubodai,” Ogedai said. “You must put aside your anger. My brother will be khan after me, and you will be his first general. He too is a son of Genghis, the bloodline of the man you gave oath to serve.”

Chagatai struggled to take in what he had heard. “You expect me to wait then, to be quiet and peaceful while I wait for you to die? How do I know this is not some ruse, something dreamed up by Tsubodai?”

“Because I could kill you now,” Ogedai snapped, his temper fraying visibly. “I still could, Chagatai. Why else would I offer you your life, after last night? I speak from a position of strength, brother, not failure. That is how you should judge my words.”

Reluctantly, Chagatai nodded. He needed time to think and he knew he was not going to be given that luxury.

“I have made promises to those who have supported me,” he said. “I cannot simply live the life of a herder while I wait. It would be a living death, unworthy of a warrior.” He paused for a moment, thinking quickly. “Unless you make me your heir, publicly. Then I will have the respect of my generals.”

“That I will not do,” Ogedai said immediately. “If I die in the next few months, you will be khan whether I have made you heir or not. If I survive longer, I will not deny the chance to my son. You must take your chances with him, as he must with you.”

“Then you offer me nothing!” Chagatai replied, raising his voice almost to a shout. “What sort of a deal is this, based on empty promises? Why even tell me? If you die soon, yes, I will be khan, but I will not spend my life waiting for a messenger who might never come. No man would.”

“After the attacks last night, you had to be told. If I let it pass, if I just sent you back to your tuman, you would see only weakness. How long before you or another challenged me then? Yet I am not leaving you with nothing, Chagatai. Far from it. My task is to expand the lands we have conquered, to make the nation safe to thrive and grow by doing so. To our brother Tolui, I will give the homeland, though I will keep Karakorum as my own city.” He took a deep breath, seeing the light of anticipation and greed in his brother’s eyes. “You will take Khwarezm as the center of your lands, with the cities of Samarkand, Bukhara, and Kabul. I will give to you a khanate two thousand miles across, from the Amu Darya river to the Altai mountains. You and your descendants will rule there, though you will pay tribute to me and to mine.”

“My lord …” Tsubodai began, appalled.

Chagatai chuckled derisively. “Let him speak, General. This is a matter for family, not for you.”

Ogedai shook his head. “I have planned this for almost two years, Tsubodai. My challenge is to put aside the rage I feel for the attacks on my family and make the right choices, even now.”

He raised his head to stare at Chagatai, and his brother felt the surging emotions in his gaze.

“My son and daughters survived, Chagatai. Did you know that? If they had been killed by your warriors, I would be watching you slow-roasted at this moment and listening to you scream. Some things I will not bear in the name of my father’s empire, his vision.” He paused, but Chagatai said nothing. Ogedai nodded, satisfied he had been understood.

“You have a position of strength, brother,” Ogedai said. “You have generals loyal to you, while I have a vast empire that must be administered and controlled by able men. After today I will be the gur-khan, the leader of nations. I will take your oath and honor mine to you and your descendants. The Chin showed us how to rule many lands, Chagatai, with tribute flowing back to the capital.”

“You have not forgotten what happened to that capital?” Chagatai asked.

Ogedai’s eyes glinted dangerously. “I have not, brother. Do not think that one day you will lead an army into Karakorum. Our father’s blood runs in my veins as much as it does in yours. If you ever come to me holding a sword, it will be against the khan, and the nation will answer. I will destroy you then with your wives and children, your servants and followers. Do not forget, Chagatai, that I survived the night. Our father’s luck is mine. His spirit watches over me. Yet I am offering you an empire greater than anything outside the lands of the Chin.”

“Where I will rot,” Chagatai said. “You would have me lock myself in a pretty palace, surrounded by women and gold …” he struggled for something suitably appalling, “…   chairs and crowns?”

Ogedai smiled slightly to see his brother’s horror at such a prospect. “No,” he said. “You will raise an army for me there, one I may call on. An army of the West, as Tolui will create an army of the Hearth and I will gather one of the East. The world has grown too large for one army of the nation, my brother. You will ride where I tell you to ride, conquer where I tell you to conquer. The world is yours, if you can put aside the base part of you that tells you to rule it all. That you may not have. Now give me an answer and your oath. Your word is iron, brother, and I will take it. Or I can just kill you now.”

Chagatai nodded, overcome with the sudden shift from fatalistic numbness to new hope and new suspicions.

“What oath will you accept?” he said at last, and Ogedai knew he had won. He held out the wolf’s-head sword that Genghis had worn.

“Swear with your hand on this sword. Swear by our father’s spirit and honor that you will never raise a hand in anger against me. That you will accept me as gur-khan and be a loyal vassal as khan of your own lands and peoples. Whatever else happens is the will of the sky father, but on that, you can make an oath I will respect. There will be many others today, Chagatai. Be the first.”

The nation knew that Chagatai had gambled for the horse tails, throwing his men at the city of Karakorum. When Ogedai and his officers rode around the city that morning in a show of strength, they saw that the attempt had failed. Yet somehow Chagatai too rode proudly as he rejoined his tuman outside the city. He sent his bondsmen to collect the corpses and carry them far beyond Karakorum, out of sight. In just a short time, only rusty marks were left on the streets, the dead as well hidden as the plans and stratagems of great men. The warriors of the nation shrugged and continued to prepare for the festival and the great games that would begin that day.

For Kachiun and Khasar, it was enough for the moment to know Ogedai had survived. The games would go ahead and there would be time to think of the future once he was made khan. Tumans that had faced each other in anger the night before sent teams of bowmen to the archery wall outside Karakorum. For those men, the battles of princes were a different world. They were pleased their own generals had survived; more pleased that the games had not been called off.

Tens of thousands gathered to watch the first event of the day. No one wanted to miss the early rounds, especially as the final would be seen by only thirty thousand, in the center of the city. Temuge had organized the paper tokens that gained entry to that final enclosure. They had been changing hands for horses and gold for days before the event. While Ogedai had fought for his life, women, children, and the elderly were quietly sitting in darkness where they could watch the greatest skills of their people demonstrated. Even the game of thrones had come second place to that desire.

The archery wall loomed above the east gate of Karakorum, bright in the rising sun. It had been built over the previous days, a massive construction of wood and iron that could hold more than a hundred small shields, each no larger than a man’s head. Around it, a thousand iron stoves added smoke to the air, cooking a feast for those who watched. The smell of fried mutton and wild onions was strong around the camp, and the knowledge that civil war had been as close as a breath the night before did not diminish their appetites or still the ready laughter as the wrestlers practiced with friends on the dry grass. It was a good day, with the sun strong on their backs as the nation prepared to celebrate a new khan.

SEVEN

Khasar stood with nine of his tuman’s best archers, waiting for his turn. He had to struggle to find the calm he needed, and he took long, slow breaths while he held up each of the four arrows he had been given. In theory, they were all identical, products of the best fletcher in the tribes. Even so, Khasar had rejected the first three he had been handed. It was nerves in part, but he had not slept and he knew the day would be hard as it caught up with him. He was already sweating more than usual as his body complained and ached. The only consolation was that every other archer had been awake as well. Yet the young ones were bright-faced and cheerful as they saw the gray pallor of more senior men. For them it was a day of great potential, a better chance than they could have hoped to win recognition and Temuge’s precious medals of gold, silver, and bronze, each stamped with the face of Ogedai. While he waited, Khasar wondered what Chagatai would have done if he had been successful. No doubt the heavy discs would have been quietly taken away and lost. Khasar shook his head to clear it. Knowing Chagatai, he would have used them anyway. The man felt no embarrassment about small things. In that at least, he was the true son of his father.

The festival would last for three days, though Ogedai would be khan at sunset on the first. Khasar had already seen Temuge running himself ragged trying to organize the events so that all those who qualified to compete could do so. Temuge had complained to Khasar about the difficulties, saying something about archers who were also riding in the horse races, and runners who were wrestling. Khasar had waved him away rather than listen to the tedious detail. He supposed someone had to organize it all, but it did not sound like a warrior’s work. It was well suited to his scholarly brother, who could use a bow hardly better than a child.

“Step forward, Bearskin tuman,” the judge called.

Khasar looked up from his thoughts to watch the competition. Jebe was a talented archer. His very name meant “arrow” and had been given to him after a shot that brought down Genghis’s own horse. The word was that his men would be in the final. Khasar noted that Jebe did not seem to be suffering after the night’s exertions, though he had fought through the night to save Ogedai. Khasar felt a twinge of envy, remembering when he too could have ridden all night and still fought the following day, without rest or food beyond a few gulps of airag, blood, and milk. Still, he knew he had not wasted the good times. With Genghis, he had conquered nations and made a Chin emperor kneel. It had been the proudest moment of his life, but he could have wished for a few more years of uncaring strength, without the painful clicking of his hip as he rode, or the sore knee, or even the small, hard lumps under his shoulder where a lance tip had broken off years before. He rubbed at the spot absently, as Jebe and his nine toed the line, a hundred paces from the archery wall. At that distance, the targets looked tiny.

Jebe laughed at something and clapped one of his men on the back. Khasar watched as the general bent and slow-released his bow a few times, limbering up his shoulders. Around them, thousands of warriors, women, and children had gathered to watch, growing still and silent as the team waited for the breeze to die.

The wind dropped to nothing, seeming to intensify the sun on Khasar’s skin. The wall had been placed so the archers cast long shadows, but their aim was not spoiled by light in their eyes. Temuge had planned such tiny details.

“Ready,” Jebe said, without turning his head.

His men stood on either side of him, one arrow on the string and three on the ground before them. There were no marks for style, only accuracy, but Khasar knew Jebe would make it as silky smooth as he could, as a matter of pride.

“Begin!” the judge called.

Khasar watched closely as the team breathed out together, drawing at the same time and loosing just before they took the next breath. Ten arrows soared out, curving slightly as blurs in the air before they thumped home on the wall. More judges ran out and held up flags to show the hits. Their voices carried in the silent air, calling “Uukhai!” for every shot in the center of the target.

It was a good start. Ten flags. Jebe grinned at his men and they loosed again as soon as the judges were clear. To go on to the next round, they had to hit only thirty-three shields with forty arrows. They made it look easy, hitting a perfect thirty and only missing two on the last shot for a score of thirty-eight. The crowd cheered and Khasar glowered at Jebe as he passed back through the other competitors. The sun was hot, but they were alive.

Khasar did not understand why Ogedai had let Chagatai live. It would not have been his choice, but he was no longer one of the inner circle around the khan, as he had been with Genghis. He shrugged to himself at the thought. Tsubodai or Kachiun would know, they always did. Someone would tell him.

Khasar had seen Chagatai just before he joined the archers. The younger man had been leaning on a wooden corral, watching the wrestlers prepare with a few of his bondsmen. There had been no visible tension in Chagatai, and it was only then that Khasar had begun to relax. Ogedai seemed to have won through to some sort of peace, at least for a time. Khasar put such things out of his mind, an old skill. One way or another, it was going to be a good day.

By the low white walls of Karakorum, forty riders waited for the signal to begin. Their animals had been groomed and their hooves oiled in the days leading to the festival. Each rider had his own secret diet for his mount, guaranteed by his family to produce the long-distance stamina that the animal would need.

Batu ran his fingers through his pony’s mane, a nervous habit that he repeated every few moments. Ogedai would be watching, he was almost certain. His uncle had overseen all aspects of his training with the tumans, giving his officers a free hand to work him bloody and then force him to study each battle and tactic in the nation’s history. He ached as he had ached almost constantly for more than two years. It showed in the new muscle on his shoulders and the dark circles under his eyes. It had not been in vain. No sooner had he mastered a task or a post than he was moved again on the order of Ogedai.

The race that day was a respite of sorts from his training. Batu had tied his own hair back in a club, so that it would not whip his face and irritate him during the race. He had a chance, he knew that. He was older than the other boys, a man grown, though he had his father’s whip-lean frame. The extra weight would count over the distance, yet his pony was truly strong. It had shown its speed and endurance as a colt, and now, at two years of age, it was bursting with energy, as fit and ready as its rider.

He looked to where his second in command turned a small, pale mare on the spot. He met Batu’s eyes for a second and nodded. Zan’s blind white eye gleamed at him, reflecting his excitement. Zan had been Batu’s friend when only his mother knew the shame of his birth, when she still hid the disgrace of the name. Zan too had grown up with vicious dislike, beaten and tormented by those pure-blood boys who mocked his golden skin and delicate Chin features. Batu thought of him almost as a brother: thin and fierce, with enough hatred for both of them.

Some of the tumans had supplied teams of riders. Batu hoped Zan alone would be enough to make a difference. If he had learned anything from his father’s fate, it was to win, no matter how you did it. It was not important if someone else was hurt, or killed. If you won, you would be forgiven anything. You could be taken from a stinking ger and forced through the ranks until a thousand men followed your orders as if they came from the khan himself. Blood and talent. The nation was built on both.

As the judge stepped up to the mark, another rider crossed Batu’s line, as if struggling with his mount. Batu kicked forward instantly, using his strength to shove the boy away. It was Settan of the Uriankhai, of course. Tsubodai’s old tribe had been a thorn in his side ever since their valiant general returned to Genghis with Batu’s father’s head in a sack. He had met their silent dislike a hundred times since Ogedai had raised him. Not that they were open in their disdain or their transparent loyalty to their own blood. Genghis had outlawed the ties of tribe for his new nation, but Batu could smile at the thought of his grandfather’s arrogance. As if anything mattered but blood. Perhaps that was what his father, Jochi, had forgotten when he rebelled and stole away Batu’s birthright.

It was ironic that the Uriankhai still chose to visit the sins of the father on his son. Jochi had not known that his tumble with a virgin produced a boy. As an unmarried girl, Batu’s mother had had no claim on Jochi. She had been scorned by her own family, forced to live on the edges. She had rejoiced when Jochi became an outcast, the traitor general, to be hunted down and killed. Then she had heard that the great khan had decreed all bastard children were to be legitimate. Batu still remembered the night she realized all she had lost, drinking herself into a stupor, then gashing weakly at her wrists with a cooking knife. He had washed and bound the wounds himself.

No one in the world hated the memory of Jochi like his son. In comparison to that seething white flame, the Uriankhai were simply moths that would be burned by it.

Batu watched out of the corner of his eye as the judge began to unfurl a long flag of yellow silk. His father’s men had all left wives and children behind in the camp of Genghis. Zan was one of those abandoned children. Some of the men had returned with Tsubodai, but Zan’s father had died somewhere far away, his body lost on strange ground. It was one more thing for which Batu could not forgive his father’s memory. He nodded to himself. It was a good thing he had enemies in the group of riders. He fed on their dislike, adding to it so that he could suck strength from their jibes and taunts, their sly blows and tricks. He thought once again of the human shit he had found in his feed bags that dawn, and it was like a draft of black airag in his blood. That was why he would win the race. He rode with hatred and it gave him a power they could only imagine.

The judge raised the flag. Batu felt his pony’s haunches bunch as he rocked back, ready to explode forward. The flag whipped down, a streamer of gold in the morning sun. Batu kicked and in a heartbeat he was galloping. He did not take the lead, though he was almost sure he could have made them watch his back all the way round the city. Instead, he settled down to a steady pace midway down the group. Six times around Karakorum was forty-eight miles: no sprint, but a test of stamina. The horses had been bred for it, and they could last the distance. The skill would come in the maneuvers of the boys and men on their backs. Batu felt his confidence swell. He was a minghaan officer. He was seventeen years old and he could ride all day.

One thousand and twenty-four men of the nation raised their right arms to the crowd as they prepared for the first, massive round of wrestling. The first day would weed out the injured and the older men, or the ones who were simply unlucky. There were no second chances, and with ten rounds to survive, the final two days would depend in part on those who came through the first with the fewest injuries.

The warriors had their favorites; for days there had been a stream of them strolling by the training fields, assessing the strengths and weaknesses, looking for those worth a bet and those who would not last through the grueling trial.

None of the generals had entered for this part of the festival. They were too dignified to allow themselves to be thrown and broken by younger men. Even so, the first wrestling bout had been delayed so that Khasar and Jebe could take part in the archery competition. Khasar was a huge fan of the wrestling and sponsored the man no warrior wanted to meet in the first rounds. Baabgai, the Bear, was of Chin stock, though he had the compact build of a Mongol wrestler. He beamed toothlessly at the crowd and they cheered his name. Herds of the best ponies had been wagered on him, but ten rounds or an injury could wear him down. Even a stone could be cracked with enough blows.

Khasar and Jebe both went through their first round, then jogged with their teams across the summer grass to where the wrestlers waited patiently in the sun. The air tasted like metal and smelled of oil and sweat. The clashes and bloodshed of the night before were deliberately forgotten.

The archers knelt on mats of white felt, laying their precious bows carefully beside them, already unstrung and wrapped in wool and leather.

“Ho, Baabgai!” Khasar called, grinning at the bulky man he had found and trained. Baabgai had the mindless strength of an ox and seemed to feel no pain. In all his previous bouts, he had never shown the slightest discomfort, and it was that stolid quality that most intimidated his opponents. They could not see a way to hurt the fool. Khasar knew some of the wrestlers called him the “empty one” for his low intelligence, but Baabgai took no offense at anything. He just smiled and threw them over the horizon.

Khasar waited patiently through a song of beginning. The rough voices of the wrestlers swelled as they vowed to stand firm in the earth and to remain friends whether they were victor or vanquished. There would be other songs, in later rounds. Khasar preferred those and he barely listened as he looked across the plains.

Ogedai was in Karakorum, no doubt being washed, oiled, and preened. The nation was already drinking hard, and if Khasar hadn’t been taking part in the archery rounds, he would have joined them.

He watched as Baabgai took his first hold. The big man was not blisteringly fast, but once an opponent came within reach of his hands, once he found a grip, that was it. Baabgai’s fingers were short and fleshy, his hands always looking as if they had swollen badly, but Khasar had felt their strength and wagered heavily on him.

Baabgai’s first bout ended as he wrenched his opponent’s shoulder, grabbing the wrist and then throwing his weight onto the arm. The crowd cheered and beat drums and gongs in appreciation. Baabgai smiled at them, toothless as a huge baby. Khasar could not help chuckling at the simple pleasure in the wrestler. It would be a fine day.

Batu did not cry out as a whip lashed him across the cheek. He could feel the welt rise and his skin became as hot and angry as he was himself. The race had begun well enough and he had moved into the first six by the second lap of the city. The ground was harder and drier than he expected, which favored some horses more than others. As they took the same path for the third lap, dust whitened their skin and dried the spit in their mouths to a gritty paste. Thirst grew steadily in the sun until the weaker ones gasped like birds.

Batu ducked as the whip came again, a strip of oiled leather. It was one of the Uriankhai, he saw, to his right. A dusty boy, small and light, on the back of a powerful stallion. Through gritty eyes, Batu saw the animal was strong and the boy full of malevolent enjoyment as he drew back his arm to lash him once more. Even over the close-packed thunder of hooves, Batu heard one of the others laugh and felt fury engulf him. They did not command men, as he did. What did he care for the blood of the Uriankhai, except to see it splashed in the dust? He looked to Zan, who raced close by. His friend was ready to aid him, but Batu shook his head, watching the Uriankhai boy all the time.

When the whip came again, Batu simply raised his arm, so the thong wrapped around his wrist. He closed his hand on a length of it. The boy gaped, but it was too late. Batu yanked hard, using all his weight and strength and heaving his own mount away in the same moment.

The stirrups almost saved the boy. For an instant, one leg flailed, but then he went down under the hooves and his mount whinnied and bucked, almost unseating another rider, who shouted angrily. Batu did not look back. He hoped the fall had killed the little bastard. They had stopped laughing at the front, he noticed.

Five Uriankhai riders had entered the race for two-year-olds. Though they came from two tumans, they rode instinctively as a group. Batu had brought them together somehow with his challenge, with his dislike. Settan of the Uriankhai led them. He was tall and lithe, with soft eyes that watered in the wind and a tail of hair that hung down his back. He and his friends exchanged glances as they passed the western gate of Karakorum for a fourth time. Sixteen miles to go and the horses’ mouths were white with foam, their skins dark and rimed with sweat. Batu and Zan moved up to challenge for the lead.

He could see the Uriankhai riders looking back at him. He made sure he showed only the cold face as he drew closer and closer. Behind the leading group, thirty other ponies stretched out like a long tail, already falling behind.

Khasar was still smiling as he walked back to the archery wall, where the judges and crowds waited impatiently for him. He ignored their stares as he strode to the line and strung his bow. As a brother to Genghis and one of the founders of the nation, he really couldn’t care less if he annoyed the senior men or spoiled Temuge’s beautiful organization.

Jebe’s ten had already taken their shots for the second round, and the general stood relaxed, revealing his confidence. Khasar frowned at the younger man, though this seemed to make Jebe chuckle. Khasar steadied himself, knowing he would pass his mood to his own group of archers. No one in the archery rounds was weak or a poor shot. Not a single man there doubted he could win on the right day. There was always an element of luck, if the breeze shifted just as you loosed or a muscle cramped, but the main test was of nerves. Khasar had seen it many times. Men who could stand against a line of screaming Arabs without a qualm found their hands sweating as they walked up to the line in silence. Somehow, they could not take a full breath, as if their chest had swelled to block their throats.

Knowing that was part of the secret of conquering it. Khasar took long, slow breaths, ignoring the crowd and letting his own men settle themselves and grow calm. The forty targets on the wall even seemed to grow a fraction, an illusion he had seen before. He looked over his men and found them tense but steady.

“Remember, lads,” he murmured. “Every one is a virgin, sweet and willing.”

Some of his men chuckled, rolling their heads on their shoulders to ease the last tension that might spoil their aim.

Khasar grinned to himself. Weary or not, old or not, he was going to give Jebe a good run, he could feel it.

“Ready,” he called to the judges. He looked at the high banner on the archery wall. The wind had risen to a steady blow from the northeast. He adjusted his stance slightly. One hundred paces. A shot he had made a thousand times, a hundred thousand. One more long, slow breath.

“Begin,” the judge said curtly.

Khasar notched his first shaft to the string and sent it soaring to the line of shields he had marked as his own. He waited until he was sure it had struck home, then he turned and glanced at Jebe, raising his eyebrows. Jebe laughed at the challenge and turned away.

The line of pounding, sweating ponies had lengthened like beads on a cord, stretching a mile around the walls of Karakorum. Three of the Uriankhai still led the field, with two stocky boys almost herding Settan toward the finish. Batu and Zan were within reach of them, and the group of five had opened a gap on the rest of the riders. It would be decided between them, and their mounts were snorting to clear their mouths and nostrils, spraying mucus and foaming sweat. The walls were lined with watching warriors as well as thousands of Chin workers. For them, the day was also a celebration, the end of two years of labor, with their purses full of coins.

Batu was blind to the watchers, to everything except Settan and his two companions. The dry ground rose as a cloud of dust, so that it would be hard to see what he was about to do. He felt in his pockets and removed two smooth stones, river pebbles that felt right in his hand. He and Zan had discussed knives or barbing his whip, but such wounds would be public. Some of the judges would not approve.

Even so, Zan had offered to gash Settan’s neck. He hated the taller Uriankhai boy who took such pride in Tsubodai’s achievements. Batu had refused the offer, so that he would not lose his friend to vengeance. A stone could always have been thrown up from the hooves as they raced. Even if Settan saw what he and Zan were doing, he would not dare to complain. It would seem like whingeing and the warriors would laugh at him.

As they began the last lap, Batu fondled the stones. Past the racing horses, he could see wrestlers like brightly colored birds against the grass; beyond them was the archery wall. His people were out on the plains and he was among them, riding hard. It was a good feeling.

He squeezed with his knees and his mount responded, though it was heaving for breath. Batu moved up and Zan followed closely. The Uriankhai were not sleeping and they moved to block him from Settan’s horse. Batu smiled at the closest boy and moved his mouth as if he was shouting something. All the while, he brought his mount closer.

The boy stared at him and Batu grinned, pointing vigorously at something ahead. He watched in delight as the boy finally leaned closer to hear whatever it was Batu was shouting into the wind. Batu swung the stone hard and connected with the side of his head. The boy vanished almost instantly under the hooves, just a rolling, dusty strip behind them.

Batu took his place as the riderless horse ran ahead. Settan looked back and stared to see him so close. They were caked in dust, their hair and skin a dirty white, but Settan’s gaze was bright with fear. Batu held his eyes, drinking in strength.

The other Uriankhai boy swerved his mount between them, crashing his leg into Batu so that he was almost unseated. For thumping heartbeats, Batu had to cling onto the mane as his feet lost the stirrups and he endured blows from a whip that came in a wild frenzy, striking his mount as often as himself. Batu kicked out instinctively and connected with the boy’s chest. It gave him a moment to regain his seat. He had dropped one stone, but he had another. As the Uriankhai boy turned back to face him, Batu threw it hard and yelled to see the stone crack into his nose, rocking him and sending bright red blood over the pale dust, like a river bursting. The boy fell back, and Batu and Zan were alone with Settan, with two miles still to ride.

As soon as he saw what was happening, Settan went all out to open a gap. It was his only chance. All the horses were at the end of their endurance, and with a cry of rage, Zan began to drift back. There was nothing he could do, though he threw his stones with furious strength, managing to hit Settan’s mount on the haunches with one, while the other disappeared in the dust.

Batu cursed under his breath. He could not let Settan leave him behind. He kicked and whipped his horse until they drew level and then Batu went half a length ahead. He felt strong, though his lungs were full of dust that he would cough up for days to come.

The final corner was in sight and Batu knew he could win. Yet he had known from the beginning that winning would not be enough for him. Tsubodai would be on the walls, Batu was certain. With one of his Uriankhai so close to the finishing line, the general would no doubt be cheering him on. Batu wiped his eyes, clearing them of gritty dust. He had no love for his father’s memory. It did not change his hatred for the general who had cut Jochi’s throat. Perhaps Ogedai would be there too, watching the young man he had raised.

Batu allowed Settan to cut inside him as they rushed toward the corner. The edge of the wall was marked by a marble post, decorated with a stone wolf. Judging it all finely, Batu let Settan come up beside him, almost head-to-head for the finish line. He saw Settan grin as he scented a chance to go through.

As they reached the corner, Batu wrenched his reins to the right and slammed Settan against the post. The impact was colossal. Both horse and rider stopped almost dead as the Uriankhai boy’s leg shattered and he screamed.

Batu rode on, smiling. He did not look back as the high sound faded behind him.

As he crossed the line, he wished his father could have lived to see it, to take pride in him. His eyes were wet with tears and he scrubbed at them, blinking furiously and telling himself it was just the wind and the dust.

EIGHT

As the sun sank toward the horizon, Ogedai breathed out slowly. There had been times when he thought he would not live to stand in his city on this day. His hair was oiled and tied into a club on his neck. His deel was simple and dark blue, without ornament or pretension. He wore it belted, over leggings and herders’ soft boots of sheepskin, tied with thongs. He touched his father’s sword at his waist, taking comfort from it.

At the same time, he felt a spasm of irritation at the choices his father had left him. If Jochi had become khan, it would have established a line of the firstborn. Instead, the great khan had made Ogedai his heir, the third of four sons. In the shadow of that man, Ogedai’s own line might wither. He could not expect the nation simply to accept his eldest son, Guyuk, as khan after him. More than twenty others had a blood claim from Genghis, and Chagatai was just one of the more dangerous. Ogedai feared for his son in such a tangle of thorns and teeth. Yet Guyuk had survived so far and perhaps that showed the sky father’s approval of him. Ogedai took a slow breath.

“I am ready, Baras’aghur,” he told his servant. “Stand back now.”

He strode forward into a swelling sea of noise, onto a balcony of polished oak. His drummers thundered his arrival and the warriors of his Guard tuman roared and beat their armor, making a clash of sound that could be heard across the city. Ogedai smiled, acknowledging the crowd as he took his seat overlooking the vast amphitheater. His wife Torogene sat down beside him, with Baras’aghur fussing over the folds of her Chin dress. Unseen by the watching masses, Ogedai reached out. She took his hand and squeezed it. They had survived two years of intrigue, poison, attempts on their lives, and, finally, open insurrection. Ogedai’s face and body were stiff and battered from his exertions, but he was in one piece.

As the crowd waited patiently, the wrestlers who had survived the first two bouts came to take their places in the center ground below Ogedai. Two hundred fifty-six men formed up in pairs ready for their last struggle that day. Bets flashed around the rows of seats, from shouted instructions to wooden tokens or even Chin printed money and coins. It was possible to bet on any aspect of the competition, and the entire nation followed the sport. The weak and injured, the aging and unlucky, had already been weeded out. Those who remained were the strongest and fastest in a nation that revered martial skill above all else. It was his father’s nation and creation, his father’s vision of a people: horse and warrior, sword and bow together.

Ogedai turned in his seat as Guyuk stepped onto the balcony. He felt his heart contract in the pride and sadness he always felt on seeing the young man. Guyuk was tall and handsome, fit to command a thousand, perhaps even a tuman, in peacetime. Beyond that, he had no spark of tactical awareness, or the subtle touch with his men that would have had them following him into flames. He was in all ways an unremarkable officer, and he had not yet taken a single wife, as if continuing the khan’s own line meant nothing to him. The fact that he resembled Genghis in face and eyes only made his weaknesses harder to bear for his father. There were times when Ogedai could not understand his son at all.

Guyuk bowed elegantly to his parents and took his seat, staring out in wonder at the massed crowd. He had known little of the struggle in the palace. He had barricaded himself into a room with two friends and some servants, but no one had come to that part of the palace. Apparently, they had drunk themselves into a stupor. Despite Ogedai’s relief at seeing him alive, it summed his son up, that no one had considered him worth killing.

Temuge rushed by the rear of the balcony, almost hidden from view by a swarm of his runners and scribes. Ogedai heard him snapping out orders in his waspish voice and allowed himself a grin as he remembered the conversation with his uncle weeks before. Despite the old fool’s fears, Ogedai had won through. He reminded himself to offer the libraries of Karakorum to Temuge once again, as soon as the festival was over.

In the great oval, the twilight began the slow summer drift to gray. Because of the low city walls, the huge structure could be seen from the sea of grass outside. It would not be long before a thousand torches were lit, making a shape of light that all the nation could witness from the plains. Ogedai looked forward to the moment, the visible signal that he was khan. It also meant Karakorum was finished at last, barring the bloodstains that waited for rain. Perhaps that too was fitting.

Far below, Temuge signaled the wrestling judges. After a short song to the earth mother, the judges blew horns and the men crashed together, their hands and legs moving swiftly to take and break grips. For some, it was over in an instant, as with Baabgai’s opponent. For others, the match became a test of stamina as they heaved and sweated, long red marks appearing on their skin.

Ogedai looked down on the field of athletes. He knew Temuge had planned the events to the last detail. He wondered idly if his uncle would manage the whole festival without flaws. His people were warriors and shepherds to the last man and woman—not sheep, never sheep. Still, it was interesting to see.

The final pair collapsed with legs kicking to a roar and a howl from the crowd. A hundred and twenty-eight men were victors and they stood, flushed and pleased, before the nation. They bowed to Ogedai on the balcony, and he got to his feet and raised his sword hand to them, showing his pleasure.

More horns sounded, great Chin tubes of brass and bronze that droned notes across the field. The wrestlers retired at a jog and the heavy gate swung open, revealing the main street of the city beyond. Ogedai squinted to see, just as thirty thousand others did their best to catch a glimpse.

In the distance came a group of runners, bare-chested in the summer heat. They had run three laps of the city, some twenty-four miles, before entering the western gate and heading for the center ground. Ogedai leaned out as far as he could to see them, and for once Guyuk took an interest, craning forward with him, his face alight with excitement. Ogedai glanced at him and wondered if he had wagered some huge sum.

The Mongol people were not long-distance runners as a rule. They had the stamina but not the build, as Temuge had explained it. Some of them limped visibly as they came closer, before trying to hide their weakness as the noise surged around them.

Ogedai nodded to himself when he saw that Chagatai led them. His brother ran smoothly, a head taller than most of the other men. It was true Ogedai feared him, even hated his arrogance, yet he could not disguise his pride at seeing his own brother leading the way into the amphitheater, pounding up the dusty track to the center. Chagatai even began to pull away from the rest, but then a small, wiry warrior moved up to challenge him, forcing a sprint when they had nothing left.

As they drew level, Ogedai felt his own heart tremble, his breath coming faster.

“Come on, brother,” he whispered.

At his side, Torogene frowned, her hands on the oak bar, gripping it. She had no interest in the man who had nearly killed her husband. She could happily have seen Chagatai burst his heart in front of the crowd. Yet she felt her husband’s excitement and she loved Ogedai more than anything in the world.

Chagatai threw himself forward at the last, crossing the line no more than a head’s length before the challenger. Both men were close to collapse and Chagatai struggled visibly for breath, his chest heaving. He did not rest his hands on his knees. Ogedai felt a twinge of nostalgia as he remembered his father’s words on the subject. If an opponent sees you clinging to your knees, he will think you are beaten. It was a hard voice to escape as they moved on with the years, leaving Genghis behind.

Out of a sense of decency, Guyuk could not cheer his uncle, but his skin glowed with a light perspiration. Ogedai grinned at him, pleased to see his son enthralled for once. He hoped he had won his bet, at least.

Ogedai remained on his feet as the horns sounded once more, spilling a note across tens of thousands. He closed his eyes for an instant, breathing long and slow.

The crowd fell silent.

Ogedai raised his head as his brass-lunged herald bellowed out the words at last.

“You are here to confirm Ogedai, son of Temujin who was Genghis, as khan of the nation. He stands before you as the heir chosen by the great khan. Is there any other who will challenge for the right to lead?”

If there had been silence before, this one had the stillness of death as every man and woman froze, not even daring to breathe as they waited. Guyuk stood back and, for a moment, raised his hand to touch Ogedai’s shoulder, before letting it fall without his father knowing.

Thousands of eyes turned toward Chagatai as he stood on the dusty ground with his chest heaving, streaked in sweat. He too looked up at Ogedai on the balcony of oak, and his face was strangely proud.

The moment passed and the release of breath was like a summer breeze, followed by a ripple of laughter as people were amused at their own tension and tight expressions.

Ogedai stepped forward, so that they could all see him. The amphitheater had been influenced by drawings made by Christian monks from Rome who had come to Karakorum. As they had promised, it seemed to magnify sound, so that his voice flew to every ear. He drew the wolf’s-head sword and held up the blade.

“I make my own oath before you. As khan, I will protect the people, so that we grow strong. We have had too many years of peace. Let the world fear what will come next.”

They cheered his words, and in the enclosed bowl the sound was immense, almost rocking Ogedai back where he stood. He could feel it on his skin like a physical force. He raised the sword again and they quieted slowly, reluctantly. Down in the field, he thought he saw his brother nod to him. Family was indeed a strange thing.

“Now I will take your oath,” he shouted to his people.

The herald took up the chant: “Under one khan we are a nation.”

The words crashed back at Ogedai and he gripped the sword tighter, wondering if the band of pressure on his face was his father’s spirit. He heart thumped slower and slower until he thought he could feel every beat.

The herald called once more to complete the oath and they replied: “I offer you gers, horses, salt, and blood, in all honor.”

Ogedai closed his eyes. His chest was shuddering and his head felt swollen and strange. A sharp pain made him almost stumble as his right arm buckled, suddenly weak. Part of him expected it to end then.

When he opened his eyes, he was still alive. More, he was khan of the nation, in the line of Genghis. His vision cleared slowly and he took a deep breath of the summer air, feeling himself tremble in reaction. He felt the thirty thousand faces turned to him, and as his strength returned, he raised his arms suddenly in joy.

The sound that followed almost deafened him. It was echoed by the rest of the nation who waited outside the city. They heard and they responded, seeing the torches lit for the new khan.

That night, Ogedai walked through the corridors of his palace, with Guyuk strolling at his side. After the excitement of the day, neither man could sleep. Ogedai had found his son throwing bones with his Guards and summoned him for company. It was a rare gesture from father to son, but on that night Ogedai was at peace with the world. Somehow, weariness could not touch him, though he could hardly remember when he had last slept. The bruise on his face had grown colorful. It had been masked for the oath-taking with pale powder, but Ogedai did not know he had streaked it when he scratched his skin.

The corridors became cloisters that opened out onto the palace gardens, still and quiet. The moon was dim behind clouds and only the paths could be seen, as if they walked pale threads through the dark.

“I would prefer to go with you, Father, to the Chin lands,” Guyuk said.

Ogedai shook his head. “That is the old world, Guyuk, a task begun before you were born. I am sending you out with Tsubodai. You will see new lands with him. You will make me proud, I do not doubt it.”

“You are not proud now?” Guyuk asked. He had not meant to ask the question, but it was rare for him to be alone with his father and he spoke his thoughts aloud. To his distress, Ogedai did not answer immediately.

“…   Of course, but that is a father’s pride, Guyuk. If you intend to follow me as khan, you must lead warriors in battle. You must make them see you are not as they are—do you understand?”

“No, I don’t,” Guyuk replied. “I have done everything you have asked of me. I have led my tuman for years. You saw the bearskin we brought back. I carried it into the city on a lance and the workers cheered me.”

Ogedai had heard every detail. He struggled to recall the words of his own father on the subject.

“Listen to me. It is not enough to lead a pack of young men in a hunt as if it is some great triumph. I have seen them with you, like … dogs, puppies.”

“You told me to choose my officers, to raise them by my own hand,” Guyuk replied.

There was a sulky tone to his voice, and Ogedai found himself growing angry. He had seen the beauty of the young men Guyuk had chosen. He could not put words to his unease, but his son’s companions did not impress him.

“You will not lead the nation with songs and drunken revels, my son.”

Guyuk came to a sudden halt and Ogedai turned to face him.

“You will lecture me on drinking?” Guyuk said. “Didn’t you tell me once that an officer must be able to match his men, that I should develop a taste for it?”

Ogedai winced as he recalled the words. “I did not know then that you would spend days in your revels, taking men from their training. I was trying to make you a warrior, not a drunken fool.”

“Well, you must have failed then, if that is what I am,” Guyuk snapped. He would have left, but Ogedai took him by the arm.

“I did not fail, Guyuk. When have I criticized you? Have I complained that you have not given me an heir? I have not. I have said nothing. You are the image of my father. Is it any surprise that I look for some spark of him in you?”

Guyuk pulled away from him in the darkness, and Ogedai heard his breathing grow harsh.

“I am my own man,” Guyuk said at last. “I am not some weaker branch of the line of Genghis, or you. You look for him in me? Well, stop it. You will not find him here.”

“Guyuk …” Ogedai began again.

“I will go with Tsubodai, because he is riding as far away from Karakorum as anyone,” his son replied. “Perhaps when I return, you will find something to like in me.”

The young man stalked off over the shining paths while Ogedai struggled with his temper. He had tried to impart a little advice, and somehow the conversation had slipped from his control. On such a night, it was a bitter draft to take before sleep.

It was another two days of feasting and triumphs before Ogedai summoned his most senior men to the palace. They sat with bloodshot eyes, most of them still sweating from too much meat, airag, and rice wine. Considering them, Ogedai saw they were almost a council of the sort the Chin lords used to rule their lands. Yet the final word was always with the khan. It could be no other way.

He looked down the table, past Chagatai, Tsubodai, and his uncles, to Batu, who had won in the horse races. Batu still glowed with the news that he would lead ten thousand, and Ogedai smiled and nodded to him. He had placed good men in the new tuman, experienced warriors who would be able to guide Batu as he learned. Ogedai had done his best to honor Jochi’s memory, to right the sins of Genghis and Tsubodai. In face and gesture, the young man bore a strong resemblance to Jochi in his youth. In a moment or a glance, Ogedai could almost forget his brother had died years before. It hurt him every time it happened.

Across from Batu sat Guyuk, staring fixedly into space. Ogedai had not broken through the cool reserve his son had adopted since their words in the garden. Even as they sat at the table, Ogedai could not help wishing Guyuk had half the fire of Jochi’s boy. Perhaps Batu felt he had to prove himself, but he sat as a Mongol warrior, silent and watchful, filled with pride and confidence. Ogedai saw no sign that Batu was intimidated in that company, even among renowned leaders such as Chagatai, Tsubodai, Jebe, and Jelme. The blood of Genghis ran in many of the men there and in their sons and daughters. It was a fruitful line and a strong one. His son would learn to be a man on the great trek, Ogedai was certain. It was a good beginning.

“We have grown beyond the tribes my father knew, beyond a single encampment drifting across the plains.” Ogedai paused and smiled. “We are too many now to graze in one place.”

He used words that tribal leaders had used for thousands of years, for when it came time to move on. Some of them nodded automatically and Chagatai thumped his fist on the table in approval.

“Not all my father’s dreams will come true, though he dreamed of eagles. He would approve of my brother Chagatai ruling as khan in Khwarezm.”

Ogedai would have gone on, but Jelme reached out and clapped Chagatai on the back, setting off a chorus of approval for the son of Genghis. Tsubodai inclined his head in silence, but even he did not stand apart from it. When the noise died down, Ogedai spoke again.

“He would approve of the sacred homeland in the hands of my brother Tolui.”

It was Tsubodai who reached out and gripped the shoulder of the younger man, shaking him slightly to show his pleasure. Tolui beamed. He had known what was coming, but the reality of it brought joy. To him had fallen the mountains where their people had roamed for thousands of years, the sweet grass plains where their grandfather Yesugei had been born. Sorhatani and his sons would be happy there, safe and strong.

“And you, brother?” Chagatai said. “Where will you rest your head?”

“Here in Karakorum,” Ogedai replied easily. “This is my capital, though I will not rest here yet. For two years, I have sent out men and women to learn about the world. I have welcomed scholars of Islam and priests of the Christ. I know now of cities where the slaves walk bare-breasted and gold is as common as clay.”

He smiled to himself at the images in his mind, but then his expression became stern. His eyes sought out Guyuk and held his gaze as he spoke.

“Those who cannot conquer must bend the knee. They must find strength, or serve those of us who have. You are my generals. I will send you out: my hunting dogs, my wolves with iron teeth. When a city closes its gates in fear, you will destroy it. When they make roads and walls, you will cut them, pull down the stones. When a man raises a sword or bow against your men, you will hang him from a tree. Keep Karakorum in your minds as you go. This white city is the heart of the nation, but you are the right arm, the burning brand. Find me new lands, gentlemen. Cut a new path. Let their women weep a sea of tears and I will drink it all.”

NINE

The palace gardens of Karakorum were still young. The Chin gardeners had done their best, but some of the plants and trees would take decades to reach their full growth.

Despite its youth, it was a place of beauty. Yao Shu listened to the rush of water running through the grounds and smiled to himself, marveling once again at the sheer complexity of souls. For a son of Genghis to commission such a garden was nothing short of a miracle. It was a blaze of subtle colors and variety; impossible, but there it was. Whenever he thought he understood a man, he would find some contradiction. Lazy men could work themselves to death; kind ones could be cruel; cruel ones could redeem their lives. Each day could be different from all the ones that had gone before it; each man different, not just from others, but from the tumbling pieces of himself stretching back into the past. And women! Yao Shu paused to stare up through branches to where a lark sang sweetly. At the thought of the complexity of women, he laughed aloud. The bird leapt and vanished, calling its panic all the way.

Women were even worse. Yao Shu knew he was a fine judge of character, more so than many men. Why else would Ogedai have trusted him with such authority in his absence? Yet talking to a woman like Sorhatani was like staring into an abyss. Just about anything could be looking back at you. Sometimes, it was a kitten, playful and adorable. At other times, it was a tigress with a bloody mouth and claws. Tolui’s wife had that quicksilver quality. She was utterly fearless, but if he made her laugh, she could giggle as helplessly as a girl.

Yao Shu glowered to himself. Sorhatani had allowed him to teach her sons to read and write, even to share his Buddhist philosophy, though she was herself Christian. Despite her own faith, she could be utterly pragmatic about her sons as she prepared them for the future.

He shook his head as he crested a rise in the park. At that point in the gardens, the architect had indulged a whim, building the hill high enough for a walker to see over the garden walls. Karakorum lay all around him, but his thoughts were not with the city. He affected the air of a scholar, wandering through the gardens without a thought for the world outside. Yet he was aware of every rustling leaf around him, and his eyes missed nothing.

He had spotted two of Sorhatani’s sons. Hulegu was in a young ginkgo tree over to his right, obviously unaware that the fan-shaped leaves quivered delicately with his breathing. Arik-Boke should not have worn red in a garden with few red blossoms. Yao Shu had located him almost immediately. The khan’s chancellor moved through the gardens at the center of the young hunters, always aware of them as they shifted their positions to keep him in sight. He would have enjoyed it more if he’d been able to complete the triangle with Kublai. He was the true threat.

Yao Shu walked always in balance, gripping the earth through his sandals. His hands were loose, ready to intercept whatever came at him. It was perhaps not the behavior of a good Buddhist to take delight in his reflexes, but Yao Shu knew it would also be a lesson for the boys, a reminder that they did not yet know everything—if he could locate Kublai, the only one of them with a bow.

With the garden less than five years old, there were only a few large trees, all of them fast-growing willows and poplars. One of them stretched across the path ahead of him, and Yao Shu sensed the danger in the spot when he was still far off. It was not just that it was suitable for an ambush; there was a silence about it, a lack of butterflies and movement. Yao Shu smiled. The boys had gaped at him when he suggested the game, but a man had to move to draw and shoot a bow. To get in range, they had to ambush him or reveal their presence with movement. It was not so hard to outwit the sons of Tolui.

Kublai exploded out of the bush, his right arm coming back in the classic archer’s pull. Yao Shu dropped and rolled off the path. Something was wrong, he knew it even as he moved. He heard no arrow, no slap of a bowstring. Instead of rising as he had intended, he tucked in his shoulder and rolled back to his original position. Kublai was still visible, covered in leaves and grinning. There was no bow in his hands.

Yao Shu opened his mouth to speak and heard a low whistle behind him. Another man would have turned, but he dropped again, skittering off the path and into a jerking run toward the source of the sound.

Hulegu was smiling down the length of the single arrow Yao Shu had given them that sunny afternoon. The Buddhist monk skidded to a stop. The boy had fast hands, he knew. Too fast, maybe. Still, there would be a moment.

“That was clever,” Yao Shu said.

Hulegu’s eyes began to crinkle as his smile broadened. Moving smoothly, without a jerk, Yao Shu stepped close and snatched the arrow off the string. Hulegu released instinctively and, for an instant, Yao Shu thought he had it completely clear. Then his hand jumped as if it had been kicked by a horse, and he spun away. The string of woven hide had struck his knuckles, jerking the arrow almost out of his grip. Yao Shu’s fingers ached and he hoped he had not broken one. He did not show the boy his pain as he held out the arrow, and Hulegu took it from him with a shocked expression. It had all happened in a heartbeat, almost too fast to see.

“That was good, getting Kublai to give you the bow,” Yao Shu said.

“It was his idea,” Hulegu said a little defensively. “He said you would be watching for his green jacket and ignoring my blue.”

Hulegu held the arrow gingerly, as if he could not believe what he had just witnessed. Kublai came up beside them and touched it almost reverently.

“You took it from the string,” Kublai said. “That’s impossible.”

Yao Shu frowned at such sloppy thinking and clasped his hands behind his back. To the boys, he was the picture of relaxation. The pain in his right hand was still growing. He was sure by then that he had cracked a bone, perhaps snapped it cleanly. In truth, it had been a vain move. There were a hundred ways he could have removed the threat from Hulegu as soon as he was in range. A simple nerve block to the elbow would have made him drop the bow. Yao Shu repressed a sigh. Vanity had always been his weakness.

“Speed is not everything,” he said. “We practice slowly until you move well, until your body has been trained to react without thought, but then, when you unleash, you must move as quickly as you can. It gives you force and power. It makes you hard to block, hard even to see. The strongest enemy can be defeated with speed, and you are all young and of good stock. Your grandfather was like a striking snake until the day he died. You have that in you, if you train hard.”

Hulegu and Kublai looked at each other as Arik-Boke joined them, his face flushed and cheerful. He had not seen the khan’s chancellor snatch an arrow right off the string of a drawn bow.

“Return to your studies, my young lords,” Yao Shu said. “I will leave you now to hear reports of the khan and your father.”

“And Mongke,” Hulegu said. “He will smash our enemies, he told me.”

“And Mongke,” Yao Shu agreed with a chuckle. He was pleased to see the flicker of disappointment in their faces as they realized their time with him was over.

For a moment, Yao Shu contemplated Kublai. Genghis would have been proud of his grandsons. Mongke had grown strong, avoiding the ravages of disease and injury. He would be a warrior to trust, a general to follow. Yet it was Kublai who impressed his tutors most, whose mind leapt on an idea and tore it to pieces before it could breathe. Of course it had been Kublai who suggested the switch with the bow. It was a simple trick, but it had almost worked.

Yao Shu bowed to the young men and turned away. He smiled as he left them on the paths, hearing the whispers as Kublai and Hulegu described again what they had seen. His hand had begun to swell, Yao Shu realized. He would have to soak and bind it.

As he reached the edge of the gardens, Yao Shu suppressed a groan at the sight of the men waiting for him. Almost a dozen scribes and messengers were craning for their first sight of Ogedai’s chancellor, sweating in the morning sunlight. They were his senior men. In turn, they commanded many others, almost another army of ink and paper. It amused Yao Shu to think of them as his minghaan officers. Between them, they controlled the administration of a vast and expanding area, from taxes to import licenses and even public works such as the new toll bridges. Ogedai’s uncle Temuge had wanted the post, but the khan had given it to the Buddhist monk who had accompanied Genghis on almost all his victories and trained his brothers and sons, with varying degrees of success. Temuge had been given the libraries of Karakorum, and his demands for funds were increasing. Yao Shu knew Temuge would be one of those trying to reach him that day. The chancellor had six layers of men between supplicants and himself, but Genghis’s own brother could usually browbeat them into obedience.

Yao Shu reached the group and began fielding their questions, snapping answers and making the quick decisions that were the reason Ogedai had chosen him. He needed no notes or scribes to aid his memory. He had found he could retain huge amounts of information and put it all together as he needed it. It was through his work that the Mongol lands were becoming settled, though he used Chin scholars as his bureaucracy. Slowly but surely, he was bringing a civilizing influence to the Mongol court. Genghis would have hated it, but then, he would have hated the very idea of Karakorum. Yao Shu smiled to himself as the questions came to an end and the group went scurrying back to their work. Genghis had conquered from a horse, but a khan could not rule from a horse. Ogedai seemed to understand that, as his father would never have done.

Yao Shu entered the palace alone, walking toward his offices. More serious decisions waited for him there. The treasury was supplying armor, weapons, food, and cloth to three armies and dwindling by the day because of it. Even the immense sums Genghis had amassed would not last forever, though he had a year or two yet before the treasury ran dry of gold and silver. By then, though, the taxes would surely have increased from a trickle to a good-sized river.

He saw Sorhatani walking with two of her maidservants and had a moment to appreciate her before she noticed him. Her posture marked her out, a woman who walked like an empress and always had. It made her seem much taller than she really was. Four sons she had borne and yet she still walked lithely, her oiled skin gleaming with health. As he stared, the women laughed at something, their voices light in the cool corridors. Her husband and eldest son campaigned with the khan, thousands of miles to the east. By all accounts, they were doing well. Yao Shu thought of a report he had read that morning that boasted of enemies piled like rotten logs. He sighed to himself at the thought. Mongol reports tended to lack a sense of subtle understatement.

Sorhatani saw him and Yao Shu bowed deeply and then endured her taking his hands in both of hers, as she insisted on doing whenever they met. She did not notice the heat in the broken finger.

“Have my boys been working hard for you, Chancellor?” she asked.

He smiled briefly as she released his hands. He was still young enough to feel the force of her beauty, and he resisted as best he could.

“They are satisfactory, my lady,” he said formally. “I took them into the gardens for exercise. I understand you are to leave the city.”

“I should see the lands my husband has been given. I can barely remember them from my childhood.” She smiled distantly. “I would like to see where Genghis and his brothers ran as boys.”

“It is a beautiful land,” Yao Shu admitted, “though harsh. You will have forgotten the winters there.”

Sorhatani shuddered slightly. “No, the cold is one thing I do remember. Pray for warm weather, Chancellor. And what about my husband? My son? Do you have news of them?”

Yao Shu replied more carefully to the innocent-sounding question. “I have heard of no misfortunes, mistress. The khan’s tumans have secured a tract of land, almost to the borders of the Sung territory in the south. I think they will return in a year, perhaps two.”

“That is good to hear, Yao Shu. I pray for the khan’s safety.”

Yao Shu responded, though he knew it amused her to goad him on their religions. “His safety will not be affected by prayers, Sorhatani, as I’m sure you know.”

“You do not pray, Chancellor?” she asked in mock amazement.

Yao Shu sighed. She made him feel old, somehow, whenever she was in this mood.

“I do not ask for anything, except more understanding, Sorhatani. In meditation, I merely listen.”

“And God, what does he say when you listen?”

“The Buddha said, ‘Gripped by fear, men go to the sacred mountains and sacred groves, sacred trees and shrines.’ I am not afraid of death, my lady. I need no god to comfort me in my fear.”

“Then I will pray for you too, Chancellor, that you find peace.”

Yao Shu raised his eyes, but he bowed to her again, aware that her maids were watching with amused interest.

“You are very kind,” he murmured.

Her eyes were twinkling, he saw. His day would be full of a thousand details. He had the khan’s army to supply in the Chin lands, another in Khwarezm under Chagatai, and a third under Tsubodai ready to strike farther into the north and west than the Mongol nation had ever ventured before. Yet he knew he would spend much of the day thinking of the ten things he should have said to Sorhatani. It was simply infuriating.

Ogedai had not brought the war to Suzhou. The city lay beyond the Sung border, on the banks of the Yangtze River. Even if it had not been in Sung territory, it was a place of extraordinary beauty, and he could not see it destroyed. Two tumans rested outside the city walls, while only a jagun of a hundred accompanied the khan.

As Ogedai walked with two Guards through an enclosure of ponds and trees, he felt at peace. He wondered if the gardens in Karakorum would ever equal such a beautifully planned wilderness. He tried not to show his wistful envy to the Sung administrator who trotted nervously at his side.

Ogedai had thought Karakorum a model of the new world, but Suzhou’s position against a great lake, its ancient streets and buildings, made his capital look rough, unfinished by the centuries. He smiled at the thought of his father’s response to such inequity. It would have amused Genghis to take their creation and leave it as smoking rubble, his personal comment on the vanities of man.

Ogedai wondered if Yao Shu had come from a place like Suzhou. He had never asked the monk, but it was easy to imagine men like him walking the perfectly clean streets. Tolui and Mongke had gone to the market square, looking for gifts for Sorhatani. They had just a dozen warriors with them, but there was no sense of threat in the town. Ogedai had passed word to his men that there would be no rape or destruction. The penalty for disobeying his edict was clear, and Suzhou remained terrified but untouched.

The khan’s morning had been filled with wonders, from the municipal store of black firepowder, where the workers all wore soft slippers, to the astonishment of a water mill and huge looms producing cloth. Yet they were not his reason for taking his tumans into Sung territory. The small city had storehouses of silk, and every one of his warriors wore a shirt of that material. It was the only weave capable of trapping an arrow as it twisted into the flesh. In its own way, it was more valuable than armor. Ogedai could not guess how many lives it had saved. Unfortunately, his men knew its value and few of them ever took off the silk shirts to wash them. The smell of rotting silk was part of the miasma that hung around the tumans, and as the cloth crusted with salt and sweat, it lost its pliability. He needed the entire output of Suzhou and other places like it. Destroying the fields of ancient white mulberry bushes that fed the grubs would end production forever. Perhaps his father would have burned them. Ogedai could not. He had spent part of the morning viewing the vats where the grubs were boiled in their cocoons before being unraveled. Such things were true wonders. The workers had not stopped as he passed, pausing only to chew the latest grub as they revealed it to the air. No one went hungry in the silk sheds of Suzhou.

The khan had not bothered to learn the name of the little man bobbing and sweating at his side, struggling to keep up as Ogedai toured the water gardens. The Sung administrator chattered like a frightened bird when he was asked a question. At least they could communicate. Ogedai had Yao Shu to thank for that, and years spent learning the language.

His time in the water gardens would be brief, he knew. His tumans were restless among such prosperity. For all their discipline, there would be problems if he kept them near the city for long. He had noticed the men of Suzhou had the sense to remove their women from sight, but there were always temptations.

“One thousand bolts of silk a year,” Ogedai said. “Suzhou can produce that much, yes?”

“Yes, lord. High weight, good color and luster. Dyed well, without spotting or tangled threads.”

The administrator nodded miserably as he spoke. Whatever happened, he suspected he was ruined. The Mongol armies would go and the emperor’s soldiers would arrive to ask him why he had brokered trade deals with an enemy of their master. He wanted nothing more than to find a quiet place in the gardens, write his last poem, and open a vein.

Ogedai saw the man’s eyes were glassy and assumed he was terrified. He made a gesture with his hand, and his Guard stepped forward and took the administrator by the throat. The glassy look vanished, but Ogedai continued talking as if nothing had happened.

“Let him go. Are you listening now? Your masters, your emperor, are not your concern. I control the north and they will trade with me, eventually.”

Ogedai’s chest was hurting him and he walked with a cup of red wine in his hand, constantly refilled. With the foxglove powder, it eased the ache, though his senses swam. He drained the cup and held it out. The second Guard stepped forward instantly with a half-full skin of the wine. Ogedai cursed as he spilled some of the dark liquid on the cuff of his sleeve.

“I will send my scribes to your house at noon,” he said. He had to speak slowly and firmly so as not to slur his words, but the little man did not seem to notice. “They will work out the details. I will pay in good silver, do you understand? Noon—not tonight, or days from now.”

The administrator nodded. He would be dead by noon; it did not matter what he agreed to with this strange man and his ugly way of speaking. The smell alone of the Mongols took his breath away. It was not just rotten silk and mutton fat, but the dense odor of men who had never grown used to washing their skins in the far north, where the air was dry. In the south, they sweated and stank. The administrator was not surprised their khan enjoyed the gardens. With the pools and the stream, it was one of the coolest spots in Suzhou.

Something in the man’s manner caught Ogedai’s attention, and he stopped on a stone bridge over a stream. Lilies floated serenely on the surface, their roots disappearing into the black water.

“I have dealt with Chin lords and traders for many years,” Ogedai said, holding his cup over the water and watching the reflection below. His mirror soul looked back at him, kin to the shadow soul that dogged his steps in sunlight. Its face looked puffy, he saw, but he drained the cup anyway and held it for another in an action that had become as natural as breathing. The ache in his chest subsided yet again, and he rubbed idly at a spot on his sternum. “Do you understand? They lie and delay and make lists, but they do not act. They are very good at delays. I am very good at getting what I want. Must I make clear to you what will happen if you do not complete my contracts by today?”

“I understand, master,” the man replied.

It was there again, some glint in his eyes that made Ogedai unsure. The little man had somehow moved beyond fear. His eyes were darkening, as if he cared for nothing. That too Ogedai had seen before and he began to raise his hand to have the man slapped awake. The administrator jerked back and Ogedai laughed, spilling more wine. Some of it fell into the water like drops of blood.

“There is no escape from me, not even in death.” He knew he was slurring by then, but he felt good and his heart was just a distant, thumping pressure. “If you take your own life before the agreements are finished, I will have Suzhou destroyed, each brick removed from its companion, then shattered in fire. What is not wet will burn, administrator, do you understand? Heh. What is not wet will burn.”

He saw the spark of resistance die in the man’s eyes, replaced by fatalism. Ogedai nodded. It was hard to govern a people who could calmly choose death as a response to aggression. It was one of many things he admired about them, but he did not have the patience that day. From past experience, he knew he had to make the choice to die result in such grief that they could only live and continue to serve him.

“Run and make your preparations, administrator. I will enjoy this little garden for a while longer.”

He watched as the man scurried away to do his bidding. His Guards would hold back the messengers that came constantly to him, at least until he was ready to leave. The stone under his bare forearms was very cool. He drained the cup once again, his fingers clumsy.

In the late afternoon, twenty thousand warriors mounted up outside Suzhou with Ogedai and Tolui. Ogedai’s elite Guard made up half his forces, named men with a bow and sword. Seven thousand of his tuman rode black horses and wore black armor with red facings. Many of the grizzled warriors had served with Genghis, and they deserved their reputation for ferocity. The remaining three thousand were his Night and Day Guards, who rode horses of pale brown or piebald and wore more common armor. Baabgai the wrestler had joined them, the personal gift of Khasar to his khan. With the sole exception of the wrestling champion, they were men selected for intelligence as well as force. It was Genghis who had begun the rule that a man had to serve in the khan’s Guards before he could lead even a thousand in battle. It was said that the least of them could command a minghaan if he chose to. Princes of the blood held the tumans, but the khan’s Guards were the professionals who made them work.

The sight of them never failed to please Ogedai. The sheer power he could wield through them was intoxicating, exciting. Khasar’s tuman was to the north, with lines of scouts between them. It would not be hard to find him again, and Ogedai was satisfied with the morning’s work.

As well as warriors, he had brought an army of scribes and administrators to Chin lands, in order to take a tally of everything he won. The new khan had learned from his father’s conquests. For a people to be at peace, there had to be a foot on their necks. Taxes and petty laws kept them quiet, even comforted them somehow, though he found that mystifying. It was no longer enough to destroy their armies and move on. Perhaps the existence of Karakorum was the spur, but he had men in every Chin city, running things in his name.

He had punished skins of wine and airag that day, more than he could remember. As they rode north, Ogedai knew he was very drunk. He didn’t care. He had his contracts for silk, sealed by the terrified local lord after he was dragged from his town house to witness the deal. The Sung emperor would either honor them or give Ogedai an excuse to invade his territory.

His buttocks were still rubbed raw each day by the wooden saddle, so that his clothes stuck to the pale fluids that seeped out of the broken skin. He could no longer undress without first soaking himself in a warm bath, but that too was just a minor hardship. He had not expected to live even so long, and each day was a joy.

He saw the dust clouds ahead after just a short ride that cracked his scabs and made them weep all over again. Sung lands were ten miles behind by then. Ogedai knew he would not be expected from the south. He smiled to think of the panic that would follow the appearance of his tumans. In the distance, Khasar was engaging the last remaining army the Chin could field. Outnumbered on an open plain, all Khasar could do was hold them, but he knew the tumans with Ogedai and Tolui were coming. There would be a bloody slaughter and Ogedai began to sing as he rode, enjoying himself.

TEN

Khasar’s sharp eyes picked out the banners of Ogedai Khan. The ground was far from perfect, a grassy plain where there had been no herds for years, so that saplings and scrub bushes grew everywhere. He stood on his saddle, balancing casually while his mount cropped the grass.

“Good lad, Ogedai,” he muttered.

Khasar had taken a position on a small rise, outside arrow range, but close enough to the enemy to direct his attacks. The army of the emperor was visibly battered after days fending off the Mongol horsemen. Yet the Chin regiments were disciplined and tough, as Khasar had learned to his cost. Time and again, they had held a solid line of pikes against his men. The ground prevented a full charge with lances and reduced him to picking them off with waves of arrows. As the morning passed, his archers had killed dozens, over and over, but all the while the Chin soldiers moved steadily south and the Mongol tuman drifted with them. Khasar saw weary heads turn to see the new threat, staring at the streaming orange banners of the Mongol khan.

Somewhere in those shining Chin ranks, a particular young man would be raging at the sight, Khasar thought. As a boy emperor, Xuan had knelt to Genghis when the great khan had burned his capital. Khasar himself had trapped the young man in the city of Kaifeng before being called home. It was like hot blood and milk in his stomach to know the Chin emperor was once again in play, his life in Khasar’s hands. It was an ending long in coming.

Even then, the emperor had almost reached the southern empire, where his family still ruled in splendid isolation. If Genghis had been given just a few more years, he would have entered those lands, Khasar was certain. He knew nothing of the twists and turns of politics between the two nations, except that the Sung seemed to have armies in the millions. It was enough for the moment to bring death to the emperor of the north. It was enough to ride with his tuman. He was only sorry Genghis had not lived to see it.

Lost in wistful memories, Khasar half-turned to give an order to Ho Sa and Samuka before he remembered they were both dead, years before. He shivered slightly in the wind. There had been so many dead since he and his brothers had hidden from their enemies in a tiny fold of ground, with winter on the way. From those frightened and starving children, a new force had entered the world, but only Kachiun, Temuge, and Khasar himself had survived. The cost had been high, though he knew Genghis had not begrudged it.

“The best of us,” Khasar whispered to himself, watching Ogedai’s forces ride steadily closer. He had seen enough. He dropped back into the saddle and whistled sharply. Two messengers galloped up to his side. They were both bare-armed, black with dirt, and wearing only silk tunics and leggings to be fast and light.

“Minghaans one to four to bring pressure on their western flank,” Khasar snapped to the first. “Do not let the enemy drift out of the path of the khan.”

The messenger raced away across the battlefield, his young face alight with excitement. The other waited patiently while Khasar watched the ebb and flow of men like an old hawk over a field of wheat. He saw hares racing toward him from some burrow, before his delighted bondsmen shot them through with arrows and dismounted to pick them up. It was another sign that the ground was rough and filled with obstacles. A charge would be even more dangerous when a horse could snap a leg in a hole and kill its rider with the impact.

Khasar winced at the thought. There was no easy victory to be snatched, not that day. The Chin army outnumbered his by more than six to one. Even when Ogedai and Tolui arrived, it would be two to one. Khasar had harried and cut them as they moved south, but he had been unable to force the emperor to stand and fight. It had been Ogedai himself who suggested the vast circle around to come back from the south. Three days had gone past with agonizing slowness, until he had begun to think the emperor would find his way to the border and safety before Ogedai even returned.

Khasar found himself wishing it were Genghis coming from the south. It broke his heart to imagine it, and he shook his head to clear it of an old man’s dreams. There was work to do.

“Take this order to Yusep,” he told the messenger. “Grip the east wing, force them into a funnel toward the khan. Use all the shafts if they must. He is to command minghaans five to eight. I have two thousand as a reserve. Acknowledge your orders.” Khasar waited impatiently as the scout repeated them, then dismissed him to gallop away.

Staring across the open plain, Khasar wondered how the Chin emperor had grown. No longer a proud little boy, he would be a man in his prime, but denied his birthright. The lands he had known were ruled by Mongolian princes. The huge armies of his father had been crushed. All he had left were these. Perhaps that was why they fought so hard, he thought. They were the last hope of their emperor, and they knew it. The Sung border lay tantalizingly close, and they were still strong, still many, like multicolored wasps.

Khasar rode back to his reserve, where they sat their mounts easily and watched the enemy, resting their elbows on the saddle horns. They straightened as Khasar took his position with them, knowing he would notice every small detail.

Ahead, they watched the Chin ranks reform to deal with the new threat, bristling with pikes and spears. As Khasar had expected, they began to maneuver away from the direct route south. He would not have minded if Ogedai had not been there. The Chin emperor wanted to reach the Sung border. If he could be forced along its edges without crossing, eventually his army would tire and the Mongol tumans would tear slices off its flanks. Sunset was still some way off and the foot soldiers of the emperor would weaken before the Mongol riders. The Chin cavalry had been Khasar’s first targets, torn away from those they protected over days of blood and arrows. Those who survived were deep in the center, humiliated and broken.

When Ogedai reached the Chin, they would be trapped between two foes. Khasar hummed under his breath, enjoying the prospect. Nothing sapped morale like the fear of being attacked from behind.

He watched as his first four thousand warriors rode slowly through a swarm of bolts, ducking low in their saddles and trusting their armor. Some crashed down, but the rest forced their way closer and closer. Small trees lashed at them and Khasar saw animals stumble. One fell to its knees as the ground subsided, but the rider heaved the animal up by main force and went on. Khasar whitened his own grip on his reins as he watched.

At fifty paces, the air was thick with whining bolts, and the closest Chin ranks were throwing spears, though most fell short or tumbled in the grass. The Mongol lines were ragged over the poor ground, but their bows bent as one. The emperor’s soldiers flinched back, despite their roaring officers. They had faced the same storm too many times, and they were desperate. From the rapidly closing range, the Mongol bows could hammer through almost anything. His men heaved with writhing shoulder muscles, holding the strings with bone thumb rings. No other bows had that power, nor men the strength to use them.

They released with a snap that echoed to where Khasar watched. The volley tore a great hole in the enemy lines, yanking men backwards so that their pikes and crossbows jerked up all along the line. Khasar nodded sharply. Neither he nor Jebe had won the gold at the festival. That honor had gone to Tsubodai’s archers. Even so, this was work he knew.

Bodies fell with many shafts in them, and screaming carried on the breeze to where Khasar sat. He grinned. They had broken through the army’s skin. He longed to give an order to follow with axe and lances, deep into them. He’d seen armies cut into strips in such a way, for all their strength and drums and colored banners.

The Mongol discipline held, hardened in battles across the world. His men loosed shaft after shaft, picking their targets from men trying to turn away or hiding behind shields as they were battered to pieces. The outermost fringes met with swinging swords, and more men fell on both sides before the minghaan officers blew a low note and pulled the Mongols back, jubilant.

A ragged cheer sounded from untouched Chin ranks farther back, but then Khasar’s men turned in the saddle and loosed a final shaft, just as the enemy stood tall again. The sound choked off and the minghaans whooped as they wheeled to a new position and prepared to come in again. The movement of the Chin army had been slowed over half a mile, and the wounded were left behind in wailing, writhing heaps.

“Here they come,” Khasar murmured. “The khan enters the field.”

He could see Ogedai’s bannermen in the host that trotted across the broken land. The Chin ranks braced to meet them, lowering shields and pikes that could gut a charging horse. As they reached two hundred paces, the Mongol arrows started to come in black waves. The crackle of thousands of bows releasing was like a raging bonfire, a sound that Khasar knew as well as any other. He had them, he was suddenly certain. The emperor would not pass to safety that day.

Another thump sounded, far louder than the bowstring rattle he had known from childhood. It boomed like rolling thunder and was followed by a breath that washed across his men. Khasar stared at a rising cloud of smoke that obscured part of the lines where Ogedai and the Chin force had clashed.

“What was that?” he demanded.

One of his bondsmen answered immediately. “Gunpowder, my lord. They have fire-pots.”

“In the field?” Khasar said. He cursed loudly. He had seen the weapons used on city walls, and he knew their effect. Iron pots filled with black powder could rip shards of hot metal through the packed ranks of his men. They had to be thrown far enough for the defenders not to be torn apart themselves. He could not imagine how the Chin were using them without killing their own people.

Before he could gather his stunned thoughts, another great crack sounded. At a distance, the sound was muted, but he saw men and horses blown back from the explosion, landing brokenly on the grass. The smell came to him then, acrid and bitter. Some of his men coughed in the breeze. The Chin cheered with more energy and Khasar’s face became savage.

Every instinct urged him to gallop toward the enemy before they could use the small advantage they had won. Ogedai’s advance had lost its momentum and only the edge of the two armies were in contact, like struggling insects over the distance. Khasar forced himself under control. This was no raid against tribesmen. The Chin had numbers and nerve enough to lose half their men just to gut the khan of the Mongols. The sky father knew the Chin emperor had the desire. Khasar felt his men staring at him, waiting for the word. He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth.

“Hold. Wait,” he ordered, watching the battle. His two thousand could mean the difference between victory and defeat or just be lost in the mass. The choice, the decision, was his.

Ogedai had never heard thunder like it. He had been riding well back in the ranks as the armies came together. He had roared as the arrows flew, thousands at a time, again and again before his warriors drew swords and hit. The men around him had surged forward, each man keen to show courage and win the khan’s approval. It was a rare opportunity for them to be within sight of the man who ruled the nation. No one wanted to waste it and they prepared to fight like maniacs, showing no pain or weakness.

As they went forward, a thumping blast threw men backwards and left Ogedai’s ears ringing. Dirt spattered him as he tried groggily to understand what had happened. He saw a man unhorsed, standing numbly with blood running down his face. A small group lay dead, while many more twitched and pulled at metal stuck in their flesh. The explosion had deafened and stunned those closest. As the ranks surged forward, Ogedai saw one unhorsed man stumble into the path of a rider and go down under the hooves.

Ogedai shook his head to clear the sound of rushing air, the emptiness. His heart pounded in his ears and a wide band of pressure had grown in his head. He thought of a man he had once seen tortured, a flashing image of leather thongs bound around the head and tightened with a stick. It was a simple device, but it produced appalling agony as the skull shifted and eventually broke. Ogedai’s head felt like that, as if the band were slowly tightening.

Another booming explosion seemed to raise the ground beneath them. Horses squealed and reared, their eyes wild as the warriors fought savagely to control them. Ogedai could see black specks hurled high into the air from the Chin forces. He did not know what they were, or how to counter them. With a sudden shock that cut through even his drunken state, he realized he could die on that stony plain. It was not a matter of courage or even endurance, but mere luck. He shook his head again to clear it, and his eyes were bright. His body was weak, his heart feeble, but above all things, he had luck. Another crack whipped across the field, followed by two more. Ogedai’s men were wavering, shocked into immobility. To his right, Tolui’s tuman had gone farther, but they too were stunned by massive explosions that killed men on both sides.

Ogedai drew his father’s sword in one swift gesture, bellowing defiance as he held it up. His bondsmen saw his recklessness and it lit their blood. They came with him as he kicked his mount forward, already grinning at the maniac khan, charging the enemy on his own. They were all young men. They rode with the most beloved son of Genghis, marked by the sky father, khan of the nation. Their lives were not worth as much as his, and they threw them away as carelessly as they would a broken rein.

The explosions came faster as more of the black balls were flung sputtering into the air to land around Mongol feet. As he thundered forward, Ogedai saw one unhorsed warrior pick one up. The khan shouted, but the man was blown into a bloody mass. The air was suddenly full of whining flies. Horses and men screamed as needles of iron tore into them all around.

Ogedai’s bondsmen plunged into the fray, protecting their khan at the center. Lowered pikes stopped the horses, but more and more of his men had been unhorsed and they killed the pike wielders with knives and swords, clearing a path as horses shoved and sweated at their backs. Ogedai saw another black ball drop almost at his feet and one of his men threw himself on top of it. The whump of sound was muted, though a small red crater appeared in the man’s back and a piece of bone jumped out, almost to the height of a man. Those around Ogedai flinched, but they stood immediately straight, ashamed that the khan might have seen their fear.

Ogedai realized he had seen some sort of answer to the weapons. He raised his voice to carry across the lines.

“Fall on them as they land, for your khan!” he shouted.

The order was repeated down the lines as the next wave of missiles were thrown high. There were six of the flying iron balls, each fizzing with a short fuse. Ogedai watched in pride as warriors struggled to reach them, smothering the threat so that their friends might live. He turned back to the enemy and saw fear in the Chin faces. There was only vengeful fury in his own.

“Bows!” he roared. “Clear a path and bring up lances. Lances here!”

There were tears in his eyes, but not for those who had given their lives. There was joy in every waking, breathing moment. The air was cold and bitter in his throat, filled with the strange smell of burning powder. He breathed it deeply, and for a time the band across his face and head seemed to ease as his men ripped a gash in the Chin ranks.

Khasar beat his fist against his armor in unconscious approval of Ogedai’s maneuvers. The two Mongol tumans had been rocked back by the explosions, moving instinctively away from the source of such sound and snaps of light. Khasar had seen the khan’s own bondsmen overcome their fear and hack open the Chin lines. The thumps of explosions were suddenly muffled and he no longer saw the spray of stones and dirt each time one of them went up. It was as if they dropped into the Mongol army and were swallowed. He grinned at the thought.

“I think the khan is eating those iron balls,” he said to his men. “Look, he is still hungry. He wants more to fill his stomach.” He hid his own fear at such a reckless charge from Ogedai. If he died that day, Chagatai would rule the nation, and everything they had struggled for would have been in vain.

His experienced eye ran over the battlefield as he trotted his horse south, keeping them in range. In that at least, the Chin emperor had not wavered. His men moved as quickly as they could, struggling over the dead as they marched. Such an army could not easily be stopped by half its number. It was a tactical problem and Khasar struggled with it. If he ordered thinner lines spread like a net, the Chin could break through with a spear thrust. If he kept the depth of men, they could be passed on the flanks as the emperor forced each dogged step toward the border. It must be an agony for him, Khasar thought, to be so close and yet have an enemy boiling around him.

His own minghaans killed almost at their leisure in the enemy rear, leaving a trail of bodies on the rough grass. The Chin would not turn, so intent were they on reaching the border. As he trotted south behind them, Khasar came across one soldier draped on the limbs of a low thorn tree. He glanced at the man and saw his face twitch and the eyes open in sightless agony. Khasar reached out with his sword and flicked the tip across the throat. It was not mercy. He had not killed that day and he longed to be part of the battle.

The action bit away a piece of his control, and he snapped an order to the two thousand warriors with him.

“Ride forward, with me. We do no good here and the khan is in the field.”

He cantered to just a hundred paces behind the enemy, looking for the best place and opportunity to strike. He sat as tall as he could in the saddle, staring into the distance in the hope of seeing the emperor’s own bannermen. They would be somewhere close to the heart of the massed ranks, he was certain, a barrier of men, horses, and metal to bring just one desperate ruler to safety. Khasar wiped his sword clean on a rag before sheathing it. His men picked their targets and sent shafts into the Chin soldiers with pitiless accuracy. It was hard to hold himself back, and his control was wearing thin.

Ogedai’s charge had brought him past the outer lines of pikemen. The Chin regiments were disciplined, but discipline alone could not win the day. Though they did not break, they were cut down by the marauding horsemen. Their lines were sundered, driven back or reduced to cores and knots of struggling men to be spitted on shafts.

Horns sounded in the Chin ranks and ten thousand swordsmen drew their blades and charged, screaming defiance. They ran into a constant barrage of arrows, shot from close range. The front lines were ground down and trampled. They ran forward as a mass, then each rank found themselves in twos, threes, and lonely dozens, facing the swords of horsemen. Seeing such a slaughter, those behind hesitated as the Mongols came lunging forward in a line. In a few heartbeats, they accelerated to a full gallop and struck the charge cleanly, unstoppably. The Chin lines crumpled farther back.

Tolui saw his brother had gone deep into the enemy formations, the khan’s wedge of bondsmen killing as if they thought they could win right through to the other side. He was in awe of Ogedai then. He had not expected to see him go insane on a battlefield, but there was no holding him back and his bondsmen were hard-pressed to keep up. Ogedai rode as if he were immortal and nothing touched him, though the air was filled with death and smoke.

Tolui had never before seen smoke on a battlefield. It was a new element and his men hated to see it drifting toward them. He was becoming used to the strange odor, but the thunderous cracks and thumps were some of the most terrifying moments he had ever known. He could not hold back, not with Ogedai moving into the mass. The frustration of being unable to prevent the drift south was telling on all of them. It was close to becoming a chaotic brawl, with the Mongol advantages of speed and accuracy sacrificed to vengeful fury.

Tolui directed his minghaan officers to protect the khan, moving swiftly to bolster Ogedai’s flanks and widen the wedge he pressed into the Chin army. He felt a surge of pride as his son Mongke passed on the order to his thousand and they followed him without hesitation. There had been few occasions when Genghis rode to war with his sons. Amidst the fear for Mongke’s safety, Tolui could grin with pleasure at seeing such a strong young man. Sorhatani would be proud when he told her.

The rolling smoke cleared again and Tolui expected another wave of thunder to follow. He was closer by then and the Chin army was spiraling around his men, moving south, always south. Tolui cursed them as a Chin soldier passed almost under his horse’s head blindly, trying to stay in marching rank. Tolui killed him with a brief thrust from above, choosing a point on the neck where armor did not protect him.

He looked up and found hundreds more marching rapidly toward his position. They were armored like common soldiers, but each carried a black iron tube. He saw they struggled with the weight, but they strode closer with a strange confidence. Their officers barked orders to load and brace. Tolui knew instinctively that he should not give them time.

Tolui bawled his own orders, his voice already hoarse. A thousand of his men turned to charge the new threat, letting Ogedai’s wedge move on without them. They followed their general without hesitation, swinging swords and loosing arrows at anything in their path.

The Chin soldiers were hacked down as they struggled with fuses and iron tubes. Some were crushed by horses; others died as they pressed a spluttering taper to the weapon. Many of the tubes fell to the ground, and in response, Mongol warriors yanked their mounts away or even threw themselves on top with their eyes tightly shut.

They did not catch them all. A rattle of lighter cracks sounded, rippling across the lines. Tolui saw a man snatched away from him, torn from his saddle before he could even cry out. Another horse crashed to its knees, its chest running with blood. The sound was appalling and then the smoke rolled in a great gray wave and they were blind. Tolui laid about him with his sword until it snapped and he stared at the hilt in disbelief. Something fell against him, whether an enemy or one of his own men he did not know. He felt the life go out of his mount and staggered clear before it could roll on him. He drew a long knife from his boot, holding it high as he limped across the smoking ground. More of the strange cracks sounded around him as the tubes fired their load of stone and iron, some of them spinning uselessly on the ground as their owners lay dead.

Tolui did not know how long they had been fighting. In the thick smoke, he was almost overwhelmed with fear. He calmed himself with calculations, forcing his mind to work amidst the noise and chaos. The Chin army could reach the border by sunset. It lay no more than a few miles to the south by then, but they had suffered and died for every step. As the smoke cleared, Tolui darted one look at the sun, seeing it closer to the horizon as if it had dropped while he was wreathed in smoke. He could hardly believe it as he grabbed a riderless horse and held the reins while he searched the ground for a good sword. The grass was slick and bloody as he walked. His stomach heaved at the stench of bowels and death mingled with burnt black powder, a bitter combination he never wanted to know again.

Xuan, the Son of Heaven, rode untouched by bloodshed, though he could smell the odor of gunpowder in the evening air. Around him the Mongol tumans tore and screeched at his noble soldiers, ripping at them with teeth and iron. Xuan’s face was cold as he stared south above their heads. He could see the border, but he did not think the Mongols would hold back as he passed the simple stone temple that marked the boundary between two nations. By some chance, the Chin army had wound its way back onto the main road. The white stone building was a distant speck, an oasis of peace with clashing armies converging on it.

Xuan sweated in his armor, shamed by the thought that he could race his mount alone along that road. His horse was a fine, cut stallion, but Xuan was not a fool. He could not enter Sung lands as a beggar. His army protected his body, but also the last wealth of the Chin kingdoms, in a thousand sacks and bags. His wives and children were there as well, hidden by the walls of iron and loyal men. He could not leave them to the mercies of the Mongol khan.

With his wealth, he would be welcomed by his cousin. With an army, he would have the Sung emperor’s respect. He would have a place at the table of nobles as they planned a campaign to take back his ancestral lands.

Xuan winced at the thought. There was little love for his bloodline in the Sung court. The emperor, Lizong, was a man of his father’s generation who viewed Chin territory as his own, claiming a mere error of history that it was not already his by right. There was a chance that Xuan was putting his hand into a rat hole by placing himself in Sung power. There was no other choice. Mongol goatherders strode his lands as if they owned them, peering into every storehouse, tallying the wealth of every village for taxes they would never know how to spend. The shame of it should have been overwhelming, but Xuan had never known peace. He had grown used to the humiliation of losing his kingdom piece by piece to an army of locusts and seeing his father’s capital burn. Surely his Sung cousin would not underestimate the threat. Yet there had been conquerors before, tribal leaders who raised an army and then died. Their empires always fell apart, broken by the arrogance and weakness of lesser men. Xuan knew Emperor Lizong would be tempted to ignore them and simply wait for a century or two. He wiped sweat from his eyes, blinking at the sting of salt. Time cured so many ills in the world, but not these cursed tribesmen. The Mongols had lost their great conqueror at the height of his power and simply carried on, as if one man did not matter. Xuan did not know if it made them more civilized, or just a pack of wolves, with another taking the lead.

He clenched his fist in pleasure as he heard the rippling snaps of his gunners. He had so few, but they were wonderful, fearsome weapons. That too was something he took to the Sung: vital knowledge of the enemy as well as ways to destroy him. A wolf would not stand against a man with a burning brand. Xuan knew he could be that weapon, if he had the time and space to plan.

He was jerked from his reverie by the shouting of his officers. They were pointing to the south and he shaded his eyes from the setting sun to look into the distance.

An army was approaching the border, barely two miles away. He could see huge fast-moving square formations pouring over the hills. Like wasps, the Sung regiments were reacting to the threat, he thought. Or answering the arrogance of a khan who had dared to enter their lands. As Xuan watched, concentrating, he began to realize that it was no minor force, no regional governor. The emperor himself would never leave his capital for the filthy business of warfare. It had to be one of his sons, perhaps even his heir. No one else could command so many. The squares layered the ground like a cloth pattern, each at least five thousand fresh men, well trained and supplied. Xuan tried to count them, but it was impossible with the dust and distance. The men around him were already jubilant, but he narrowed his eyes to think, staring around him at the Mongol forces who still growled at his heels.

If his cousin closed the border, he would not survive. Xuan scratched irritably at a line of sweat on his face, leaving a red mark from his fingernails. Surely they would not stand by and watch him killed? He did not know. He could not know. The tension made bile rise in his stomach as his horse brought him closer and closer, the calm center of a whirling storm.

Taking a deep breath, Xuan summoned his generals and began to bark orders to them. The commands rippled out and the edges of his army hardened. Men carrying heavy shields raced into position, setting up a strong defense that would hold the Mongols long enough to reach the border. It was his last-ditch plan, just to survive, but at that point, it might also serve to keep as many soldiers alive as possible. He had fought a defensive battle for days. If the border was closed, he would have to turn at bay and strike down the khan. He had the numbers still and his men were hungry to give back the blows they had taken.

The thought was intoxicating and Xuan wondered if he should attack even if the border army opened to let him through. All he had wanted was to find safety with enough men to make him a powerful voice in the councils that would follow. Yet the Mongol khan remained outnumbered. The grubby Mongol shepherd would be dumbstruck and unnerved at the sight of so many pristine regiments.

The first Sung ranks had reached the border and halted, perfect lines of colored armor and Sung banners streaming. As Xuan stared at them, he saw a puff of smoke in the line and heard a crack as a rock ball came flying over the grass. It hit no one, but the message was not for him. The Sung prince had brought cannon to the field, huge metal tubes on wheels that could smear a line of horses and men with a single shot. Let the khan digest that little detail.

Xuan’s army marched on, his heart beating like a bird’s as they approached the dark lines.

ELEVEN

Khasar could hardly believe the size of the army that had raced to the Sung border, stretching back over the land. The southern nation had not had its battle of the Badger’s Mouth, as the north had. Their emperor had not sent out armies and seen them battered, destroyed, routed. His soldiers had never run in terror from Mongol riders. Khasar hated them for their splendor and he wished again that Genghis were there, if only to see his brother’s anger kindle at the sight.

The Sung lines stretched for miles, dwarfing the marching squares of their Chin cousins as they drifted in. Khasar saw that the pace to the border had slowed. He wondered if the Chin emperor knew whether he would be allowed to escape or be turned away. That thought gave some hope, the only small comfort to be weighed against Khasar’s fury and indignation. He had won the battle! The Chin regiments had fought to keep him away for days, but not once had they sallied out. They had only attacked when his men pierced their ranks. His tuman had soaked the ground in their blood, suffered explosions and storms of hot metal. His men had been burned and broken, cut and maimed. They had earned the victory, and now it was to be snatched from them.

His reserve of two thousand was still fresh. Khasar sent up a flag signal to the camel riders keeping pace with him. The boys on the beasts rode with the naccara drums strapped on either side. All along the lines, they began a thunder, striking left and right with both hands. The armored horses leapt forward at the signal, and the warriors brought their heavy lances down slowly, balancing them in a casual display of strength and skill. The wall of riders matched the drums with a screaming roar from their throats that terrified their enemies.

Khasar’s two thousand hit their full speed just twenty paces from the shaken Chin. The general had time to see some of them jam their long shields into the earth, but only a solid shield wall could have stopped his charge. Good officers would have halted them, mingled shields and pikemen together in an unbroken barrier. The emperor’s men had to march, terrified.

The Mongol ponies had lightly armored cloth covering their faces and chests. The warriors themselves wore layered scale armor and helmets, and carried lances and swords as well as saddlebags full of supplies. They crashed into the Chin lines like a mountain falling.

Khasar saw the closest ranks collapse, the men broken by lances and hooves. Some of the horses refused and whinnied in wild-eyed distress as their riders sawed at their mouths, shouting angrily as they brought them round again. Others plunged straight through the Chin, their lances snapping with the force of the strike. They tossed aside the broken hilts and followed with swords, using the muscles from twenty years of bow work to lay about them tirelessly, cutting down, always down, onto the snarling faces.

Khasar was spattered with warm red drops as his horse was killed and he jumped clear. He tasted someone’s blood on his lips and he spat in disgust, ignoring the outstretched arm of one of his bondsmen as the man tried to grab him up into a saddle. His fury at the emperor’s looming escape blurred his judgment. On foot, he stalked the enemy soldiers, his sword held low until they attacked. His counters were vicious and accurate, and as he strode forward with his men, the Chin backed away rather than engage him.

He could feel the sullen gaze of the emperor’s soldiers, watching in silence as they marched away from him. Khasar grunted as he trapped his sword in a shield, leaving it and backhanding a soldier before snatching another one from the ground. Only then did he mount behind a warrior, to see what was happening.

In the distance, the front ranks of the Chin army had reached the Sung lines.

“Find me a horse,” Khasar shouted into the ear of the bondsman.

The man wheeled and rode out of the cup they had cut for themselves. It closed behind them, the battered shields rising once again.

Khasar looked for Ogedai, his blood cooling as he considered the threat. A child could have seen the position was hopeless. Faced with such an army, all the tumans could do was get clear. If the Sung regiments attacked, the Mongols would be forced away, routed on the border. The only choice was between a dignified retreat and running as if there were wolves after them. Khasar ground his teeth until his jaw hurt. There was no help for it.

His back straight, Xuan trotted his horse toward the Sung line, flanked by three generals in ornate armor and cloaks. They were all dusty and tired, but Xuan rode as if there were no possibility of being turned away. He knew he had to be the first one there. Of course the Sung would refuse common soldiers the right to enter their realm. Only Xuan could shape the rules around him, as the reigning emperor. He was the Son of Heaven. It was a title without a nation, an emperor without cities, yet he kept his dignity as he reached the first line of soldiers.

They did not move and Xuan reached down to brush a speck of dust from his gloves. He showed no discomfort as he stared over the heads of the Sung army. He could hear the Mongols ripping at his own men, but he did not move or acknowledge it. There was a chance that his cousin Lizong would allow his army to be destroyed while they all waited. Xuan seethed at the thought, but there was nothing he could do. He had come as a supplicant to the Sung lands. If the emperor chose to remove his strength in such a way, Xuan knew he could not react. It was a bold stroke and he could almost applaud it. Let the damaged Chin emperor enter, but let him see his army withered to just a few men first. Let him come on his knees, begging for favor.

All Xuan’s choices, all his plans and stratagems, had been reduced to one course of action. He had ridden up to the lines. If they opened to let him in, he could pass to safety with whoever remained alive in his army. Xuan tried not to think what might happen if his poisonous Sung cousins had decided to remove him from the balance. It was not beyond them to have maneuvered him to exactly this position, waiting, waiting, waiting. He could sit his horse in front of them until the Mongols had finished slaughtering his army and came for him. There was a chance Lizong would not lift a hand to save him even then.

Xuan’s face was utterly without emotion as he studied the Sung soldiers. Whatever happened was his fate and not to be denied. Some hidden spark of him was white with fury, but nothing showed. As casually as he could, he turned to one of his generals and asked about the cannon the Sung had used.

The general was sweating visibly, but he replied as if they were at a military inspection.

“It is a fieldpiece, Imperial Majesty, similar to the ones we have used on city walls. Bronze is poured into a mold and then filed and polished. Black powder burns with great fierceness, sending a ball leaping out to cause terror in the enemy.”

Xuan nodded as if he were fascinated. By the spirits of his ancestors, how long must he wait?

“Such a large cannon would be very heavy,” he said stiffly. “It must be difficult to move over rough terrain.”

The general nodded, pleased that his master had engaged him in conversation, though he knew the stakes as well as anyone.

“It sits on a wooden cart, Imperial Majesty. It is wheeled, but yes, it takes many men and oxen to drag it into position. More are needed to carry the stone balls, the powder bags, the swabs and fuses. Perhaps you will have the chance to inspect one more closely when we enter Sung territory.”

Xuan looked at the general in reproof for his lack of subtlety. “Perhaps, General. Tell me now about the Sung regiments. I do not know all these banners.”

The man began to recite the names and histories, an expert in his field, as Xuan knew very well. He cocked his head to listen to the droning voice, but all the time, Xuan watched the Sung lines. The Son of Heaven glanced up as an officer rode a magnificent stallion through to the borderline. He tried not to show how his heart leapt.

It was hard to allow his general to finish the litany of names, but Xuan forced himself to listen, making the Sung officer wait for both of them. His precious army was being butchered as he nodded at tedious detail, but Xuan’s face was calm and interested.

At last his general had the sense to subside, and Xuan thanked him, appearing to notice the Sung officer for the first time. The man dismounted as soon as their eyes met. He came forward and prostrated himself on the dusty ground before touching his forehead to the general’s stirrup. He did not look at Xuan as he spoke.

“I bear a message for the Son of Heaven.”

“Speak your message to me, soldier. I will tell him,” the general replied.

The man prostrated himself again, then rose. “His Imperial Majesty bids you welcome in his lands, Son of Heaven. May you live ten thousand years.”

Xuan would not lower himself to reply to a mere soldier. The message should have been delivered by someone of noble rank, and he wondered what to make of the subtle insult. He barely listened as his general completed the formalities. Xuan did not glance behind him as he walked his mount forward. Sweat trickled down his back and from his armpits under his armor. He knew his under-tunic would be sopping wet.

The Sung lines stood apart as he moved, a rippling motion that spread along them for half a mile. In this way, the last Chin army could walk between the ranks and the border was still held against their mutual enemy. Xuan and his generals crossed the invisible line, showing no emotion to those who watched them. The Chin ranks began to follow them, like a blister collapsing into skin.

•   •   •

Ogedai watched in furious disbelief. He saw pavilions rise amidst the Sung ranks, great squares of peach-colored silk. Banners floated on the wind, marking out regiments of bowmen, pikemen, lancers. It was the sight of the fresh cavalry that broke through his battle madness. Regiments of horsemen stared out onto the broken plain with its trail of dead. Would the Sung be able to resist a sudden charge, as soon as the Chin emperor was safe? Only the setting sun would stay their hand and perhaps not even then. The Mongol ponies had ridden for days. They were as weary as their riders, and for once, the khan himself was in the field, vastly outnumbered and with every advantage taken away. Ogedai shook his head. He had seen the puff of smoke that revealed the presence of heavy guns. It was a thought for another day, but he did not see how he could ever bring such weapons to a battlefield. They were too slow, too heavy for an army whose chief strength had always been in its speed and maneuvers. In the distance, he saw a small group of horses move through the Sung lines. Perhaps ten thousand still marched to follow them, but the Chin emperor had passed through the net.

Ogedai felt a wave of weariness replace the thrilling energy of the fighting. He could hardly believe he had walked without fear. He had faced his enemies and survived unmarked. For just an instant, a heartbeat, pride swelled in him.

Even so, he had failed. The band across his head returned, tightening. He imagined mockery in every concerned face. He could almost hear the whispered voices among his warriors. Genghis would not have failed. His father would somehow have plucked victory from disaster.

Ogedai gave fresh orders and the three tumans pulled back from the retreating Chin ranks. The men had been expecting the command, and the minghaans moved quickly and easily into squares of horse, facing the Sung border.

The sudden silence was like a pressure, and Ogedai rode slowly along the lines of his own men, his face flushed and sweating. If the Sung generals wanted him badly enough, they would not even wait for the rest of the Chin to come across. Half the Sung army could launch an attack at that moment. Ogedai swallowed, working his tongue around a mouth so dry he thought he would choke. He gestured to a messenger and the man brought him a skin of red wine. It moistened his lips and he gulped at it, sucking desperately on the leather teat. The pain in his head was growing all the time, and he realized his vision was blurred. He thought at first it was just sweat in his eyes, but it remained no matter how roughly he rubbed at them.

As the Mongol tumans came to order, hundreds were still panting or binding gashes. Ogedai saw Tolui trotting a mare across the broken ground toward him. The two brothers met with a quick glance of resignation, and Tolui turned his mount to watch the Chin emperor escape them once again.

“He has a lot of luck, that man,” Tolui said softly. “But we have his land and his cities. We have taken away his armies except for that rabble of survivors.”

“Enough,” Ogedai snapped, rubbing his temples. “You do not need to add honey. I must bring an army into Sung lands now. They have given sanctuary to my enemies, and they know I must respond.” He winced and sucked again on the wineskin. “There will be other days to avenge the dead. Form the men up to go back to the north, with haste, but not too visible, do you understand?”

Tolui smiled. No commander liked to be seen retreating, but the men would understand far better than Ogedai realized. They could see the wall of Sung soldiers as well as anyone. None of the Mongol warriors were clamoring to be first against that solid border.

As Tolui turned away, a single crack sounded in the distance. He jerked back and saw the puff of smoke rising above the row of Sung cannon. Only one had fired and both men saw a tumbling object rise only a short way and bounce across the ground.

It came to rest just a few hundred paces from the khan and his brother. For a moment, no one moved, then Tolui shrugged and rode over to it. He kept his back straight as he went, knowing he was watched by more men than at the festival in Karakorum.

By the time he returned to Ogedai carrying a cloth bundle, Khasar had ridden across the tumans to see what was happening. He nodded to his nephews and reached for the cloth bag. Tolui shook his head a fraction before he held the bag out to Ogedai.

The khan kept blinking at it, his vision doubling. Tolui waited for an order, but when none came, he cut the rope around the bag himself and snorted in disgust as he pulled out a mottled head by its hair, its eyes upturned.

Khasar and Tolui both looked blank as it dangled, spinning slowly. Ogedai squinted, frowning as he recognized the administrator from his morning ride. Had it been that very same day? It seemed impossible. There had been no army in Sung lands then, though they must have been marching almost in his wake. The message was as clear as the silent ranks who stood and moved not a foot from the border. He was not to enter Sung lands for any purpose.

Ogedai opened his mouth to speak and a sudden pain flared in his head, worse than anything he had ever known. He made a soft sound in his throat, helplessly. Tolui saw his distress and dropped the bloody object, moving his mount to take his brother by the arm.

“Are you unwell?” Tolui hissed at him.

His brother swayed in the saddle and Tolui feared he might fall in front of the tumans. The khan would never recover from such an omen, not in sight of the enemy. Tolui jammed his horse up against his brother’s mount and kept his hand on Ogedai’s shoulder to steady him. Khasar fell in on the other side, awkward with worry. Step by painful step, they forced the pony into the Mongol lines, then dismounted as soon as they were surrounded by staring warriors.

Ogedai had been holding on, his hands gripping the saddle horn like death. His face had twisted somehow, his left eye weeping in a constant stream. His other eye was wide and clear with agony, but he did not let go until Tolui began to prise his fingers away. Then he slumped and slid into his brother’s arms, his body as limp as a sleeping child.

Tolui stood aghast, staring down at the pale face of his brother. He looked up at Khasar suddenly, seeing his own expression mirrored.

“I have a good shaman in the camp,” Tolui said. “Send yours to me also, with any Chin or Moslem healers, the best you know.”

For once, Khasar did not argue. His gaze kept drifting to his nephew, aware but helpless. It was a fate that made Khasar shudder.

“Very well, General,” he said. “But we must put some distance between that army and ours before they decide to test our strength.”

“Command the tumans, Uncle. I will take my brother.”

Tolui gestured and Khasar helped him heave Ogedai onto Tolui’s pony, making the animal snort at the double weight. Tolui gripped his brother around the chest, holding him in place. Ogedai’s legs dangled loosely and his head lolled as Tolui’s mount broke into a trot.

As the sun set, the warriors of the khan were still moving slowly toward their camp, more than a hundred miles north across the plain. Behind them, the Sung soldiers lit torches all along the line, making a false horizon they could see for many miles as they retreated.

Chagatai reined in at the top of a hill, reaching down to pat his mare and rub her ears. Two tumans halted behind him, his sons and wives waiting patiently with them. He had chosen the high place deliberately, wanting a view of the khanate Genghis had won and Ogedai had granted to him. Chagatai could see for many miles and his breath caught in his throat at the sheer vastness of the land he now owned. It was the only true wealth.

Many years had passed since the armies of Genghis had stormed through the region. The marks of that violent passage would take generations to vanish. He smiled at the thought. His father had been a thorough man. Some of the cities would remain ruins forever, dust-blown and empty of all but ghosts. Yet Ogedai’s gift was not a false one. The citizens of Samarkand and Bukhara had rebuilt their walls and markets. Of all peoples, they knew the khan’s shadow was long, his vengeance unforgiving. Under that protective wing, they had grown and had gambled on peace.

Chagatai squinted into the setting sun and saw black lines in the far distance, caravans of carts, oxen, and camels stretching to the east and west. They were heading for Samarkand, a blur of white on the horizon. Chagatai cared little for traders, but he knew the roads kept cities alive, made them strong. Ogedai had given him a land of good earth, of rivers and fine herds. The vista before him was enough to make him wonder at his own ambition. Was it not enough to rule such a land, with water and good grass? He smiled. For the son and heir of Genghis, no, it was not enough.

A hot wind blew across the hill as the sun set, and he closed his eyes and faced it, enjoying the breeze as it tugged at his long black hair. He would build a palace on the river. He would hunt with arrows and falcons along the hills. He would make a home in his new lands, but he would not sleep or dream. He had spies and informants with Ogedai, Tsubodai, all the men of power in the nation. There would come a time when he would put aside the khanate of milk and honey and reach once again for what he had been promised. It was in his blood to be khan, but he was no longer a foolish young man. With such a dominion, he could wait for the call.

He thought of the women such cities produced, soft of flesh and fragrant. Their beauty and youth was not worked out of them in the life of the plains. Perhaps that was the purpose of cities, to keep women soft and fat instead of hard. It was a good enough reason to let them exist. As he prepared to ride on, he chuckled at the thought of the wolf entering the sheepfold. He would not ride with fire and destruction. The shepherd did not frighten his own pretty lambs.

TWELVE

The ger stank of something unpleasant, the air thick. Tolui and Khasar sat on low beds in the corner, watching uncomfortably as Ogedai’s shaman manipulated the khan’s limbs. Mohrol was a man of powerful build, short and stocky with a thick gray tuft of beard at the point of his chin. Khasar had tried not to stare at his right hand, which had marked him from birth as one who would never hunt or fish. A sixth finger, brown and twisted against the others, had made Mohrol a shaman.

The status of his craft had suffered hugely since the betrayal of Genghis years before by one whose name was no longer spoken. Yet Mohrol had conferred only briefly with robed healers and other shamans before sending them away. The khan’s own shaman still had some power to command, at least among those of his own craft.

Mohrol seemed unaware of the two men watching him. He straightened and bent each of Ogedai’s limbs, letting them fall limp while he worked his thumbs into the joints and murmured to himself. He took particular care with the head and neck. As the generals waited, Mohrol sat on the bed with his legs crossed and pulled Ogedai’s head and shoulders into his lap, so that the khan stared sightlessly upward. The shaman’s thin fingers tested and pressed the bones of his skull, clasping the dome of Ogedai’s head while Mohrol looked into the middle distance. Khasar and Tolui could make nothing of it as Mohrol nodded and tutted to himself.

The khan’s body was slick with sweat. Ogedai had not said a word since his collapse at the Sung border two days before. He had no wound, but his breath was as sweet as rotting fruit and it was that smell that filled the ger and made Khasar want to gag. The Chin healers had lit tapers of soothing incense, saying the smoke would help him to heal. Mohrol had allowed such things, though his disdain was poorly hidden.

The shaman had already worked on Ogedai for a full day, dipping his flesh into icy water, then pummeling his body with coarse cloth so that the blood bloomed under the surface. The khan’s eyes stared throughout and sometimes they moved, but he did not wake. When he was turned to the side, he drooled long tendrils of spit, his lips slack.

Ogedai would not survive if he stayed like that, Khasar realized miserably. Water, even warm blood and milk, could be forced into his stomach with a thin bamboo tube, though he choked and bled from the mouth as it scored his throat. Cared for like a helpless baby, he could be kept alive almost indefinitely. Yet the nation was without a khan, and there were other things that could kill a man.

Khasar had refused all permission to leave the camp. As messengers came in, they were unhorsed and put under guard. For a short time, the news could be contained. Chagatai would not yet be readying his forces for a triumphant return to Karakorum. Even so, there were ambitious men in the tumans who knew only too well how they would be received if they brought that news. Chagatai would reward them with gold, promotion and horses, whatever they wanted. Sooner or later, one or more would be tempted to slip away in the night. If nothing changed before that moment, even if Ogedai still lived, he was finished. Khasar winced at the thought, wondering how long he had to stay in the khan’s ger. He did no good sitting there, shifting about like an old man with piles.

Ogedai’s face seemed even puffier than before, as if fluid were building up underneath the skin. Yet he was hot to the touch, his body burning its reserves. Time crept slowly in the ger, while outside, the sun rose and passed noon. Tolui and Khasar watched as Mohrol took each of Ogedai’s arms and pierced them at the crook of the elbow, letting the blood flow into a brass bowl. The shaman peered closely at the color of the liquid, pursing his lips in disapproval. Putting aside the bowls, he chanted over the khan, suddenly striking his chest with an open palm. Nothing changed. Ogedai stared on, blinking rarely. They did not know if he could even hear them.

At last the shaman fell silent, tugging irritably at his chin-beard as if he wanted to yank it out. He laid Ogedai’s head back on the coarse blankets and rose. His servant moved in to bandage the cuts his master had made, silent with awe at treating the khan of the nation.

With the unthinking authority of his calling, Mohrol gestured to the two watching men to follow him out into the clean air. They joined him, breathing deeply in the breeze to clear the foul sweetness from their lungs. Around them, warriors of the khan stood with hope on their faces, waiting for good news. Mohrol shook his head and many of them turned away.

“I have no medicines for this,” the shaman said. “His blood flows well enough, though it seems dark to me, without the life spirit. I do not think it is his heart, though I am told that is weak. He has been using Chin syrups.” He held up an empty blue bottle with distaste. “He took a terrible risk in trusting their potions and filth. They use anything, from unborn children to the penis of a tiger. I have seen it.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Khasar snapped. “If you can do nothing for him, I will find others with more imagination.”

Mohrol seemed to swell with anger and Khasar responded by stepping in instantly, deliberately standing too close and using his height to advantage.

“Watch yourself, little man,” Khasar murmured. “If I were you, I’d try to remain useful.”

“You do Ogedai no service by arguing out here,” Tolui said. “It does not matter what has gone before, or what potions or powders he has taken. Can you help him now?”

Mohrol still glowered at Khasar as he replied. “Physically, there is nothing wrong with him. His spirit is weak, or made weak. I do not know if he has been cursed, brought to this by some enemy, or whether it is something of his own doing.” He blew air out in a gust.

“Sometimes, men just die,” he said. “The sky father calls and they are snatched, even khans. There is not always an answer.”

Without warning, Khasar’s hand shot out and grabbed the shaman’s robe, twisting the cloth as he yanked him close. Mohrol struggled in reaction before his instinct for survival made him drop his hands. Khasar was a man of power and Mohrol’s life hung on the single thread of his goodwill. The shaman mastered his outrage.

“There is a dark magic,” Khasar snarled. “I have seen it. I have eaten a man’s heart and felt the light bursting in me. Do not tell me there is nothing to be done. If the spirits demand blood, I will spill lakes of it for the khan.”

Mohrol began to stammer a reply, but then his voice steadied. “It will be as you say, General. I will sacrifice a dozen mares this evening. Perhaps it will be enough.”

Khasar let go and Mohrol stumbled back.

“Your life rests with his, do you understand?” Khasar said. “I have heard too many of your kind with their promises and lies. If he dies, you will be sky-buried with him, staked out on the hills for the hawks and foxes.”

“I understand, General,” Mohrol replied stiffly. “Now I must prepare the animals for sacrifice. They must be killed in the right way, their blood for his.”

There had been a city on the site of Jiankang for almost two thousand years. Fed by the immense Yangtze River, which was the life-blood of all China, it had been the capital of ancient states and dynasties, made wealthy on the back of dyes and silk. The sound of looms was always present, clicking and thumping day and night to provide Sung nobles with clothing, shoes, and tapestries. The smell of frying grubs was heavy in the air as they fed the workers at every meal, tumbled golden brown with herbs, fish, and oils.

In comparison to the small city of Suzhou to the north, or the fishing villages that fed the workers, Jiankang was a true stronghold of power and wealth. It was visible in the colorful soldiers who stood on every corner, in the palaces and bustling streets of a million workers, their lives revolving around a moth larva that made a cocoon of thread so perfect it could be unwound and made into extraordinarily beautiful sheets of cloth.

At first Xuan had been treated reasonably well as he left the border miles to the north. His wives and children had been placed in palaces away from him. His soldiers had been moved farther south, where they could not be a danger. He had not been told the location of their barracks. Sung officials had shown the bare courtesy due his rank, and the emperor’s own son had deigned to receive him and use words of honeyed sweetness. Xuan controlled the spasm of anger that threatened to engulf him as he remembered the meeting. He had lost everything and they let him know his status by the most subtle insults. Only a man used to perfection could have detected the faint tinge of age in the tea they offered him, or the fact that the servants they sent to him were coarse of feature, even clumsy. Xuan did not know if the emperor intended to humiliate him, or whether the man’s soft and perfumed son was simply a fool. It did not matter. He was already aware that he was not among friends. He would never have come to Sung lands if his situation had not been desperate.

His weapons had caused some excited interest at first as Sung soldiers began to catalogue his baggage and supplies. That too brought a moment of irritation as Xuan recalled their sly grins. His most precious possessions had been laid out in a vast courtyard that dwarfed the remnant of his father’s wealth. Even so, Xuan was not certain he would see any of it again. Chests of gold and silver coins had vanished into some hidden treasury, perhaps not even in the city. In return Xuan had only a sheaf of ornate papers, stamped with the marks of a dozen officials. He was completely in the power of men who thought of him at best as a weak ally, at worst as an obstacle to lands they claimed as their own.

As he stared out across Jiankang, Xuan ground his teeth silently, the only sign of his tension. They had scorned his fire-pots and hand-cannon. The Sung had such things in the thousands and of more advanced designs. It was clear they thought themselves untouchable. Their armies were strong and well supplied, their cities wealthy. Some bitter part of him almost wanted the Mongols to reveal the folly of such arrogance. It made his stomach churn to see the way the Sung officers glanced at him and whispered, as if he had just given Chin lands away to herdsmen. It was a peculiar thing to take pleasure in the image of the Mongol khan riding his warriors into Jiankang, sending the Sung armies running in disarray.

Xuan smiled at the thought. The sun had risen and the silk looms could be heard tapping like insects deep in a beam of wood. He would spend the day with his senior advisers, talking endlessly and pretending they had some purpose while they waited for the Sung emperor to notice their existence.

As Xuan looked over the roofs of Jiankang, a bell sounded nearby, one of a hundred different tones that rang across the city at different times in the day. Some signaled the changing hours or announced the arrival of messengers; others called children to school. As the sun set, the words of a poem from Xuan’s youth came back to him, and he murmured the lines, taking pleasure in the memories.

“ ‘The sun grows dim and sinks in the dusk. People are coming home and the bright peaks darken. Wild geese fly to the white reeds. I think of a northern city gate and I hear a bell tolling between me and sleep.’ ”

Tears sprang into his eyes as he thought of his father’s kindness to the thin little boy he had been, but he blinked them away before someone could see and report his weakness.

The horses Mohrol had chosen were all young mares, capable of bearing foals. He had taken them from the herd of spare mounts that followed the tumans, spending half a day selecting each mare for perfection of color and unblemished skin. One of the owners stood in mute misery as two of his best white mares were marked for sacrifice, the product of generations of careful selection and breeding. Neither had borne foals and their bloodlines would be lost. Ogedai’s name made all resistance vanish, despite the near-sacred relationship between herdsmen and their beloved mounts.

Such a thing had never been seen before on the plains. The tumans pressed so closely around the ger where Ogedai lay that Mohrol had to ask for them to be kept away. Even then, the warriors crept forward with their wives and children, desperate to see magic and great sacrifice. The life of no other could have been worth such a price, and they watched with fascination and dread as Mohrol sharpened his butcher’s knives and blessed them.

Khasar sat close to where Ogedai lay on a silk-covered pallet in the setting sun. The khan had been dressed in polished armor, and at intervals, his mouth opened and shut slowly, as if he gasped for water. It was impossible to see his pale skin and not think of Genghis laid out for death. Khasar winced at the thought, his heart beating faster at an old grief. He tried not to stare as the first white mare was brought forward with two strong men holding her head. The other horses were kept well back where they would not see the killing, but Khasar knew they would smell the blood.

The young mare was already nervous, sensing something in the air. She pranced, jerking her head up and down and whinnying aloud, fighting the tight grip of fingers in her mane. Her pale skin was perfect, unmarked by scars or ticks. Mohrol had chosen well and some of the watching warriors were tight-mouthed at such a sacrifice.

Mohrol built a bonfire taller than himself in front of the khan’s ger, then lit a branch of cedar wood, snuffing the flames so that the wood gave off a trail of fragrant white smoke. The shaman walked to Ogedai and held the smoking branch over his body, cleansing the air and blessing the khan for the ritual to come. With slow steps, he made a path around the supine form, muttering an incantation that made the hair on Khasar’s neck stand up. Khasar glanced at his nephew Tolui and found him rapt, fascinated by the shaman. The younger man would never understand how Khasar had once heard Genghis speaking an ancient tongue, with the blood of enemies fresh on his lips.

The darkness seemed to come quickly after looking into the flames of Mohrol’s fire. Thousands of warriors sat in silence and even those who had been injured in the fighting had been moved far away so that their cries of pain would not disturb the ritual. The quiet was so perfect that Khasar thought he could hear their keening cries even so, thin and distant, like birds.

With great care, the mare’s front and rear legs were bound in pairs. Whinnying in distress, she struggled briefly as warriors pushed at her haunches, rolling them so that she could not remain upright. Unable to take a step, she fell clumsily, lying with her head raised. One of the warriors took her muscular neck in his arms, holding her steady. The other gripped the back legs and they both looked up for Mohrol.

The shaman would not be rushed. He prayed aloud, singing and whispering in turn. He dedicated the life of the mare to the earth mother who would receive the blood. He asked again and again for the khan’s life to be spared.

In the middle of the ritual, Mohrol approached the mare. He had two knives and continued to sing and pray as he chose a place below the neck, where the smooth white skin began to sweep down into the mare’s chest. The two warriors braced themselves.

With a quick jerk, Mohrol jammed the blade in to its hilt. Blood streamed out, pumping rich and dark, covering his hands. The mare shuddered and whinnied in panic, snorting and struggling to rise. The warriors sat on her haunches and the blood continued to gout with every beat of her heart, covering the warriors as they struggled to hold her slippery flesh.

Mohrol placed a hand on her neck, feeling how the skin grew cold. The mare was still struggling, but more weakly. He pulled back her lips and nodded at the sight of the pale gums. In a loud voice, the shaman called once more to the spirits of the land and reached out with his second knife. It was a heavy-hilted block of metal, as long as his forearm and fine-edged. He waited until the blood flow was sluggish, then sawed quickly, back and forth across the mare’s throat. The blade disappeared into the flesh. More blood rushed and he watched her pupils grow large and infinitely dark.

Mohrol’s arms were red as he walked over to the khan. Unaware of all that was being done in his name, Ogedai lay unmoving, pale as death. Mohrol shook his head slightly and marked the khan’s cheeks with a red stripe from his finger.

No one dared to speak as he returned to the dead mare. They knew there was magic in sacrifice. As Mohrol brushed a biting insect from his face, many of them made a sign against evil at the thought of spirits gathering like flies on carrion.

Mohrol did not look discouraged as he nodded to the men to drag the dead animal away and bring in the next. He knew the mares would struggle as they smelled the blood, but he could at least spare them the sight of a dead horse.

Once again he began the chant that would end in sacrifice. Khasar looked away and many of the warriors drifted off rather than witness such wealth being ruined with a blade.

The second mare seemed quieter than the first, less spirited. She allowed herself to be walked in, but then she sensed something. In just a moment, she was panicking, whinnying loudly and using all her strength to pull the rein away from the man holding her. As they heaved in opposite directions, the halter snapped and she was free. In the darkness, she cannoned into Tolui, knocking him to the ground.

She did not get far. The warriors spread their arms and herded her, turning her around until they were able to get a new halter on and lead her back.

Tolui rose to his feet with no more than bruises, dusting himself off. He saw Mohrol looking strangely at him, and he shrugged under the shaman’s stare. The chanting began again and the second mare was hobbled quickly, ready for the knives. It would be a long night and the bitter smell of blood was already strong.

THIRTEEN

The ground around the khan was sodden red. Blood from a dozen mares had soaked into the earth until the soil could take no more and it pooled. Fat black flies buzzed and dipped all around them, driven to frenzy by the smell. Mohrol was dark with it, his bare arms and deel still wet as the torches guttered out and the sun began to rise. His voice was hoarse, his face filthy. Mosquitoes had gathered in clouds in the warm, damp air. The shaman had exhausted himself, but the khan lay motionless on the pallet, with eyes like shadowed holes.

The warriors were sleeping on the grass, waiting for news. They had not taken the mares for meat, and the bodies lay sprawled in a heap, their thin legs outstretched as their bellies began to swell with gas. No one knew whether the sacrifice might be lessened if they consumed the meat, so it would be left to rot untouched as the camp moved on. Many of them had left the scene of the slaughter for their own gers and women, unable to watch such fine mares being killed any longer.

In the dawn, Mohrol knelt on the wet grass and his knees sank into the soft ground. He had killed twelve horses and he felt leaden, weighed down by death. He refused to let his despair show while the khan lay helpless, his face marked with a script of dry blood. Mohrol felt light-headed as he knelt, and his voice began to fail completely, so that he whispered the ancient spells and divinations, rhythmic chants that rolled over and over until the words blurred into a stream of sound.

“The khan is in chains,” he croaked. “Lost and alone in a cage of flesh. Show me how to break his bonds. Show me what I must do to bring him home. The khan is in chains …”

The shaman could feel the weak dawn sunlight on his closed eyes. He had grown desperate, but he thought he could sense the whisper of spirits around the still figure of Ogedai. In the night, Mohrol had taken the khan’s wrist and checked for a pulse, he was so still. Yet, without warning, Ogedai would jerk and twist, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes bright for a few moments with something like awareness. The answer was there, Mohrol was certain, if he could only find it.

“Tengri of the blue sky, Erlik of the underworld, master of shadows, show me how to break the chains,” Mohrol whispered, his voice scratching. “Let him see his mirror soul in water; let him see his shadow soul in sunlight. I have given you blood in rivers, sweet mares bleeding their lives into the ground. I have given blood to the ninety-nine gods of white and black. Show me the chains and I will strike them free. Make me the hammer. By the ninety-nine, by the three souls, show me the way.” He raised his right hand to the sun, splaying the fingers that were his mark and his vocation. “This is your ancient land, spirit lords of the Chin. If you hear my voice, show me how you will be appeased. Whisper your needs into my ears. Show me the chains.”

Ogedai moaned on the bier, his head falling to one side. Mohrol was with him in an instant, still chanting. After such a night, with the dawn still gray and the dew half frozen on the red grass, he could feel the spirits around the khan. He could hear them breathe. His mouth was dry from a bitter paste that left a black crust on his lips. He had soared with it in the darkness, but there had been no answers, no flash of light and understanding.

“What will you take to let him go? What do you want? This flesh is the cage for the khan of a nation. Whatever you want you may have.” Mohrol took a deep breath, close to collapse. “Is it my life? I would give it. Tell me how to break the chains. Were the mares not enough? I can have a thousand more brought to mark his skin. I can weave a web of blood around him, a skein of dark threads and dark magic.” He took faster breaths, forcing his body to pant, raising the heat within him that might lead to more powerful visions. “Shall I bring virgins to this place? Shall I bring slaves or enemies?” His voice fell lower, so that no one else could hear. “Shall I bring children to die for the khan? They would give their lives gladly enough. Show me the chains that I may strike them away. Make me the hammer. Is it a kinsman that he needs? His family would give their lives for the khan.”

Ogedai moved. He blinked rapidly, and as Mohrol watched in astonishment, the khan began to sit up, falling backwards as his right arm crumpled. The shaman caught him and tipped his own head back to howl in triumph like a wolf.

“Is it his son?” Mohrol went on desperately as he held the khan. “His daughters? His uncles or friends? Give me the sign, strike off the chains!”

At the shaman’s howl, men had jerked from sleep all around them. Hundreds came running from all directions. The news spread and as they heard, men and women raised their hands and cheered, hammering pots or swords together, whatever they had. They crashed out a rippling thunder of joy, and Ogedai sat up, flinching from it.

“Bring me water,” he said, his voice weak. “What is happening?” He opened his eyes and saw the field of blood and the corpse of the last mare lying dark in the dawn light. Ogedai could not understand what had happened, and he rubbed his itching face, staring in confusion at the flakes of dried blood on his palms.

“Raise a fresh ger for the khan,” Mohrol ordered, his voice barely a wheeze, but growing stronger in his jubilation. “Make it clean and dry. Bring food and clean water.”

The ger was raised around Ogedai, though he was able to sit up. The weakness in his arm drained away in slow stages. By the time the rising sun was blocked by felt and wood, he was drinking water and calling for wine, though Mohrol would not hear of it. The shaman’s authority had grown with his success, and the khan’s servants could not ignore his stern expression. For just a short time, the shaman could overrule his own khan. Mohrol stood tall with a new dignity and visible pride.

Khasar and Tolui joined Ogedai in the new ger, as the most senior men in the camp. The khan was still pale, but he smiled weakly at their worried expressions. His eyes were sunken and dark and his hand quivered as Mohrol handed him a bowl of salt tea, telling him to drink it all. The khan frowned and licked his lips at the thought of wine, but he did not protest. He had felt death pressing and it had frightened him, for all he thought he had prepared for it.

“There were times when I could hear everything, but not respond,” Ogedai said, his voice like an old man’s breath. “I thought I was dead then, with spirits in my ears. It was …” His eyes darkened as he sipped and he did not go on to tell them of the sick terror he had felt, trapped in his own body, drifting in and out of consciousness. His father had told him never to speak of his fears. Men were fools, Genghis had said, always imagining others were stronger, faster, less afraid. Even in his weakness, Ogedai remembered. The terror of that dark had hurt him, but he was still the khan.

Servants laid sheets of rough felt on the bloody ground around him. The thick mats drew up the blood in an instant, becoming heavy and red. More were brought in and piled on top of the lower layers until the whole floor of the ger was covered. Mohrol knelt then at Ogedai’s side and reached out to examine his eyes and gums.

“You have done well, Mohrol,” Ogedai said. “I did not expect to be coming back.”

Mohrol frowned. “It is not over, my lord. The sacrifice of mares was not enough.” He took a long breath and fell silent while he bit at a ragged nail on his hands, tasting the specks of blood there. “The spirits of this land are full of bile and hatred. They released their grip on your soul only when I spoke of another in your place.”

Ogedai looked blearily at the shaman, struggling not to show his fear.

“What do you mean? My head is full of wasps, Mohrol. Speak clearly, as if to a child. I will understand you then.”

“There is a price for your return, lord. I do not know how long you have before they snatch you back into the darkness. It could be a day, or even a few more breaths, I cannot tell.”

Ogedai stiffened. “I cannot go through that again, do you understand, shaman? I could not breathe …” He felt his eyes prickle and rubbed furiously at them. His own body was a weak vessel, it always had been. “Bring me wine, shaman.”

“Not yet, my lord. We have just a little time and you need to think clearly.”

“Do what you must, Mohrol. I will pay any price.” Ogedai had seen the dead mares and he shook his head wearily, looking through the walls of the ger to where he knew they still lay. “You have my own herds, my slaughtermen, whatever you need.”

“Horses are not enough, my lord, I’m sorry. You came back to us …”

Ogedai looked up sharply. “Speak! Who knows how much time I have!”

For once, the shaman stammered, hating what he had to say.

“Another sacrifice, lord. It must be someone of your own blood. That was the offer that pulled you back from death. That was the reason you returned.”

Mohrol was so intent on watching Ogedai’s response that he did not sense Khasar coming toward him until he was heaved into the air to face the older man.

“You little …” Khasar’s mouth worked in rage, sending flecks of spit onto Mohrol’s face as he held the shaman and shook him like a dog with a rat. “I have heard these games before from men like you. We broke the back of the last one and left him for the wolves. You think you can scare my family? My family? You think you can demand a blood debt for your shabby spells and incantations? Well, after you, shaman. You die first and then we’ll see.”

As he spoke, Khasar had drawn a short skinning knife from his belt, keeping his hand low. Before anyone could speak, he flicked his wrist, cutting into Mohrol’s groin. The shaman gasped and Khasar let him fall onto his back. He wiped blood from the knife, but kept it ready in his hand as Mohrol writhed, his hands cupped.

Ogedai rose slowly from his pallet. He was thin and weak, but his eyes were furious. Khasar looked coldly at him, refusing to be cowed.

“In my camp, you cut my own shaman, Uncle?” Ogedai growled. “You have forgotten where you are. You have forgotten who I am.”

Khasar stuck his chin out defiantly, but he put away the blade.

“See him clearly, Ogedai … my lord khan,” Khasar replied. “This one wants my death, so he whispers that it has to be one of your blood. They are all hip-deep in games of power, and they have caused my family—your family—enough pain. You should not listen to a word from him. Let us wait a few days and see how you recover. You will be strong again, I’d bet my own mares on it.”

Mohrol rolled to his knees. The hand he pressed to his groin was red with fresh blood, and he felt sick and shaky with the pain. He glared at Khasar.

“I do not know the name yet. It is not my choice. I wish it were.”

“Shaman,” Ogedai said softly. “You will not have my son, even if my own life depends on it. Nor my wife.”

“Your wife is not your blood, lord. Let me cast another divination and find the name.”

Ogedai nodded, easing himself back down to the pallet. Even that small exertion had brought him to the edge of fainting.

Mohrol got to his feet like an old man, hunched over against the pain. Khasar smiled coldly at him. Spots of blood fell from between the shaman’s legs, vanishing instantly into the felt.

“Do it quickly then,” Khasar said. “I do not have patience for your kind, not today.”

Mohrol looked away from him, frightened by a man who used violence as easily as breathing. He could not untie his robe and examine the wound with Khasar leering at him. He felt ill and the gash throbbed and burned. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was the khan’s shaman and the divination had to be correct. Mohrol wondered what would happen if the spirits gave him Khasar’s name. He did not think he would live long after that.

As Khasar watched with contempt, Mohrol sent his servants running for tapers of incense. Soon the air of the ger was thick, and Mohrol added other herbs to his burning bowl, breathing in a coolness that made the ache in his groin just a distant irritation. After a time, even that faded and was gone.

At first Ogedai coughed as the harsh smoke entered his lungs. One of the servants dared Mohrol’s disapproval at last, and a skin of wine appeared at the khan’s feet. He drank it like a man dying of thirst, and a bloom of color came back to his cheeks. His eyes were bright with fascination and dread as Mohrol clutched the bones for divination, holding them to the four winds and calling for the spirits to guide his hand.

At the same time, the shaman took a pot of gritty black paste and rubbed a stripe of it along his tongue. It was dangerous to release his spirit again so soon, but he steeled himself, ignoring the way his heart fluttered in his chest. The bitterness brought tears to his eyes, so that they shone in the gloom. When Mohrol closed his mouth, his pupils grew enormous, like the eyes of dying horses.

The blood was slowly seeping into the layers of felt, and the smell of it was pungent. With the narcotic incense, the exhausted men could hardly stand it, but Mohrol seemed to thrive in the thick air, the paste giving strength to his flesh. His voice rolled out a chant as he moved the bag of bones to the north, east, south, and west, over and over, calling for the spirits of home to guide him.

At last he threw the bones; too hard, so that the yellow pieces scattered across the felt. Was it an omen to see them leap and jump away from him? Mohrol cursed aloud and Khasar laughed as the shaman tried to read the way they fell.

“Ten … eleven … where is the last one?” Mohrol said, speaking to no one.

None of them noticed that Tolui had grown almost as pale as the khan himself. The shaman had not seen the yellow anklebone resting against Tolui’s boot, touching the soft leather.

Tolui had seen. He had kept to himself the sick fear he had felt on hearing that it had to be one of Ogedai’s blood. From that moment, he had been gripped by a numb helplessness, a resignation to a fate he could not avoid. The bolting mare had knocked him from his feet, no other. He thought he had known then. Part of him wanted to tread the bone deep into the felt, to hide it with his foot, but with an effort of will, he did not. Ogedai was the khan of the nation, the man his father had chosen to rule after him. No life was worth as much as his.

“It is here,” Tolui whispered, then repeated himself, as no one heard him.

Mohrol looked up at him and his eyes flashed with sudden understanding.

“The mare that struck you,” the shaman said in a whisper. His eyes were dark, but there was something like compassion in his face.

Tolui nodded, mute.

“What?” Ogedai broke in, looking up sharply. “Do not even think of that, shaman. Tolui is not part of this.” He spoke firmly, but the terror of the grave was still on him and his hands trembled on the wine cup. Tolui saw.

“You are my older brother, Ogedai,” Tolui said. “More, you are the khan, the man our father chose.” He smiled and rubbed his hand across his face, looking almost boyish for a moment. “He told me once that I would be the one to remind you of things you have forgotten. That I would guide you as khan and be your right arm.”

“This is madness,” Khasar said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “Let me spill this shaman’s blood first.”

“Very well, General!” Mohrol snapped suddenly. He stepped forward to face Khasar with his arms open. “I will pay that price. You have spilled my blood already this morning. Have the rest if you wish. It will not change the omens. It will not change what must be done.”

Khasar touched his hand to where his knife lay under his belt, tucked into the grubby folds of cloth, but Mohrol did not look away from him. The paste he had consumed had stolen away any fear, and instead he saw Khasar’s love for Ogedai and Tolui, coupled with his frustration. The old general could face any enemy, but he was lost and confused by such a decision. After a time, Mohrol dropped his arms and stood patiently, waiting for Khasar to see the inevitable.

In the end, it was Tolui’s voice that broke the silence.

“I have much to do, Uncle. You should leave me now. I have to see my son and have letters written to my wife.” His face was stiff with pain, but his voice remained steady as Khasar glanced at him.

“Your father would not have given up,” Khasar said gruffly. “Believe me, as one who knew him better than any man.”

He was not as certain as he seemed. In some moods, Genghis would have thrown his life away without a thought, enjoying the grand gesture. In others, he would have fought to the last furious breath, doomed or not. Khasar wished with all his heart that his brother Kachiun were there. Kachiun would have found an answer, a way through the thorns. It was just ill luck that Kachiun was riding with Tsubodai and Batu into the north. For once, Khasar was alone.

He felt the pressure from the younger men as they looked to him in hope for some stroke that would cut through the decision. All he could think of was to kill the shaman. That too was a useless act, he realized. Mohrol believed his own words, and for all Khasar knew, the man spoke the perfect truth. He closed his eyes and strained to hear Kachiun’s voice. What would he say? Someone had to die for Ogedai. Khasar raised his head, his eyes opening.

“I will be your sacrifice, shaman. Take my life for the khan’s. I can do that much, for my brother’s memory, for my brother’s son.”

“No,” Mohrol said, turning away from him. “You are not the one, not today. The omens are clear. The choice is as simple as it is hard.”

Tolui smiled wearily as the shaman spoke. He came close to Khasar and the two men embraced for a moment while Ogedai and the shaman looked on.

“Sunset, Mohrol,” Tolui said, looking back at the shaman. “Give me a day to prepare myself.”

“My lord, the omens are set. We do not know how long the khan has left before his spirit is taken.”

Ogedai said nothing as Tolui looked at him. His younger brother’s jaw tensed as he struggled with himself.

“I will not run, brother,” he whispered. “But I am not ready for the knife, not yet. Give me the day and I will bless you from the other side.”

Ogedai nodded weakly, his expression tortured. He wanted to speak out, to send Mohrol away and dare the malevolent spirits to come back for him. He could not. A wisp of memory of his helplessness came to him. He could not suffer it again.

“Sunset, brother,” Ogedai said at last.

Without another word, Tolui strode out of the ger, ducking to pass through the small door into the clean air and sun.

Around him, the vast camp was arrayed in all directions, busy and alive with the noise of horses and women, children and warriors. Tolui’s heart thumped with pain at such a pleasant, normal scene. He realized with a stab of despair that it was his last morning. He would not see the sun rise again. For a time, he simply stood and watched it, holding one hand above his eyes to shade them from its brilliant glare.

FOURTEEN

Tolui led a small group of ten riders to the river that ran by the camp. His son Mongke rode at his right shoulder, the young man’s face pale with strain. Two slave women ran at Tolui’s stirrups. He dismounted on the banks and the slaves removed his armor and underclothes. Naked, he walked into the cold water, feeling his feet sink into the cool mud. Slowly he washed himself, using silt to work the grease from his skin, then dipping under the surface to sluice himself down.

His female slaves both stripped to enter the water with him. They shivered as they worked bone tools under his fingernails to clean them. Both women stood up to their waists in the water, their breasts firm with goose bumps. There was no lightness or laughter from them, and Tolui was not aroused by the sight, where any other day might have had him playing in the shallows and splashing to make them squeal.

With care and concentration, Tolui accepted a flask of clear oil and rubbed it into his hair. The prettier of his slaves tied it into a black tail that hung down his back. His skin was very white at the nape of his neck, where the hair protected it from the sun.

Mongke stood and watched his father. The other minghaans were senior men who had seen battle a thousand times. Next to them, he felt young and inexperienced, but they could not look at him. They were quiet with respect for Tolui, and Mongke knew he had to maintain the cold face for his father’s honor. It would have shamed the general to have his son weeping, so Mongke stood like a stone, his face hard. Yet he could not take his eyes off his father. Tolui had told them his decision and they were all bruised by it, helpless in the face of his will and the khan’s need.

One of them gave a low whistle when they saw Khasar ride out from another part of the camp. The general had earned their respect, but they were still willing to block him from the river as he came close. On that day, they did not care that he was the brother of Genghis.

Tolui had been standing with blank eyes as his hair was tied. The whistle brought him out of himself, and he nodded to Mongke to let Khasar through, watching as his uncle dismounted and came to the bank.

“You will need a friend to help you in this,” Khasar said.

Mongke’s stare bored into the back of Khasar’s head, but he did not notice.

Tolui looked up in silence from the river and finally dipped his head in acceptance, striding out of the water. His slaves came with him and he stood patiently as they rubbed him down. The sun warmed him and some of his tension seeped away. He looked at the armor that lay waiting, a pile of iron and leather. He had worn something like it for all of his adult life, but suddenly it seemed an alien thing. Of Chin design, it did not suit his mood.

“I will not wear the armor,” he said to Mongke, who was standing ready for orders. “Have it bundled up. Perhaps in time you will wear it for me.”

Mongke struggled with his grief as he bent and gathered the pieces into his arms. Khasar looked on with approval, pleased to see how Tolui’s son kept his dignity. The father’s pride was shining in his eyes, though Mongke turned away without seeing it.

Tolui watched as his women yanked on clothes to cover their nakedness. He sent one barefoot over the grass with instructions to find a particular deel and leggings from his ger, as well as new boots. She ran well and more than one of the men turned to watch her legs flash in the sun.

“I am trying to believe this is really happening,” Tolui said softly. Khasar looked at him and reached out to grip his bare shoulder in silent support as he went on. “When I saw you coming, I hoped that something had changed. I think some part of me will expect a shout, a reprieve, up to the last moments. It is a strange thing, the way we torture ourselves.”

“Your father would be proud of you, I know that,” Khasar replied. He felt useless, unable to find the right words.

Strangely, it was Tolui who saw his uncle’s distress, and he spoke kindly. “I think I will be better on my own for the moment, Uncle. I have my son as a comfort to me. He will take my messages home. I will need you later on, at sunset.” He sighed. “I will need you to stand by me then, without a doubt. Now, though, I still have words to write and orders to give.”

“Very well, Tolui. I will come back as the sun sets. I tell you one thing: When this is over, I am going to kill that shaman.”

Tolui chuckled. “I would expect nothing else, Uncle. I will need a servant in the next world. He would do very well.”

The young slave returned bearing an armful of clean woolen clothes. Bare-chested, Tolui pulled rough leggings up his thighs, concealing his manhood from view. The slave tied the thong at his waist while Tolui stood with his arms out, staring into the distance. His women had begun to weep and neither man rebuked them for it. Tolui was pleased to hear the crying of women for him. He dared not think of Sorhatani and how she would react. He watched as Khasar mounted his horse once more, the older man silent with misery as he held up his right hand and turned to ride away.

Tolui sat on the grass and the slaves knelt before him. The boots were new, soft leather. The women bound his feet in untreated wool and then pulled the boots over them, tying them with quick, neat movements. Finally, he rose.

The deel robe was the simplest he owned, a lightly padded cloth with almost no decoration beyond buttons shaped like tiny bells. It was an old piece that had once belonged to Genghis, and it was marked with the stitching of the Wolf tribe. Tolui ran his hands over the coarse design and found he could take comfort from it. His father had worn it and perhaps there was a hint of his old strength left in the cloth.

“Walk with me for a time, Mongke,” he called to his son. “There are things I want you to remember for me.”

The sun dipped on the last day, spreading a cool light that slowly lost its colors, so that the plains softened into gray. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, Tolui watched the sun touch the hills in the west. It had been a good day. He had spent some of it rutting with his slaves, losing himself for a time in the pleasures of the flesh. He had appointed his second in command to lead the tuman. Lakota was a good man and loyal. He would not shame Tolui’s memory, and in time, when Mongke had more experience, he would step aside for the son.

Ogedai had come to him in the afternoon, saying that he would appoint Sorhatani the head of Tolui’s family, with all the rights her husband had known. She would retain his wealth and the authority over his sons. On his return home, Mongke would be given Tolui’s other wives and slaves as his own, protecting them from those who would take advantage. The khan’s shadow would keep his family safe. It was the least Ogedai could offer, but Tolui felt lighter after hearing it, less afraid. He only wished he could speak to Sorhatani and his other sons one last time. Dictating letters to his scribes was not the same, and he wished that he could hold his wife, just once, that he could crush her to him and breathe in the scent of her hair.

He sighed to himself. It was hard to find peace as the sun went down. He tried to hold on to every moment, but his mind betrayed him, drifting and coming back to clarity with a start. Time slipped like oil through his hands, and he could not hold a single instant of it.

The tumans had gathered in ranks to witness his offering. Ahead of him on the grass, Ogedai stood with Khasar and Mohrol. Mongke waited slightly apart from the other three. Only he looked directly at his father, a constant gaze that was the sole sign of the horror and disbelief that he felt.

Tolui took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of horses and sheep on the evening breeze. He was pleased he had chosen the simple garb of a herdsman. Armor would have choked him, confined him in iron. Instead, he felt loose-limbed, clean, and calm.

He walked toward the small group of men. Mongke stared at him like a stunned calf. Tolui reached out and drew his son into a brief embrace, releasing him before the shuddering he felt against his chest turned into sobs.

“I am ready,” he said.

Ogedai lowered himself to sit cross-legged on one side of him, Khasar on the other. Mongke hesitated, before sitting to one side.

There was a certain shared animosity as they all watched Mohrol set a taper to brass pots. Thin trails of smoke dragged their way across the plain, and the shaman began to sing.

Mohrol was bare-chested, his skin marked in stripes of red and dark blue. His eyes looked out from a mask that seemed barely human. The four men faced west, and as the shaman worked his way through six verses of the song of death, they stared at the setting sun, slowly eaten by the horizon until there was just a fat line of gold.

Mohrol stamped the ground as he finished his verse to the earth mother. He jabbed a knife into the air as he called on the sky father. His voice grew in strength, a double tone from his nose and throat that was one of the earliest sounds Tolui could remember. He listened distractedly, unable to look away from the golden thread that bound him to life.

As the verses to the four winds ended, Mohrol passed a knife into Tolui’s cupped hands. Tolui stared at the blue-black blade in the last light. He found the calm he needed. Everything around him was sharp and defined, and he breathed deeply as he pressed the blade against his skin.

Ogedai reached out and clasped his left shoulder. Khasar did the same with his right. Tolui felt their strength, their grief, and it steadied the last of his fear.

He looked at Mongke and saw the young man’s eyes brimming with tears. There was no shame in it.

“Look after your mother, boy,” Tolui said, then looked down and took a deep breath. “It is time,” he said. “I am a fitting sacrifice for the khan. I am tall and strong and young. I will take the place of my brother.”

The sun vanished in the west and Tolui pushed the knife into his chest, finding the heart. All the air in his lungs came out in a long, rasping breath. He found he could not breathe in and struggled to control his panic. He knew the cuts that had to be made. Mohrol had explained every detail of the ritual. His son was watching and he had to have the strength.

Tolui’s body had gone tight and hard, every muscle straining as he sipped air back in and wrenched the blade between his ribs, cutting his heart. The pain was a burning brand in him, but he pulled out the knife and looked in astonishment at the rush of blood that came with it. His strength was fading, and as he began to fall forward Khasar reached out and took his hand in fingers that were impossibly strong. Tolui turned his eyes to him in gratitude, unable to speak. Khasar guided his hand higher, holding the grip closed so he could not drop the blade.

Tolui sagged as Khasar helped him draw the edge across his neck. He was frozen, a man of ice, as his warm blood drained into the grass. He did not see the shaman hold a bowl to his throat. His head lolled forward and Khasar gripped him by the back of the neck. Tolui could feel the warm touch as he died.

Mohrol offered the brimming bowl to Ogedai. The khan knelt with his head down, staring into darkness. He did not let go of Tolui’s body, so that it remained upright, held between the two men.

“You must drink, my lord, while I finish,” Mohrol said.

Ogedai heard and took the bowl in his left hand, tipping it back. He choked on the warm blood of his brother, and some of it dribbled down his chin and neck. Mohrol said nothing as the khan steeled himself and fought the urge to vomit. When it was empty, Ogedai tossed the bowl away into the gloom. Mohrol began to sing the six verses once again from the beginning, drawing the spirits close to witness the sacrifice.

Before he was halfway through, Mohrol heard Ogedai vomiting onto the grass. It was already too dark to see, and the shaman ignored the sounds.

Sorhatani rode hard, calling “Chuh!” and forcing her mare to gallop across the brown plains. Her sons galloped with her and, with the remounts and pack animals, they made a fine plume of dust. Under the hot sun, Sorhatani rode bare-armed in a yellow silk tunic and deerskin leggings, with soft boots. She was grubby and she had not bathed in a long time, but she exulted as her horse flew across the ancient land of the tribes.

The grass was very dry, the valleys thirsty. Drought had drained all but the widest rivers. To refill the waterskins, they had to dig into the river clay until water seeped into the hole, brackish and full of silt. Silk had proved its value yet again to strain muck and wriggling insects out of the precious liquid.

As she rode she saw the pale bones of sheep and oxen, the white shapes cracked to shards by wolves or foxes. To anyone else, it might not have seemed a great reward for her husband to be given such a dry land. Yet Sorhatani understood there were always hard years there, that such a land made strong men and stronger women. Her sons had already learned to eke out their supplies of water and not gulp it as if there would always be a stream within reach. The winters froze and the summers burned, but there was freedom in its immensity—and the rains would come again. Her childhood memories were of hills like rippled green silk, stretching away to the horizon on all sides. The land endured the droughts and the cold, but it would be reborn.

In the distance, she could see the mountain of Deli’un-Boldakh, a peak of almost mystical significance in the legends of the tribes. Genghis had been born somewhere near that place. His father, Yesugei, had ridden with his bondsmen there, protecting his herds from raiders through the coldest months.

Sorhatani kept her eyes on a different crag, the red rock that Genghis had climbed with his brothers when the world was smaller and all the tribes were at one another’s throats. Her three sons kept pace with her, and the red hill grew before them. There, Genghis and Kachiun had found an eagle’s nest and brought down two perfect chicks to show their father. Sorhatani could imagine their excitement, even see their faces in the features of her own sons.

She only wished Mongke could have been there, though she knew that was a mother’s foolishness. Mongke had to learn to lead, to campaign with his father and uncles. The warriors would not respect an officer who knew nothing about terrain or tactics.

She wondered if Genghis’s mother had loved Bekter as she loved her own firstborn. As the legends told it, Bekter had been solemn in spirit, just as Mongke was. Her eldest son was not easily given to laughter, or the lightning flashes of insight and humor that characterized a boy like Kublai.

She watched Kublai ride, his Chin tail of hair whipping in the wind. He was slim and wiry like his father and grandfather. Her boys raced one another through the dust, and she gloried in their youth and strength as well as her own.

Tolui and Mongke had been gone for many months. It had been hard for her to leave Karakorum, but she knew she had to prepare a camp for her husband, to scout the land. It was her task to raise gers in the shadow of Deli’un-Boldakh and find good grazing on the river plains. Thousands of men and women had come with her to the homeland, but for the moment they would wait on her pleasure while she rode to the red hill.

Perhaps one day Mongke would command an army like Tsubodai, or become a man of power under his uncle Chagatai. It was easy to dream on such a day, with the wind making her hair flow back in a river of silk threads.

Sorhatani glanced behind her, checking on the presence of her husband’s bondsmen. Two of the most ferocious warriors at his command rode within easy reach of the family. As she watched them she saw their heads turning to the left and right, looking for the slightest danger. She smiled. Before he left, Tolui had given very clear orders about keeping his wife and sons safe. It might have been true that the hills and steppes of their homeland were practically empty of nomadic families, but still he worried. He was a fine man, she thought. With just a fraction of his father’s ambition, he would have risen far. Sorhatani’s mood did not sink at the thought. The destiny of her husband had never been hers to shape. He had always been the youngest son of Genghis, and from the earliest age he had known his brothers would lead and he would follow.

Her sons were a different matter. Even her youngest, Arik-Boke, had been trained as a warrior and a scholar from the moment he could walk. All could read and write the court script of the Chin. Though she prayed to Christ and his mother, they had been taught the religion of the Chin and Sung, where true power lay. Whatever the future held, she knew she had prepared them as best she could.

The small group dismounted at the foot of the red hill, and Sorhatani cried out in pleasure as she saw the circling specks of eagles high above. Part of her had thought the rumor of their presence was just a herdsman’s boasting, a way of honoring the story of Genghis. Yet they were there and their nest would be somewhere in the crags.

Her husband’s bondsmen came up and bowed deeply before her, waiting patiently for her orders.

“My sons are going to climb for the nest,” she said, as excited as a girl. She did not need to explain. Both of the warriors had squinted up at the circling birds. “Scout the area for water, but do not go too far.”

In moments, the men had leapt back into the saddle and were cantering away. They had learned that Sorhatani expected the same sort of instant obedience as her husband. She had grown up around men of power and had married into the great khan’s family at a very young age. She knew that men prefer to follow, that it takes an effort of will to lead. She had that will.

Kublai and Hulegu were already at the base of the red hill, shading their eyes against the sun for the location of the nest. It was later in the year than the ideal. If there were chicks there, they would already be strong, perhaps even able to leave the nest and fly on their own. Sorhatani did not know if her sons would be disappointed, but it did not matter. She had made them part of a tale from Genghis’s life, and they would never forget the climb, whether they brought down a chick or not. She had given them a memory they would tell to their own children one day.

The boys removed their weapons and began to scramble up the easy section as Sorhatani pulled a bag of soft curds from under her saddle. She had hammered the chips of hard cheese herself, breaking them small enough so that they would not gall the mare’s skin as they softened in water. The thick yellow paste was bitter and refreshing, a particular favorite of hers. She licked her lips as she dipped her hand inside, then sucked her fingers clean.

It did not take long to fetch water from the packhorses and water the animals with a leather bucket. When the chore was done, Sorhatani rummaged further in her saddlebags until she found some sweet dried dates. She looked guiltily at the hill as she nibbled one, knowing that her sons loved the rare delicacy. Still, they were not there. She could see them rising higher, climbing easily on strong, thin legs. It would be sunset by the time they returned, and for once she was on her own. She hobbled the pony with a length of rope so it would not wander far, then sat on the dry grass, spreading a saddle blanket for herself.

Sorhatani dozed through the afternoon, enjoying the peaceful solitude. At times, she took up a deel robe she was embroidering in gold thread for Kublai. It would be very fine when it was finished, and she worked with bowed head over the stitches, cutting lengths of thread with strong white teeth. In the sun’s warmth, it was easy to nod over the cloth. When she came awake again, it was to find the afternoon had faded to coolness. She rose and stretched, yawning. This was a good land and she felt at home here. She had dreamed of Genghis as a young man, and her face was flushed with perspiration. It had not been a dream to share with her sons.

In the distance, the movement of a rider caught her eye. It was an instinctive talent, born of generations for whom spotting an enemy was the key to survival. She frowned and shaded her eyes, then made her hands into a tube to focus her sight further. Even with the old scout’s trick, the dark figure was just a speck.

Her husband’s bondsmen had not slept in the afternoon, and already they were galloping to intercept the lone rider. Sorhatani felt her sense of peace dwindle and fade as they reached the man and the single point became a larger knot.

“Who are you?” she muttered to herself.

It was hard not to feel a twinge of worry. A single rider could only be one of the yam messengers who crisscrossed thousands of miles for the khan and his generals. With fresh horses, they could ride a hundred miles in a day, sometimes even farther if it was a matter of life and death. The khan’s forces in Chin territory were only ten days away by the reckoning of such men. She saw the three riders begin to approach the red hill together, and her womb clenched in sudden premonition.

Behind her she heard the sound of her sons back from their climb. Their voices were light and cheerful, but there were no calls of triumph. The fledgling eagles had left the nest, or flown from their grasping hands. Sorhatani began to pack away her supplies, folding her precious needles and spools of thread back into their roll and tying the knots with unconscious expertise. She did it rather than stand helplessly waiting, and she took her time with the saddlebags, stowing the waterskins carefully.

When she turned back, her hand flew to her mouth as she recognized the lone rider flanked by the bondsmen. They were still some way off and she almost cried out to them to go faster. As they drew nearer she saw how Mongke swayed in the saddle, close to utter exhaustion.

He was coated in dust and the sides of his horse heaved with caked muck from where he had emptied his bladder without dismounting. She knew the scouts did that only when the news had to be brought home with all speed, and her heart skipped with dread. She did not speak as her eldest son dismounted and staggered, almost falling as his legs betrayed him. He clung to the saddle horn, using his strong right hand to rub out the cramps. At last their eyes met and he did not have to speak.

Sorhatani did not weep then. Though some part of her knew her husband was gone, she stood tall, her mind racing. There were so many things she had to do.

“You are welcome in my camp, my son,” she said at last.

Almost in a trance, she turned to the bondsmen and told them to make a fire and salt tea. Her other sons stood in silent confusion at the sight of the small group.

“Sit with me, Mongke,” she said softly.

Her son nodded, his eyes red-rimmed with weariness and grief. He took his place on the grass beside her and nodded to Kublai, Hulegu, and Arik-Boke as they made a tight circle around their mother. When the salt tea was ready, Mongke drained the first bowl in a few gulps to cut the dust in his throat. The words still had to be spoken. Sorhatani almost cried out to stop him, her emotions in turmoil. If Mongke did not speak, it would not be completely true. Once the words were out, her life, her son’s lives, would all change and she would have lost her beloved.

“My father is dead,” Mongke said.

His mother closed her eyes for a moment. Her last hope was torn away. She took a long breath.

“He was a good husband,” she whispered, choking. “He was a warrior who commanded ten thousand for the khan. I loved him more than you will ever know.” Tears made her eyes large and her voice roughened as her throat closed on grief. “Tell me how it happened, Mongke. Leave nothing out.”

FIFTEEN

Tsubodai reined in at the edge of a cliff, leaning out of his saddle to peer down on the valley below. It had taken him a day of following goat trails to reach the place, but from such a height he could see for twenty miles, his gaze encompassing hills and villages, rivers and towns. The wide Volga River ran to the west, but it was not a serious obstacle. He had already sent men wading across its sandbars to scout islands and the banks beyond. He had raided these lands years before. He smiled as he remembered taking his men across the frozen rivers. The Russians had not believed anyone could withstand their winter. They had been mistaken. Only Genghis could have called him back then. When the great khan had ordered him home, Tsubodai had returned, but it would not happen again. Ogedai had given him a free hand. The Chin borders were secure to the east. If he could crush the lands of the west, the nation would hold the central plains from sea to sea, an empire so vast it beggared the imagination. Tsubodai hungered to see the lands beyond the Russian forests, all the way to the legendary cold seas and the ghostly white peoples there who never saw the sun.

With such a view, it was easy to imagine the threads of his influence stretching back to him. Tsubodai stood at the center of a web of messengers and spies. For hundreds of miles around the spot where he stood, he had men and women in every market, village, town, and fortress. Some of them had no idea the coins they were paid came from the Mongol armies. A few of his scouts and informants were from the Turkic tribes, who lacked the eye folds that marked his warriors. Others came from those Tsubodai and Batu had already recruited or taken by force. They staggered out of the ashes of every town, homeless and desperate, ready to accept whatever their conquerors asked in exchange for their lives. The khan’s silver flowed like a river through Tsubodai’s hands, and he bought information as much as meat and salt—and valued it more.

The general turned his head as Batu came around the last turn and brought his pony onto the ridge crest before dismounting. Batu stared at the valleys below with an expression of bored resentment. Tsubodai frowned to himself. He could not change the past, any more than he could challenge Ogedai Khan’s right to raise a sullen young man to command ten thousand. A green adolescent with an army could do a great deal of damage. The strange thing was that Tsubodai persisted in training him to be the most efficient destroyer he could be. Time alone would give him perspective and wisdom, all the things Batu currently lacked.

They sat for a long time in silence before Batu’s patience frayed as Tsubodai had known it would. There was no calm at the center of the angry young warrior, no internal peace. Instead, he simmered with constant rage and all those around him sensed it.

“I have come, Tsubodai Bahadur.” Batu pronounced the general’s nickname with a sneer, making “the Valiant” sound like mockery. “What is it that only your eyes can see?”

Tsubodai replied as if it were nothing, his voice as infuriatingly relaxed as he could make it.

“When we move on, your men will not be able to see the terrain, Batu. They might become lost, or be stopped by some obstacle. You see those low hills, there?”

Batu peered where Tsubodai pointed.

“From here, you can see how they run almost together, leaving a central ground free for … a mile, perhaps two. Four or five li, as the Chin measure distance. We could hide two minghaans on either side in ambush. If we bring the Russians to battle a few miles farther on, a false retreat will drag them back to those hills and they will not get out.”

“This is nothing new,” Batu said. “I know about the feigned retreat. I thought you would have something more interesting to make it worth dragging my horse up here.”

Tsubodai kept his cold eyes on the younger man for a moment, but Batu held his gaze with insolent confidence.

“Yes, Orlok Tsubodai?” he asked. “Is there something you wish to say to me?”

“It is important to choose the ground, then scout it well for hidden obstacles,” Tsubodai replied.

Batu chuckled and stared down again. For all his bluster and arrogance, Tsubodai saw he was taking in every detail of the land, his eyes flickering back and forth as he memorized it. He was an unpleasant student, but his mind was as sharp as anyone Tsubodai had known. It was hard not to think of his father at times, the memories robbing the general of his irritation.

“Tell me what you see in our tumans,” Tsubodai went on.

Batu shrugged. Down below he could see five columns moving slowly across the land. It took just a glance for him to read them.

“We march apart and attack together. Five fingers covering as much ground as possible. The messengers keep them in contact for quick response to any show of force. I believe my grandfather began the practice. It has worked well enough since then.”

He grinned without looking at Tsubodai. Batu knew the general was responsible for the formation that allowed a small army to sweep across huge areas, clearing towns and villages before them so that they left a smoking landscape behind. They came together only when the enemy appeared in strength, when the arrow messengers would bring the tumans racing, a fist to smash the resistance before they moved on.

“Your eyes are strong, Batu. Tell me what else you see.”

Tsubodai’s voice was maddeningly calm and Batu rose to the bait, determined to show the older man that he needed no lessons from him. He spoke quickly and used his hand to chop the air.

“For each column, there are scouts at the front in groups of ten. They ride up to eighty miles out, looking for the enemy. The center is the families, the baggage, gers, oxen, camels, drummers, and collapsed gers by the thousand. There are mobile forges on carts with spoked wheels, iron-reinforced. I believe you are responsible for those, General. Boys and foot warriors march there, our final defense if the warriors are ever overrun. Around them are the herds of sheep, goats, and of course remounts, three to a man or more.” He spoke faster, enjoying the chance to show his knowledge: “Beyond those are the heavy tuman cavalry in minghaan ranks. Farther still, we have the light cavalry screen, the first to meet any attack with arrows. Finally, we have the rearguard, who plod along and wish they were closer to the front instead of riding through everyone else’s shit. Shall I begin naming the officers? You are the orlok, in overall command, I am told. You have no bloodline worth mentioning, so I am the prince whose name appears on the orders, the grandson of Genghis Khan. It is an odd arrangement, but we will discuss it another time. I lead a tuman, as do Generals Kachiun, Jebe, Chulgetei, and Guyuk. The minghaan officers, in order of seniority, are—”

“That is enough, Batu,” Tsubodai said quietly.

“Ilugei, Muqali, Degei, Tolon, Onggur, Boroqul—”

“Enough,” Tsubodai snapped. “I know their names.”

“I see,” Batu said, raising an eyebrow. “Then I do not understand what you wanted me to learn by losing half a day riding up this rock with you. If I have made mistakes, you must feel able to bring them to me. Am I in error, General? Have I displeased you in some way? You must tell me, so I can remove the fault.”

His eyes bored into Tsubodai, allowing his bitterness to show for once. Tsubodai controlled his temper, felt it rise in him and took a firmer grip before he ruined a young man guilty of nothing more than spite and arrogance. He looked too much like Jochi for Tsubodai not to know he had reason.

“You have not mentioned the auxiliaries,” Tsubodai said calmly, at last. In response, Batu chuckled, an unpleasant sound.

“No, and I will not. Our ragged conscripts are good for nothing more than soaking up the missiles of our enemies. I am going to rejoin my tuman, General.”

He began to turn his mount and Tsubodai reached out and took his reins. Batu glared at him, but he had the sense not to reach for the sword that hung at his waist.

“I have not yet given you permission to leave,” Tsubodai said.

His face was still emotionless, but his voice had hardened and his eyes were very cold. Batu smiled and Tsubodai could see he was on the point of saying something that would tear down the strained courtesy between them. This was why he preferred to deal with more senior men, who had some idea of consequences and would not throw their entire lives away on a bad-tempered moment. Tsubodai spoke quickly and firmly to head him off.

“If I have the slightest doubt about your ability to follow my orders, Batu, I will send you back to Karakorum.” Batu began to take a breath, his face twisting as Tsubodai went on relentlessly. “You may take your complaints to your uncle there, but you will no longer ride with me. If I give you a hill to take, you will destroy your entire tuman rather than fail. If I tell you to ride to a position, you will break your horses to reach it in time. Do you understand? If you fail me in anything, there will be no second chance. This is not a game, General, and I do not care what you think of me, not at all. Now, if you have something to say to me, say it.”

At almost twenty, Batu had matured in the years since winning the horse race at Karakorum. He took command of his temper with a swiftness that surprised Tsubodai, reining in his emotions and shuttering them away so that his eyes were blank. It showed he was more man than boy, but it made him a far more dangerous adversary.

“You may put your faith in me, Tsubodai Bahadur,” Batu said, this time without the sneer in his voice. “With your permission, I will return to my column.”

Tsubodai inclined his head and Batu trotted his mount back down the goat path that led to the base of the hill. Tsubodai stared after him for a time, then grimaced to himself. He should have sent him back to Karakorum. With any other officer, he would have had him whipped and strapped to a horse to be ridden home in disgrace. Only the memories of Batu’s father and, yes, his grandfather held Tsubodai’s hand. They had been men to follow. Perhaps the son could be made in their image, unless of course he got himself killed first. He needed to be tested, to gain the soul weight that came only from true knowledge of skill, rather than empty arrogance. Tsubodai nodded to himself as he looked over the lands ahead. There would be many opportunities to temper the young prince in fire.

The Russian lands had been wide open for the sort of attack Tsubodai had perfected. Even the nobles there had homes and towns protected by little more than a wooden palisade. Some of them had the solidity of decades or even centuries, but the Mongol war machine had overcome such obstacles in Chin territory. Their catapults smashed apart the ancient logs, sometimes crushing those who sheltered behind them. It was true that the Mongol archers had to contend with thicker forests than they had ever seen, sometimes stretching for thousands of miles and able to hide large forces of horsemen. The last summer had been hot, and heavy rainfall meant the ground was often too soft to move forward with any speed. Tsubodai disliked the marshes intensely, but he was coming to the opinion that if it hadn’t been for those, Genghis had made an error in attacking to the east. The lands to the west were still ripe, and as yet, Tsubodai had seen no force worthy to challenge his tumans as they scoured the land. The Mongol sweep took them hundreds of miles into the north, and winter brought blessed relief from the flies and rain and disease.

For the first year, he had kept to the east of the Volga River, preferring to crush any possible threat from the area that would become his rear and be part of the supply route to Karakorum. Though the distances were vast, there was already a constant stream of riders. The first yam way stations were rising behind his tumans, as well fortified as anything else in Russian territory. Tsubodai cared nothing for the buildings, but they housed grain, saddles, and the fastest mounts from the herds, ready for whoever needed to race through.

It was a spring morning when Tsubodai gathered his most senior officers on a meadow by a lake filled with wildfowl. His scouts had spent the morning trapping thousands of birds in nets, or taking them in flight for sport. The women in the camps were plucking the birds to be roasted that evening, creating great drifts of feathers that tumbled over the grass like spilled oil.

Batu watched with carefully hidden interest as Tsubodai brought forward one of his strongest warriors. The man’s face could not be seen under the helmet of polished iron. Everything he wore had been captured farther to the west. Even the horse was a monster, black as night and half as high again at the shoulder as any Mongol pony. Like its rider, it was sheathed in iron, from plates around its eyes to a skirt of hardened leather and metal to protect its hindquarters from arrows.

Some of the men looked on it with greed in their eyes, but Batu scorned such a beast. As large as it was, with such a burden of armor he was certain it would be slow, at least in the thrust and parry of battle.

“This is what we will face as we move west,” Tsubodai said. “Men like this in cages of iron are the most feared force on a battlefield. According to the Christian monks in Karakorum, they are unstoppable in the charge, a weight of metal and leather that can crush anything we have.”

The senior men shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether to believe such a wild claim. They watched in fascination as Tsubodai brought his pony close to the larger animal. He looked small next to the man and horse, but he used his reins lightly to take his pony around in a tight circle.

“Raise your hand when you can see me, Tangut,” he said.

It was not long before they understood. The line of sight Tsubodai had revealed was just a small strip to the front.

“Even with the visor raised, he can see nothing at the side or behind, and that iron will be hard to turn quickly.” Tsubodai reached out and clanged his fist against the warrior’s breastplate. It rang like a bell.

“His chest is well protected. Under this is a layer of iron links, like metal cloth. It serves a similar purpose to our silk tunics, but is made to withstand axes and knives more than arrows.”

Tsubodai gestured to a boy holding a long lance, and the boy ran to the armored warrior and handed it up to him, tapping his leg for attention.

“This is how they are used,” Tsubodai said. “Like our own heavy horse, they ride head-on against an enemy. In a charge, they have no flaw or hole in their armor.”

He nodded to Tangut and they all watched as the warrior trotted away, his ungainly metal carapace jingling with every step.

At two hundred paces, the man turned his heavy mount, which reared and flattened its ears. He dug in his heels and the animal lunged forward, the thick legs thumping the ground. Batu saw how dropping the horse’s head brought the armor of chest and skull together, forming an impenetrable shell. The lance lowered, the point cutting the air in circles as it centered on Tsubodai’s chest.

Batu found he was holding his breath, and he let it go, annoyed with himself for falling under Tsubodai’s spell. He watched coldly as the warrior hit full gallop, his lance a deadly weapon. The hooves thundered and Batu had a sudden vision of a line of such men sweeping across a battlefield. He swallowed at the thought.

Tsubodai moved quickly, darting to one side with his pony. They saw the armored warrior try to correct, but he could not turn at full speed and swept past.

Tsubodai raised and drew his bow in a fluid motion, aiming casually. The front of the horse was as well armored as its rider. There was even a crest of armor running along the line of the mane, but below that the great neck was open and bare.

Tsubodai’s arrow punched into the flesh and the horse screamed, spattering bright blood from its nostrils.

“From the sides, to a good bowman, they are unprotected,” Tsubodai shouted over the noise. He spoke without pride: Any one of the men watching could have made the shot. They smiled at the thought of such powerful enemies brought down by speed and arrows.

They could all hear the tortured snorting of the horse as it wrenched its head back and forth in pain. Slowly it sank to its knees and the warrior stepped clear. He dropped his lance and drew a long sword, advancing on Tsubodai.

“To defeat such armored men, we must first kill the horses,” Tsubodai went on. “Their armor is designed to deflect arrows shot from the front. Everything is made for the charge, but on foot, they are like turtles, slow and ponderous.”

To make his point, he selected a thick arrow with a long steel tip. It was a wicked-looking thing, smooth and polished, with no barbs to slow its speed.

The approaching warrior saw the action and hesitated. He did not know how far Tsubodai was willing to go to make his point, but the general would be equally ruthless with a man whose nerve failed. The moment of indecision passed and the warrior clumped forward, straining to pump his heavy legs and arms quickly so that he could bring his sword to bear.

From the saddle, Tsubodai guided his mount with his knees, sending the pony dancing back out of sword range. He drew again, feeling the immense power of the bow as he pulled the three-foot shaft right back to his ear. With the warrior just a few paces away, Tsubodai loosed and watched closely as the shaft passed straight through the side plates.

The warrior went down hard with a crash of metal. The arrow was lodged in his armor, the feathers showing clearly as he toppled. Tsubodai grinned.

“They have just one strength—in a line, facing forward. If we allow them to use that strength, they will sweep us away like wheat to a scythe. If we scatter and ambush them, stage false retreats and flank them, they will be as children to us.”

Batu watched as Tsubodai’s serving men carried the dying warrior away between them, sweating and struggling under the massive burden. At a distance, they stripped the armor, revealing a mailed body spitted through by the shaft. They had to break the arrow to get the plate free and bring it back to Tsubodai.

“According to those boastful Christians who wished to frighten us, these knights have had no equal on the battlefield for a hundred years.” He held up the metal plate and everyone there could see the sunlight gleam through the neat hole. “We cannot leave a major force or city behind us or on our flanks, but if this is the best they have, we will surprise them, I think.”

They raised their own bows and swords then, cheering Tsubodai’s name. Batu joined them, careful not to be the only one who remained outside the group. He saw Tsubodai’s gaze flicker over him. A look of satisfaction crossed the general’s face at seeing Batu shout with the others. Batu smiled at the thought of holding Tsubodai’s head up in just such a way. It was only a fantasy. The army was strong, but he knew they needed Tsubodai to lead them west against the great armies of horsemen and farther to these men of iron. For Batu, men like Tsubodai were old and approaching the end of their time. His chance would come naturally; he did not need to force its progress.

Chagatai had built a summer palace on the banks of the Amu Darya river, the western edge of his empire that led as far south as Kabul. For the site, he had chosen a high ridge over the river where there was always a cool breeze, even in the hottest months. The sun of his khanate had baked him lean and dark, as if all the moisture had been boiled out, leaving him as hard as ancient birch. He ruled the cities of Bukhara, Samarkand, and Kabul, with all their wealth. The citizens there had learned to deal with the summer heat, sipping cool drinks and sleeping through the afternoon before rising again. Chagatai had chosen almost a hundred new wives from those cities alone, and many of them had already given birth to sons and daughters. He had taken Ogedai’s order to breed a new army literally, and he enjoyed the sound of the squalling children in the infant rooms of his seraglio. He had even learned the new word for his collection of beautiful women, as there was nothing like it in his own tongue.

Yet there were times when he missed the frozen plains of his homeland. Winter was a passing thing in his new lands, always with the promise of a return to green life. Though their nights could be bitter, the people of his new khanate had no concept of the endless, crushing cold that had shaped the Mongol people, the desolate high plains that had to be fought for every meal, with life and sudden death as the stakes. His heartland had groves of figs and fruit, rolling hills and rivers that flooded every few years and had not run dry in living memory.

His summer palace had been built to the same specifications and measurements as Ogedai’s in Karakorum—then carefully reduced in all dimensions. Chagatai was nowhere near the fool some believed him to be. No great khan would enjoy hearing of a building to rival his own, and Chagatai was careful to remain a support rather than become any kind of threat.

He heard his servant approaching along the marble corridor that led to the audience room over the river. Suntai’s sole concession to the climate was wearing open sandals with iron studs that clacked and echoed long before he could be seen. Chagatai stood on the balcony, enjoying the sight of the ducks sweeping in to settle in the reed beds along the banks. Above them, a lone white-tailed eagle hung in perfect stillness, silent and deadly.

As Suntai entered, Chagatai turned and gestured to a bottle of arrack on the table. Both men had developed a taste for the aniseed drink so popular among the Persian citizens. Chagatai turned back to the river as Suntai clinked the cups together and poured, adding a dash of water so that it whitened like mare’s milk.

Chagatai accepted the cup without taking his eyes off the eagle over the river. He squinted against the setting sun as it stooped, dropping suddenly to the waters and rising again with a squirming fish in its claws. The ducks rose in mindless panic and Chagatai smiled. When the air cooled in the evenings, he found he had grown affectionate toward his new home. It was a fitting land for those who would come after him. Ogedai had been generous.

“You have heard the news,” Chagatai said. It was a statement rather than a question. Any message that reached his summer palace would have passed through Suntai’s hands at some point.

Suntai nodded, content to wait to hear his master’s mind. To those who did not know him, he looked like any other warrior, though one who had marked his cheeks and chin with heavy lines of knife scars as some did, removing the need to shave on campaign. Suntai was always grubby and his hair was thick with ancient, rancid oil. He scorned the Persian habit of bathing, and he suffered worse than most with boils and spreading rashes. With his dark eyes and lean frame, he looked like a rough killer. In fact, the mind behind the carefully created image was sharper than the knives he carried hidden against his skin.

“I did not expect to lose another brother so soon,” Chagatai said softly. He emptied the cup down his throat and belched. “Two are gone. Just two of us remain.”

“Master, we should not stand at a window to discuss such things. There are always ears to hear.”

Chagatai shrugged and gestured with his empty cup. Suntai walked with him, deftly snatching up the jug of arrack as he passed the table. They sat facing each other at an ornate table of gold-inlaid black wood, once the property of a Persian king. It was not symbolism that placed it at the very center of the room. Suntai knew they could not be overheard by the keenest listener with his ears pressed to the outer walls. He suspected Ogedai would have spies in the new summer palace, just as Suntai had placed them with Tsubodai and Ogedai, Khasar and Kachiun, all the senior men he could reach. Loyalty was a difficult game, but he loved it.

“I have reports of the fit suffered by the khan,” Suntai said. “I cannot say how close he was to death without interviewing the shaman who tended him. He is not one of mine, unfortunately.”

“Nevertheless, I must be ready to move at the first messenger to come galloping in.” Despite the placement of the table, Chagatai was unable to resist glancing around to be sure no one could hear him, and he leaned forward, his voice very low.

“It took forty-nine days for me to hear this, Suntai. It is not good enough. If I am to take the great khanate as my own, I must have better news and faster. The next time Ogedai falls, I want to be there before he is cold, do you understand?”

Suntai touched his forehead, mouth, and heart with his fingertips in the Arab gesture of respect and obedience.

“Your will commands me, my lord. One of my closest servants was gored in a boar hunt. It has taken time to replace him in the great khan’s retinue. However, I have two others ready for promotion to his personal staff. In just a few months, they will be part of his innermost councils.”

“Make it so, Suntai. There will be only one chance to take the reins. I do not want his weakling son gathering the tribes before I can act. Serve me well in this and you will rise with me. The nation of my father is too strong for a man who cannot command even his own body.”

Suntai smiled tightly, rubbing the ugly ridged skin of his cheeks. The instinct of years prevented him from agreeing with the treason, or even to nod his head. He had spent too long with spies and informants, and he never spoke without carefully weighing the words. Chagatai was used to his silences and merely refilled the cups, adding the splash of water that took the edge off the bitterness.

“Let us drink to my brother Tolui,” Chagatai said.

Suntai looked closely at him, but there was real grief in his eyes. The khan’s spymaster raised his cup and dipped his gaze.

“He would have made my father proud with such a sacrifice,” Chagatai went on. “It was insane, but by the sky father, it was a glorious insanity.”

Suntai drank, aware that his lord had been drinking most of the day already. It showed in his bloodshot eyes and clumsy movements. In comparison, Suntai only sipped from his cup. He almost choked when Chagatai slapped him on the shoulder and laughed, spilling the white liquid across the lacquer.

“Family is everything, Suntai, never think that I forget that …” He trailed off, staring into memories for a time. “But I was my father’s choice to succeed him. There was a time when my destiny was written in stone and carved deep. Now, I must make it for myself, but it is nothing more than fulfilling the old man’s dreams.”

“I understand, my lord,” Suntai said, refilling Chagatai’s cup. “It is a worthy aim.”

SIXTEEN

The rain could not last, Tsubodai was almost certain. The sheer force of it was astonishing, drumming across his tumans. The sky was a wall of black cloud, and lightning flashed at irregular intervals, revealing the battlefield in stark images. Tsubodai would never have fought on such a day if the enemy had not moved into position in the darkness. It was a bold move, even for mounted horsemen armed much as his own warriors.

The Volga River was behind them. It had taken another year to secure the lands beyond the river, the second since leaving Karakorum. He had chosen to be thorough, to sting the great men, attacking their walled towns and cities on a wide front until they were forced to unite against him. In that way, his tumans could destroy them all, rather than spend many years hunting down each duke and minor noble, whatever they called themselves. For months, Tsubodai had seen strangers watching his columns from hilltops, but they vanished when challenged, disappearing back into the damp forests. It seemed their masters knew no loyalty to one another, and for a time he had been forced to pick them off one by one. It was not enough. To cover the sort of ground he intended, he dared not leave a major army or city untouched. It was a complex web of terrain and information, and it grew harder to manage with each passing month. His spearhead was widening farther and farther, his resources stretched. He needed more men.

His scouts had ridden out as usual in a constant relay. A few days before, without warning, some had not come back. As soon as the first ones were missed, Tsubodai prepared for attack, almost two full days before an enemy was in sight.

Still in darkness, with a cold drizzle soaking them all to the skin, horn warnings sounded, relayed from man to man. The Mongol columns had come together from miles apart, forming a single mass of horses and warriors. There was no separate camp for those who could not fight. From children to old women on carts, Tsubodai preferred them to move in the safety of the main army. His light cavalry took positions on the outskirts, each man covering his bow and dreading the moment when he would have to shoot arrows in the rain. They all carried spare bowstrings, but rain ruined them quickly, stretching the skin strips and robbing the shafts of force.

The ground was already soft as the gray morning lightened almost imperceptibly. It would bog down the carts. Tsubodai began to arrange a corral for them behind the battlefield. All the time, he continued to gather information. Many of his scouts had been ridden down, but others struggled through to bring him news. Some of them were wounded and one had an arrow lodged in his back, near the shoulder blades. Before Tsubodai could even see the horizon, he had estimates of the enemy numbers. They were moving quickly toward him, risking life and mounts to surprise the Mongol columns, to catch them out of formation.

He smiled at the thought. He was no wild tribesman, to be surprised at dawn. His men could not be routed with a sudden charge. The Russian noblemen were reacting like ants to repulse an invader, without a pause for thought.

The tumans moved smoothly in formation, each jagun of a hundred following the next in the darkness, calling back and forth to keep position. The five generals spoke to Tsubodai in turn, and he gave them their orders without hesitation. They split apart at a gallop to pass them down the line of command.

It was Tsubodai’s practice to interrogate prisoners, if gold would not buy what he needed. Moscow lay ahead, a center of power in the region. The prisoners had known its location on the Moskva River. Now Tsubodai knew as well. The Russians had a record of arrogance, considering themselves masters of the central plains. Tsubodai smiled again to himself.

The downpour had begun after the enemy horsemen had begun the attack, but they had not called it off. The soft ground would hamper them as much as his own warriors. His tumans were outnumbered, but they always were. The auxiliary forces Batu had poured scorn on were good enough to hold the flanks and prevent encirclement. Tsubodai had his best men among them, training them constantly and setting up chains of command. They were already more than just a rabble of peasants, and he would not throw them away without good reason. To his experienced eye, their formations of foot soldiers were ragged compared with the discipline of his tumans, but they were still many, standing in the mud with axes, swords, and shields.

Tsubodai had given his orders and the rest was up to the individuals who led. His men knew the plans could change in an instant if some new factor showed itself. The ripple of orders would run again and the formations would change faster than an enemy could possibly react.

The light did not brighten under the cloud. The rain became suddenly heavier, though the thunder fell silent for a time. By then Tsubodai could make out horsemen moving across the hills like a stain. He rode alongside his own tumans, checking every detail as messengers raced across the field. If it had not been for the rain, he would have split his force and sent Batu to one side to flank or encircle the enemy. As it was, he had chosen to appear slow and clumsy, a single mass of warriors riding blindly at the enemy. It was what the Russians would expect from armored knights.

Tsubodai looked across to where Batu rode with his tuman. The younger man’s position was marked in the third rank by a host of banners, though Tsubodai knew he was not there. That too was an innovation. Armies concentrated their arrows on officers and kings. Tsubodai’s orders had been to reveal those spots with flags, but have the generals in the ranks to one side. The bannermen carried heavy shields and their morale was high at the thought of fooling an enemy in such a way.

A clot of cold mud flung from a hoof touched Tsubodai’s cheek, and he wiped it away. The Russians were no more than a mile off, and his mind clicked through calculations as the armies closed. What else could he have done? He grimaced at the thought. Much of the plan depended on Batu following his orders, but if the young general failed or disobeyed, Tsubodai was ready. He would not give Batu another chance, no matter who his father and grandfather had been.

The rain died away without warning, the morning suddenly filled with the sounds of horses and men, orders suddenly clear where they had been muffled. The Russian prince had widened the line when he saw their numbers, preparing to encircle. One of the Russian flanks was struggling to keep up with the rest over boggy ground, their horses plunging and rising. It was a weakness and Tsubodai sent scouts to his generals to make sure they had noted it.

Eight hundred paces and he kept the columns together. It was too far for arrows, and cannon would have been left behind on such a slog over soft ground. Tsubodai saw that the Russian warriors carried spears and bows. He could not see the huge horses ridden by knights in iron. This Russian noble seemed to favor light armor, speed over power, much as Tsubodai did himself. If the enemy truly understood those qualities, Tsubodai knew they would be hard to pin down, but they showed no sign of such an understanding. They had seen his smaller force, lumbering along in a single block. Whoever led them had chosen a simple hammerhead formation to crush mere tribesmen and sheepherders.

At four hundred paces, the first shafts were sent high, shot by young fools on both sides who should have known better. None reached his men from the Russian side, and most of his own warriors guarded their bowstrings, keeping them covered until the last moment. Men who had fashioned a bow themselves would not risk its being destroyed by a snapping string. The weapons were precious, sometimes the only thing of value they owned apart from a pony and saddle.

Tsubodai saw the Russian prince who led the force. Like Batu in his false position, he was surrounded by flags and guards, but there was no mistaking the enormous horse at the center of the army, its rider sitting in armor that shone like silver in the rain. The man’s head was bare, and at two hundred paces, his eyes still sharp over distance, Tsubodai could see a blond beard. He sent another rider to Batu to be sure he had marked his man, but it was unnecessary. As soon as the messenger had hared away, Tsubodai saw Batu point and exchange commands with his minghaans.

Thunder grumbled again above their heads and for an instant Tsubodai saw thousands of lighter faces among the enemy as men looked up. Many were bearded, he realized. Compared to the Mongol faces, where little hair grew, they were like great lumbering bears. Arrows followed as his light cavalry released thousands of shafts, sending them high. For the first shots, every tenth man used a whistling head, carved and fluted to scream in the air. They did less damage than the steel-head shafts, but the sound was unearthly and terrifying. In the past, armies had broken and run from that first volley. Tsubodai grinned to hear the naccara drums hammer out their own thunder, answering the storm as it dwindled to the east.

The arrows curved upward and dropped hard. Tsubodai noted the way the Russians protected the blond leader with shields, ignoring their own safety. Some of the man’s guards fell, but then the steady approach seemed to go faster and the distance between them dwindled rapidly. The Mongol light horsemen released another storm of arrows before falling back at the last moment and letting Batu’s lancers through. It was his moment of madness, exactly as Tsubodai had ordered. The grandson of Genghis would challenge the blond leader personally. A knight of iron would expect just such a challenge.

The naccara drums roared, the strikes blurring as the camel boys hit the great kettles at their sides. As Batu’s minghaans cantered into a spear formation, lunging ahead of the tumans, the warriors screamed, an ululating bellow to send men white.

Arrows rained down from the Russian horsemen. They fell most heavily on the bannermen in the third rank of the main formation, surrounded by the snapping flags. They raised their shields above their heads and endured. Ahead of them, Batu took three thousand in a charge for the very center of the Russian force.

Tsubodai watched coldly, satisfied that the younger man’s nerve was up to the task. The spearhead was to serve one purpose. Tsubodai watched as they punched a hole with arrows in the Russian lines, then rode lances at it, crashing deeper in. The blond leader was pointing at them, shouting to his men as Batu’s minghaans threw down broken lances and drew lightly curved swords of good steel. Horses and men went down, but they pushed on. Before he was lost to sight in the mass, Tsubodai saw Batu at the bloody tip of the spear, pushing his mount on and on.

Batu seethed as he chopped down on a roaring face, dragging his blade across a man’s mouth so that his jaw hung slack. His sword arm ached, but his blood was on fire and he felt as if he could fight all day. He knew Tsubodai would be watching: the ruthless tactician, the Orlok Bahadur who threw warriors away as if they were nothing to him. Well, let the old man see how it was done.

Batu’s strike minghaans crashed on into the Russians, aiming at the prince and his long flags. There were moments when Batu could see the blond warrior in his shining armor. He knew they were coming for him, risking it all on a single blow to his throat. It was the sort of attack a Russian army might have made.

Batu knew the true plan. Tsubodai had given him that much before sending him out. He was to hit hard until his men began to be overwhelmed. Only then could he fight his way out again. He smiled bitterly to himself. It would not be hard to feign panic at that point. The false retreat would collapse the Mongol center, quickly turning into a rout as the tumans withdrew. The enemy horsemen would be drawn through the wings of foot soldiers, farther and farther, stretched thin over the ground. Then the jaws would close. If any of them made it through the trap, Kachiun’s reserve would hit from both sides, hidden two miles back in heavy forest. It was a good plan, if the auxiliaries could hold the flanks, if Batu survived it. As he backhanded his sword across a horse’s cheek, tearing a great flap, he recalled the challenge in the general’s eyes as he had given him the order. Batu had shown him none of the roiling fury that filled him. Of course Tsubodai had chosen him. Who else had been a thorn in his side for so many months? His minghaan officers had exchanged resigned glances when they heard, but they had still volunteered. Not one of them had stood back rather than ride with the grandson of Genghis.

Fresh fury filled Batu at the thought of their wasted loyalty. How far had he come? Two hundred paces, three, more, into the enemy? They milled around him, their blades flickering, their shields taking his blows. Arrows whipped past his face. They wore leather armor and his blade was sharp enough to pierce it with a thrust, or even gash it as he went past, leaving them gasping over bloody ribs. He had no idea how long he had been pressing forward in the mass of horses, farther and farther away from safety and the tumans. All he knew was that he had to choose the moment well. Too soon and the Russians would sense a trap and simply close ranks behind him. Too late and there would not be enough battered warriors left to stage the false retreat. His men had chosen to follow into the mouth of the beast. Not because of Tsubodai, but because of him.

He felt his charge slowing as the Mongol warriors were hemmed in. Every step brought more Russian warriors against their flanks, stretching their force thinner and thinner, like a needle into flesh that gripped it tight. Batu felt fear rise in his throat like acid. He grabbed a shield of leather and wood and yanked it toward him with his left hand, stabbing down over the edge into the man behind it. He thrust the blade with all his fury and then punched with the hilt, so that the enemy fell away, his face a mass of blood.

Three warriors stayed in line with him as he forced his mount another four steps forward, killing a man to make space. Without warning, one of his companions was gone, taken by an arrow in the throat and falling backwards out of the saddle so that the horse snorted and lashed out with its hooves, its own panic growing. It was time. It was surely time. Batu looked around him. Had he done enough? The agony of the choice ate at him. He could not come back too early and face Tsubodai’s stern expression. Better to die than have that man consider he had lost his nerve.

It had always been hard to look in the eyes of a man who had known Genghis. How could he ever match up to those memories? The grandfather who had conquered a nation, who had never known Batu at all. The father who had betrayed the nation and been killed like a dog in the snow. It was time.

Batu took a sword blow on his armored sleeve, letting it slide uselessly past him as he gashed the arm that held it. More blood coated him and there was screaming everywhere. The Russians he faced were pale with rage or fear, holding heavy shields that bristled with Mongol arrows. Batu turned to begin the retreat and, for a single moment, he saw through the ranks of enemies to where the blond leader sat calmly watching him, a huge sword ready across his saddle horn.

Tsubodai had never expected the spearhead to get so close. Batu saw that his men were ready to cut their way back. Though he bore no marks of rank that would have made him the target for every Russian archer, his warriors watched him, risking their lives to glance his way. Most of the Russians were still facing the front, where the tumans were clashing with them. They would howl and chase as the Mongols turned to run, but Batu thought his men would win through, beginning the rout. He was so close. Who would have thought his spearhead thrust could reach the Russian prince?

Batu took a deep breath. “No retreat!” he roared, warning his men.

He dug in his heels and his pony kicked out with its front hooves, knocking a shield from its owner’s broken fingers. Batu lunged for the gap, swinging his blade wildly. Something hit him from the side and he felt a wave of pain that vanished before he knew whether it was serious. He saw the blond leader raise his sword and shield, and the enormous horse snorted. The Russian prince had decided not to wait, his blood lighting up at the challenge. His own shield bearers were knocked to one side as the warhorse started forward.

Batu yelled in excitement, a babble of insult and fury. He had not known if he could break through the final solid ranks, but there was the prince himself coming to cut down the impudent horseman. Batu saw the man’s sword rise up behind his shoulder. The two horses were head-on, but Batu’s mount was weary and battered, bruised by constant impact and the thousand scrapes and cuts that came from running through a fighting line.

Batu brought his own sword high, trying to remember Tsubodai’s words on the weaknesses of knights. The blond-bearded man seemed like a giant as he came closer, wrapped in steel and unstoppable. Yet he wore no helmet and Batu was young and fast. As the Russian blade swept down with enough force to cut him in half, Batu nudged his pony to the right, away from the sweeping sword. His own blade licked out in a thrust, holding it just long enough to caress the man’s throat under the beard.

Batu swore as his weapon scraped across metal. A piece of the beard had been cut loose, but the man himself was untouched, though he roared in shock. The horses were passing in the press, unable to ride free, but both men were side-on to each other, their weaker left sides exposed. The prince’s sword came back up, but he was slow and heavy. Before he could land a blow, Batu had struck three times into his face, chopping at the cheeks and teeth, cutting away part of the jaw. The Russian prince lurched as Batu hammered at his armor, denting the plate metal that protected his chest.

The prince’s face was a bloody ruin, his teeth broken and his jaw hanging loose. He would surely die from such a terrible wound, but his eyes cleared and he swung his left arm like a mace. Clad in iron, it struck Batu across the chest. He was guiding his pony with pressure from his knees, and he had no reins. The high wooden saddle horn saved him, and he twisted at an impossible angle. His sword had gone and he could not remember it leaving his hand. Spitting anger, he pulled a blade from a sheath on his calf and jammed it into the red mess of the prince’s jaw, sawing back and forth at the blond beard that was thick and shining red.

The prince fell and a wail of horror went up from his shield bearers and retainers. Batu raised both hands in victory, roaring long and loud at being alive and victorious. He did not know what Tsubodai was doing, or what the orlok would think. It had been Batu’s decision and the prince had faced him. He had defeated a strong and powerful enemy, and, for a time, he did not care if the Russians killed him. It was Batu’s moment and he relished it.

At first he did not see the ripple that spread across the Russians as the word spread. For half the army, it had happened behind them, and the news of the death of the prince had to be shouted from unit to unit. Before Batu lowered his arms, some of the farthest nobles had turned their mounts and begun to withdraw, taking thousands of fresh horsemen with them. Those who tried to continue the fight saw them go and shouted angrily across the battlefield, blowing horns. The prince was dead and his armies shook with the suddenness of the omen. This was not to be their day, their victory. They went from determined fighters to frightened men as they heard, backing away from Tsubodai’s tumans while they waited to be rallied, to have someone else take command.

It did not happen. Tsubodai sent minghaans racing along the flanks, the wiry ponies spattering clots of earth like rain as they went. Arrows poured into the Russian ranks once again, and Tsubodai’s heavy horse peeled off from the front and then came back in spear points like the one Batu had led into the heart of their army. Three separate strikes tore at the milling ranks. Even so, the defenders were halfhearted. They had seen their senior noblemen leaving and regiments and units beginning to withdraw. It was too much to ask that they stay to be slaughtered. Someone else could take the brunt of the Mongol warriors, now that their blood was up. More and more Russians marched clear, looking back at the shrinking heart where their companions still rode and died. It was enough. The prince was dead and they had done enough.

•   •   •

Tsubodai watched calmly as the Russian army fell apart. He wondered how his own tumans would fare if he was seen to fall, but he knew the answer. They would go on. They would endure. In the tumans, the warriors hardly ever saw the orlok or even their own generals. They knew the leader of their ten, a man they had elected among themselves. They knew the officer of the hundred, perhaps even the minghaan officer by sight. Those were the ones who spoke with authority, not some distant commander. Tsubodai knew that if he fell, the nation would complete his task and promote another to lead in his stead. It was a cold business, but the alternative was to witness the destruction of an army from the death of one man.

Tsubodai sent messengers to his generals, congratulating them as they took new orders. He wondered if the Russians who had left the field expected him to let them go. He could not always understand the foreign soldiers he encountered, though he learned everything he could. He knew that some of them might expect to return to their homes, but that was foolish. Why leave alive men who could one day face you again? That was war as a game, and Tsubodai knew it would be a long hunt, weeks or even months, before his men had killed the last of them. He did not need to teach them their foolishness, only to destroy them and move on. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary. He would have to face Batu, if the young man still lived. He had disobeyed his orders. Tsubodai wondered if he could have a general whipped after handing him such a victory.

Tsubodai looked around as men cheered nearby. His lips thinned in irritation as he saw Batu was at the center of it. Half the Russian army was still in the field, and his minghaans were passing around wineskins and whooping like children.

Tsubodai turned his horse and trotted slowly toward the scene. Silence fell among those he passed as they realized the orlok was among them. His bannermen unfurled long strips of silk that fluttered and snapped in the breeze.

Batu sensed or heard the approach. He had already begun to feel the battering he had taken. One eye and cheek were swelling, making his face look lopsided. He was filthy with blood, sweat, and the strong smell of wet horses. Scales from his armor hung loose and he had a line of crusted red marking the skin from one ear down into his tunic. Yet he was jubilant and the sour face of Tsubodai could not spoil his mood.

“General, you are throwing away a morning,” Tsubodai said.

The men around Batu choked off their cheering. As it died away, Tsubodai continued coldly.

“Pursue the enemy, General. Let not one of them escape. Locate their baggage and camp and secure it from looting.”

Batu looked at him, suddenly quiet.

“Well, General?” Tsubodai went on. “Will you face them again tomorrow, when you have thrown away this advantage? Will you allow them to reach the safety of Moscow or Kiev? Or will you hunt the Russians down now, with the other tumans under my command?”

The warriors around Batu turned away with sudden jerkiness, like boys caught stealing. They would not look at Tsubodai and only Batu held his gaze. Tsubodai expected some sort of retort, but he had misjudged his man.

Another group of riders came cantering across the lines. The slaughter of the enemy was beginning, with lancers and archers picking them off almost as sport. Tsubodai saw that the group was led by the khan’s son, Guyuk, his face fixed on Batu as he approached. He did not seem to see Tsubodai.

“Batu Bahadur!” Guyuk called, bringing his horse alongside. “That was very fine, cousin. I saw it all. By the sky father, I thought you would never make it back, but when you reached the nobleman …” Lost for words, he clapped Batu on the back, patting him in admiration. “I will put it in the reports to my father. What a moment it was!”

Batu glanced at Tsubodai to see how he was taking such generous praise. Guyuk noticed and turned.

“My congratulations on such a victory, Tsubodai,” Guyuk said. He was bluff and cheerful, apparently unaware of the strained moment he had interrupted. “What a stroke! Did you see any of it? I thought I would choke when I saw the prince come forward to take him on.”

Tsubodai inclined his head in acknowledgment. “Even so, the Russians must not be allowed to regroup. It is time to pursue, to hunt them all the way to Moscow. Your tuman will ride out as well, General.”

Guyuk shrugged. “A hunt, then. It has been a good day.”

Oblivious, he thumped Batu on the shoulder again and rode clear with his men, bawling orders to another group to come with him. The quiet swelled as he moved away, and Batu grinned as he waited. Tsubodai said nothing, and Batu nodded to himself, turning his horse and joining his minghaan officers. He left Tsubodai staring after him.

SEVENTEEN

Sorhatani swept around the corner in full array, sons and servants marching with her. She was a member of the khan’s own family by marriage! She had thought he might never return from Chin lands. For the longest time, they seemed to have swallowed his army, with no word of their return. Yet when he came home at last, there was no summons, nothing from him at all. She would not accept any other delays from petty, pompous officials. Her messengers and servants had been baulked and sent back without even an excuse. Finally she had come to Karakorum herself.

Instead of simply being allowed to see the khan, to talk of the grief and loss they shared, she had been stopped by a Chin official with jowls and soft hands. What was Ogedai thinking in using such perfumed courtiers in his own palace? What sort of message of strength would that send to those less benign than Sorhatani?

The courtier had stopped her once, but today all four of her sons were with her. She would see Ogedai today! No matter his sorrow, she could share it. The khan had lost a brother, but she had lost her husband, the father to her sons. If there had ever been a time when Ogedai could be persuaded of anything, it was now. The idea was intoxicating. A man with as much power as Genghis lay in his rooms like a broken reed. The palace was full of rumors that he hardly even spoke or ate. Whoever reached him could surely have whatever they wanted, yet he had given orders to keep visitors away. Well, she would tell him how the insult had hurt her and begin the negotiations with that. One last corner lay ahead in the labyrinth of the palace corridors. She passed under painted murals without looking up, her concentration focused on more important things.

The final corridor was a long one, and in the stone halls the footsteps of her group echoed back. Though she saw there were men and Guards in front of the polished copper door, Sorhatani stormed on, forcing her sons to keep up. Let the fat little courtier sweat when he heard her coming. The khan was her brother-in-law, ill and weak in sadness. How dare a Chin eunuch bar her entry to her own family?

As she approached, she looked in vain for the bright-colored silks the man preferred. She almost missed a step as she saw Yao Shu was there in his place. There was no sign of the man with whom she had argued that very morning. Yao Shu had turned to face her, his attitude clear from his stance. Sorhatani revised her plan as she went, shedding anger like a snakeskin with every step.

By the time she reached the shining metal door, she was walking at a normal pace and smiled as sweetly as she knew how at the khan’s chancellor. Still, she seethed to have another Chin stop her at the door, especially one with such authority. Yao Shu could not be browbeaten into submission, nor threatened. She did not have to look at her younger sons to know they were cowed by the man who had tutored them. At one time or other, Yao Shu had thrashed all four of the boys for some transgression. He had beaten Kublai like a rug when the boy put a scorpion in the chancellor’s boot.

Now he faced her, his face as forbidding as the Guards at his sides.

“The khan is not receiving visitors today, Sorhatani. I am sorry you came across the city. I did send a runner at dawn to warn you not to come.”

Sorhatani hid her irritation behind a smile. Giving her a house well away from the palace was another sign of voices other than Ogedai’s at work. The khan would have given her rooms in the palace if he knew she had come, she was certain.

Sorhatani rose to the challenge in Yao Shu’s impassive face.

“What plot is this?” she hissed at him. “Have you murdered the khan, Yao Shu? How is it that only Chin men seem to roam the corridors of Karakorum these days?”

As Yao Shu took a breath in shock, she spoke to her sons without looking away from the chancellor.

“Ready your swords, Mongke, Kublai. I do not trust this man any longer. He claims the khan will not see the wife of his beloved brother.”

She heard the jingle of metal behind her, but more important, she saw the sudden doubt come into the faces of the Mongol Guards on either side of Yao Shu.

“The khan has an army of servants, scribes, concubines, and wives,” she said. “Yet where is his wife Torogene? Why is she not here to tend him in his illness? How is it that I can find no one who can say they have seen him alive for days, even weeks?”

It thrilled her to see Yao Shu’s unnatural control crack at the accusations. He was immediately flustered, off balance as her words struck.

“The khan has been very ill, as you say,” he replied. “He has asked for quiet in his palace. I am his chancellor, Sorhatani. It is not up to me to say where his family has gone, or to discuss it in a corridor.”

She saw that he was truly struggling with difficult orders and she pressed on, sensing the weak point of the man’s essential kindness.

“You say the family have gone, Yao Shu? Guyuk is with Tsubodai. I do not know Ogedai’s daughters, or the children of other wives. Torogene is not here then?”

His eyes flickered at the simple question.

“I see,” she went on. “The summer palace perhaps, on the Orkhon River. Yes, that is where I would have sent her if I intended to steal power in this city, Yao Shu. If I intended to murder the khan in his bed and replace him with who? His brother Chagatai? He would be here in an instant. Is that your plan? What lies beyond this door, Yao Shu? What have you done?”

Her voice had risen, louder and higher. Yao Shu winced at the strident tone, but he was at a loss. He could not have the Guards take her away by force, not with her sons ready to defend their mother. The first one to lay a hand on Sorhatani would lose it, that much was obvious. Mongke in particular was no longer the sullen boy he had known. Yao Shu deliberately kept his eyes on Sorhatani, but he could feel Mongke staring coldly at him, daring him to meet his gaze.

“I must follow the orders I have been given, Sorhatani,” Yao Shu tried again. “No one is to pass through this door. No one is to be granted an audience with the khan. He does not have to answer to you, and neither do I. Now please, spend the day in the city, rest and eat. Perhaps he will see you tomorrow.”

Sorhatani tensed as if to attack him. Yet Yao Shu had not been made weak with his duties. Her sons had told her how he snatched an arrow from the bowstring in the palace gardens. It seemed an age ago, when her husband was still alive. She felt tears start in her eyes and blinked them away. This was a time for anger, not sorrow. She knew if she let herself start weeping, she would not pass the door that day.

She took a deep breath. “Murder!” she shouted. “The khan is in danger! Come quickly!”

“There is no danger!” Yao Shu shouted over her. The woman was insane! What did she hope to gain, yelling like a scalded cat in his corridors? He heard running footsteps coming closer and cursed her under his breath. The night before Ogedai had become khan was still a painful memory among the Guards. They reacted to any perceived threat with a massive show of force.

In just a few heartbeats, the corridor was blocked at both ends by sprinting warriors. They were led by minghaans in black and red lacquered armor, their swords already drawn. Yao Shu held up both hands with palms clearly open and empty.

“There has been a mistake …” he began.

“No mistake, Alkhun,” Sorhatani snapped, turning to the senior man.

Yao Shu groaned to himself. Of course she knew the officer’s name. Sorhatani had a prodigious memory for such things, but it was probably part of her plan to learn the names of the officers of the watch. The chancellor struggled for words that would rescue the situation.

“The lady is distraught,” he said.

The minghaan officer ignored him and spoke to Sorhatani directly. “What is the difficulty here?”

Sorhatani looked down, shaking her head. To Yao Shu’s irritation, there were tears showing in her eyes.

“This Chin official claims the khan cannot be seen by anyone. For days now, there has been no word. He speaks suspiciously, Alkhun; I do not trust his word.”

The soldier nodded, a man of quick thought and action, as would be expected for one of his rank. He turned to Yao Shu.

“You’ll have to stand aside, Chancellor. I need to check on the khan.”

“He gave orders,” Yao Shu started, but the officer merely shrugged.

“I will see him. Step aside, right now.”

The two men stood very still, glowering at each other as if they were the only ones in the corridor. Yao Shu had been put in an impossible position, and Sorhatani saw there could be a brief and bloody struggle in the corridor at any moment. She spoke to break the deadlock.

“You will accompany us, of course, Yao Shu,” she said.

His head snapped round toward her, but she had given him a way out and he took it.

“Very well,” he said, his expression tight with anger. He turned to Alkhun. “Your concern does you credit, Minghaan. However, you are not to allow armed men such as these into the presence of the khan. All must be searched for weapons first.”

Sorhatani began to protest, but Yao Shu was adamant.

“I insist,” he said, reclaiming the balance of power.

“They will remain here,” Sorhatani said, rather than lose the moment. In truth, she did not mind that her sons were to remain outside, with their armor and blades. They had served their purpose by backing her at the door. She did not need them to hear everything after that.

With a grimace, Yao Shu lifted the small bar of brass that made the central lock. It was an ornate piece, carved and marked like a dragon curled around the center of the door. Yet another sign of the Chin influence on the khan, Sorhatani thought as the door opened. A rush of wind chilled them all as she followed Yao Shu and Alkhun inside.

There were no lamps lit, but dim light came from one open window. The shutters had been thrown back with such force that one of them lay askew, a hinge broken. Long silk curtains billowed into the room, rustling and snapping at the walls with each gust.

The room was incredibly cold and their breath showed instantly as white mist. The outer door closed behind them and Sorhatani shivered as her eyes fell on the figure on a couch in the center of the room. How could Ogedai withstand such a chill wearing only a thin silk tunic and leggings? His arms were bare and his feet looked bluish as he lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling.

He had not acknowledged them and Yao Shu had a moment of dread that they had found the khan’s body. Then he saw pale mist rise from the still figure, and he breathed again.

For a moment, none of them were sure how to proceed. The minghaan officer had seen that the khan still lived. His task was at an end, though his dignity forbade him from simply leaving, at least until he had apologized for invading the khan’s privacy. Yao Shu too was quiet, guilty that he had failed in his orders. Sorhatani had manipulated them all.

Of course she was the first to speak.

“My lord khan,” Sorhatani said. She pitched her voice to carry over the noise of the wind, but Ogedai did not react. “I have come to you in my grief, my lord.”

Still there was nothing and Yao Shu watched with interest as she firmed her jaw, visibly controlling irritation. The chancellor motioned for her to be taken away, and the officer raised a hand to take her arm.

Sorhatani shrugged off the touch. “My husband gave his life for you, my lord. How will you use his gift? Like this? Waiting for death in a frozen room?”

“That is enough,” Yao Shu said, horrified.

He took Sorhatani’s arm in a firm grip and turned her back toward the door. All three froze as they heard a creak behind them. The khan had risen from his couch. His hands shook slightly as they turned to face him, and his skin was a sickly yellow, his eyes bloodshot.

Under that cold gaze, the senior minghaan of the khan’s Guards knelt and dipped his head to the floor.

“Rise, Alkhun,” Ogedai said in a hoarse whisper. “Why are you here? Did I not say I was to be left alone?”

“My lord khan, I am sorry. I was led to understand you might be ill or dying.”

To his surprise, Ogedai smiled mirthlessly. “Or indeed both, Alkhun. Well, you have seen me. Now get out.”

The officer moved with great speed to leave the room. Ogedai stared at his chancellor. He did not yet look at Sorhatani, though he had risen at her voice.

“Leave me, Yao Shu,” Ogedai said.

His chancellor bowed deeply, then tightened his hold on Sorhatani’s arm as he began to guide her out.

“My lord khan!” she cried out.

“Enough!” Yao Shu snapped, yanking her. If he had released his grip, she would have fallen, but instead she swung around, helpless and furious.

“Take your hands away,” she hissed at him. “Ogedai! How can you see me attacked and do nothing? Did I not stand with you on the night of knives, in this very palace? My husband would have answered this insult. Where is he now? Ogedai!”

She was in the doorway when the khan replied.

“You are dismissed, Yao Shu. Let her approach.”

“My lord,” he began, “she—”

“Let her approach.”

Sorhatani shot a look of pure venom at the chancellor as she rubbed her arm and stood straight. Yao Shu bowed again and left the room without looking back, his face cold and emotionless. The door clanged softly behind him and she breathed slowly, hiding her delight. She was in. It had been close and even dangerous, but she had won through to the khan, alone.

Ogedai watched her come. He felt guilt, but he met her eyes. Before she could speak again, footsteps sounded, and a clinking of glass and metal. Sorhatani paused at the sight of the khan’s manservant Baras’aghur carrying a tray into the room.

“I have a visitor, Baras,” Ogedai murmured.

The servant stared at Sorhatani with open hostility.

“The khan is not well. You should come back another time.”

He spoke with the confidence of a trusted man, his service to the khan beyond dispute. Sorhatani smiled at him, wondering if he had taken on a more motherly role during the khan’s illness. He certainly seemed happy fussing around Ogedai.

When she did not move, Baras’aghur tightened his lips and set the tray down by his master with a gentle clinking. Then he faced her.

“The khan is not well enough for visitors,” he insisted, a little too loudly.

Sorhatani saw his growing indignation, so she spoke louder still. “Thank you for the tea, Baras’aghur. I will serve the khan in your place. You do remember your place?”

The servant spluttered for a moment, looking to Ogedai. When the khan said nothing, Baras’aghur bowed with icy dislike and left the room. Sorhatani added a sprinkling of brown salt to the steaming golden liquid, salt that was so precious for life. Finally she added milk from a tiny jug, its surface smooth in her hands. Her fingers were quick and sure.

“Serve me,” Ogedai said.

Gracefully she knelt before him and held out the cup, bowing her head.

“I am yours to command, my lord khan,” she said.

She shivered slightly at the touch of his hands as he took it from her. He was like ice in that room where the wind blew constantly. From under lowered eyelids, she could see his face was mottled and dark, as if there were bruises deep within. Up close, his feet were veined like marble. His eyes were pale yellow as they regarded her. He sipped the tea, the plume of steam whipped away in the breeze.

Sorhatani settled herself, kneeling at his feet and looking up into his face.

“Thank you for sending me my son,” she said. “It was a comfort to me to hear the worst from him.”

Ogedai looked away from her. He changed the cup from one hand to another as its heat burned his frozen flesh. He wondered if she knew how beautiful she was, kneeling with her back so straight and the wind snatching at her hair. It looked like a living thing and he watched in silence, mesmerized. Since his return to Karakorum, he had not spoken of Tolui’s death. He could feel Sorhatani edging toward the subject, and he shrank back physically on the low couch, cradling the cup as his only warmth. He could not explain the lassitude and weakness that beset his days. Months fled from him without his notice, and the challenges of the khanate went unanswered. He could not rouse himself from the dim dawns and sunsets. He waited for death and cursed its slowness in coming.

Sorhatani could hardly believe the changes in Ogedai. He had left Karakorum full of life, constantly drunk and laughing. Fresh from the triumph of becoming khan, he had gone with his elite tumans to secure the Chin borders, thriving on a difficult task in the field. Recalling those days was like looking back on youth. The man who had returned had aged visibly, deep wrinkles appearing on his forehead and around his eyes and mouth. The pale eyes no longer reminded her of Genghis. There was no spark there, no sense of danger in the quiet gaze. It would not do.

“My husband was in good health,” she said suddenly. “He would have lived for many years, seen his sons grow into fine men. Perhaps he would have had other children, taken more wives. In time, he would have been a grandfather. I like to think of the joy he would have taken in those years.”

Ogedai shrank back as if she had attacked him, but she went on without hesitating, her voice firm and clear so that he could hear every word.

“He had a sense of duty that is too rare today, my lord khan. He believed the nation came before his health, his life. He believed in something greater than himself, or my happiness, or even the lives of his sons. Your father’s vision, my lord, that a nation can spring from the tribes of the plains, that they can find a place of their own in the world. That they deserve such a place.”

“I … I have said that he—” Ogedai began.

Sorhatani interrupted him and, for an instant, anger showed in his eyes before it faded.

“He threw his future into the wind, but not just for you, my lord. He loved you, but it was not just for love. It was also for his father’s will and dreams; do you understand?”

“Of course I understand,” Ogedai said wearily.

Sorhatani nodded, but went on. “He gave you life, a second father to you. But not just for you. For those who come after you, in his father’s line, for the nation to come, the warriors who are children yet, the children who will be born.”

He gestured with his hand, trying to fend off her words. “I am tired now, Sorhatani. Perhaps it would be best—”

“And how did you use this most precious gift?” Sorhatani whispered. “You send your wife away, you leave your chancellor to roam an empty palace. Your Guards are left to make trouble in the city on their own, untended. Two of them were hanged yesterday—did you know that? They murdered a butcher for a haunch of beef. Where is the breath of the khan on their necks, the sense that they are in the nation? Is it in this room, in this freezing wind, while you sit alone?”

“Sorhatani …”

“You will die here. They will find you stiff and cold. And Tolui’s gift will have been thrown away. Tell me then how I will justify what he did for you.”

His face twisted, and in astonishment she saw that he was struggling not to weep. This was not Genghis, who would have sprung up in rage at her words. This was a broken man before her.

“I should not have let him do it,” Ogedai said. “How long do I have? Months? Days? I cannot know.”

“What is this foolishness?” Sorhatani said, forgetting herself in her exasperation. “You will live for forty years and be feared and loved throughout a huge nation. A million children will be born with your name, in your honor, if you leave this room and this weakness behind you.”

“You don’t understand,” Ogedai said. Only two other men knew of the weakness that plagued him. If he told Sorhatani, he was risking its becoming common knowledge in the camps and tumans, yet they were alone and she knelt before him, her eyes wide in the gloom. He needed someone.

“My heart is weak,” he said, his voice just a breath. “I truly do not know how long I have. I should not have let him sacrifice himself for me, but I was …” He stumbled over the words.

“Oh, my husband,” Sorhatani said to herself as she understood at last. A sudden upwelling of grief choked her. “Oh, my love.”

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears. “Did he know? Did Tolui know?”

“I think so,” Ogedai said, looking away.

He was not sure how to respond. He had learned that his shaman had discussed the weakness of his body with his brother and uncle, but he had not asked Tolui himself. Having surfaced from a dark river, choking and gasping back to life, Ogedai had grasped at anything offered to him. At that time, he would have done anything, just for a day in the light. Now, it was hard to remember that yearning for life, as if it had been someone else. The cold room with its billowing silk jarred somehow with the memories. He looked around him, blinking like one awakening from sleep.

“If he knew, it was an even greater sacrifice,” she said. “And even more reason why you must not waste another day of it. If he can see you now, Ogedai, will he consider he gave his life for something worthwhile? Or will he be ashamed of you?”

Ogedai felt a stab of anger at her words.

“You dare to speak to me in such a way?” he demanded.

He had stopped blinking like a day-old lamb. The gaze he fixed on her had a touch of the old khan in it. Sorhatani welcomed it, though she still reeled at what she had heard. If Ogedai died, who would lead the nation? The answer followed on the question, without a pause. Chagatai would be back in Karakorum in just days, riding in triumph to accept the beneficent will of the sky father. She ground her teeth at the very thought of his pleasure.

“Get up,” she said. “Get up, my lord. If you do not have long, there is still much to do. You must not waste another day, another morning! Take hold of your life with both hands and crush it to you, my lord. You will not have another in this world.”

He began to speak and she reached out and pulled his head toward her, kissing him hard on the mouth. His breath and lips were cool with the scent of tea. When she released him, he lurched backwards, then came to his feet, staring incredulously at her.

“What was that?” he said. “I have enough wives, Sorhatani.”

“That was to see if you were still alive, my lord. My husband gave his life for these precious days, no matter how long or short they are. In his name, will you trust me?”

He was still dazed, she knew it. She had awoken some part of him, but the fog of despair, perhaps of the Chin drugs, was still weighing heavily, dulling his wits. Yet she saw a gleam of interest in his eyes as he looked at her kneeling before him. He summoned his will like a stick borne aloft on a flood, visible for an instant before vanishing into the depths.

“No, Sorhatani, I don’t trust you.”

She smiled. “That is to be expected, my lord. But you will learn I am on your side.”

She rose and closed the windows, shutting out the moaning wind at last.

“I will call your servants, lord. You will feel better when you have eaten proper food.”

He stared at her as she yelled for Baras’aghur, snapping instructions to the man in a torrent. Baras looked to Ogedai over her shoulder, but the khan just shrugged and acquiesced. It was a relief to have someone else who knew what he needed. The thought sparked another.

“I should have my wife and daughters brought back to the palace, Sorhatani. They are at the summer house on the Orkhon.”

Sorhatani considered for a moment.

“You are still unwell, my lord. I think I should wait a few days before restoring your family and servants. We will take it slowly.”

For a short time, she would be the only one with the ear of the khan. With his seal, she could have her son Mongke join Tsubodai on the great trek, where the future was being written. She was not ready to throw that influence away so quickly.

Ogedai nodded, unable to resist her.

EIGHTEEN

The ground was covered in autumn frost, and the horses snorted white mist as Mongke rode past yet another pair of Tsubodai’s scouts. He was already in awe of the general, but nothing had prepared him for taking ten thousand warriors through the man’s trail of destruction. From beyond the Volga River, for hundreds of miles west, towns and villages had been looted or destroyed. He had passed the site of three major battles, still marked with a host of birds and small animals made bold at the presence of so much rotting flesh. The odor seemed to have seeped into him, so that Mongke could smell it on every breeze.

He saw scouts galloping ahead of him for days before he caught sight of the main Mongol army. It had spent the summer in an encampment equal to Karakorum as it had been before the khan’s city was built. It was a host of white gers, a peaceful scene of morning fires and vast herds of horses in the distance. Mongke shook his head in silent wonder as he trotted closer.

His banners had been recognized, of course, but still Tsubodai sent a minghaan out to meet him before the tuman was in striking distance of the main camp. Mongke accepted the silent scrutiny of the orlok’s men. He recognized their officer and saw the man nod to himself. Mongke knew then that Tsubodai had sent a man who could confirm his identity by sight. He watched with fascination as the officer gestured to a companion, who raised a long brass tube to his lips. The note blared out and Mongke looked around in astonishment as it was answered to the left and right. Horses and men appeared less than a mile away on both sides. Tsubodai had sent out a flanking force to contain him, lying with their horses concealed in trees and behind a ridge of ground. It went some way to explain how the ice general had fought his way so far from home.

By the time they reached the main camp, a space had been cleared, a vast empty field with access to a small river. Mongke was nervous.

“Show them the cold face,” he said quietly to himself.

As his tuman fell into the routines of the camp and began to set up gers with quick efficiency, Mongke dismounted. His ten thousand and the horses they brought needed land the size of a large town just to rest. Tsubodai had prepared for their arrival.

He turned sharply at a cry of pleasure to see his uncle Kachiun walking over the torn grass. He looked much older than when Mongke had last seen him, and he limped heavily. Mongke watched him with a guarded expression, but gripped his hand when Kachiun held it out.

“I have been waiting for days to see you,” Kachiun said. “Tsubodai will want to hear news of home this evening. You are invited to his ger as a guest. You will have fresh information.” He smiled at the young man his nephew had become. “I understand your mother has sources our scouts can’t match.”

Mongke tried to hide his confusion. Karakorum was three thousand miles to the east. It had taken him four months of hard travel to reach the general. There had been times over the previous month when Tsubodai was moving so fast he thought he would never catch up with him. If the general had not stopped for a season to refresh his herds and men, Mongke would still have been traveling. Yet Kachiun spoke as if Karakorum were just over the next valley.

“You are well informed, Uncle,” Mongke said after a pause. “I do have a number of letters from home.”

“Anything for me?”

“Yes, Uncle. I have letters from two of your wives as well as the khan.”

“Excellent, I’ll take those now then.”

Kachiun rubbed his hands together in anticipation, and Mongke suppressed a smile as he realized it was the main reason for his uncle’s coming to greet him in such a way. Perhaps they were not too busy to want fresh news of home. He crossed to his pony as it munched on ice-rimed grass, and he opened the saddlebags, pulling out a sheaf of greasy yellow parchments.

Kachiun looked around him as Mongke sorted through them.

“You would not have brought your father’s tuman to protect letters, Mongke. You are staying then?”

Mongke thought of the efforts his mother had made to have Ogedai assign her oldest son to this army. She believed that the future of the nation lay in the battle honors he could win there, that whoever returned from the sweep west would have a hand on the reins of fate. He wondered if she was correct.

“With the permission of Orlok Tsubodai, yes,” he said, handing over the letters marked for his uncle.

Kachiun smiled as he took them and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “You are dusty and tired, I see. Rest and eat while your gers are constructed. I will see you tonight.”

Both Mongke and Kachiun looked up as another rider came trotting across the camp toward them.

Men covered the entire valley floor, the camp and its smoky fires stretching away as far as Mongke could see. With the constant need for water, food, wood, and toilet pits, and the thousand details of simply living, it was a place of constant bustle and movement. Children ran around, yelling and pretending to be warriors. Women watched them indulgently while they worked at a thousand different tasks. Real warriors trained or just stood guard over the herds.

Through them all, Tsubodai rode with his eyes fixed on Mongke, his pace brisk. He wore a new set of scale armor, clean and well oiled, so that it moved easily with him. His horse was copper-brown, almost red in the sunlight. The orlok looked neither left nor right as he rode.

It was an effort for Mongke to hold his gaze. He saw Tsubodai frown slightly, and then the general dug in his heels and increased his speed, bringing the pony up quickly so that it stood blowing and pawing the ground.

“You are welcome in my camp, General,” Tsubodai said, giving Mongke his official title with no hesitation.

Mongke bowed calmly. He was aware that he owned the rank solely because his mother seemed to have a hold on the khan. Yet his father’s sacrifice had raised the son, and that was only right. He had ridden in war against the Chin. He would do better with Tsubodai, he was certain.

As if in echo of his thoughts, Tsubodai looked over the tuman from Karakorum.

“I was sorry to hear of your father’s death,” Tsubodai said. “He was a fine man. We can certainly use you here.” The orlok was obviously pleased at the sight of so many additional warriors. It brought his tumans up to six, with almost as many again in his auxiliaries. Surely the sky father smiled on this campaign.

“You have a month or two yet before we move,” Tsubodai went on. “We must wait for the rivers to freeze solid. After that, we will ride against the city of Moscow.”

“In winter?” Mongke said, before he could stop himself. To his relief, Tsubodai only chuckled.

“Winter is our time. They shut up their cities for the cold months. They put their horses in stables and sit around great fires in enormous houses of stone. If you want a bearskin, do you attack in summer when it is strong and fast, or cut its throat as it sleeps? We can stand the cold, Mongke. I took Riazan and Kolomna in winter. Your men will join the patrols and training immediately. It will keep them busy.”

Tsubodai nodded to Kachiun, who bowed as the orlok clicked in his cheek and trotted the red horse away.

“He is … impressive,” Mongke said. “I am in the right place, I think.”

“Of course you are,” Kachiun said. “It is incredible, Mongke. Only your grandfather had his touch on campaign. There are times when I think he must be possessed of some warlike spirit. He knows what they will do. Last month he sent me to the middle of nowhere to wait. I was there just two days when a force came galloping over the hill, three thousand armored knights riding to relieve Novgorod.” He smiled in memory. “Where else would you rather be? Safe at home? You were right to come out here. We have one chance to knock the world back on its heels, Mongke. If we can do it, there will be centuries of peace. If not, everything your grandfather built will be ashes in just a generation. Those are the stakes, Mongke. This time we will not stop until we reach the sea. I swear, if Tsubodai can find a way to put horses on ships, perhaps not even then!”

Chagatai rode along the cliffs of Bamiyan with his eldest son, Baidur. Northwest of Kabul, the red-brown crags ran outside the lands granted him by Ogedai, but then, his family had never truly recognized borders. He grinned at the thought, pleased to be riding in the fading heat, in the shadow of dark peaks. The town of Bamiyan was an ancient place, the houses built of the same dun stone that formed its backdrop. It had suffered conquerors and armies before, but Chagatai had no quarrel with the farmers there. He and his men patrolled areas outside the Amu Darya river, but there was no cause to leave the villages and towns as smoking ruins.

With the khan’s shadow stretching over them, they were actually thriving. Thousands of migrant families had come to live in the lands around his khanate, knowing that no one would dare move an army in reach of Samarkand or Kabul. Chagatai had made his authority clear in the first two years, as he took control of an area populated by wild bandits and aggressive local tribes. Most were slaughtered, the rest driven away like goats to take word to those who did not hear. The message had not been lost and many of the townspeople believed that Genghis himself had returned. Chagatai’s men had not bothered to correct the error.

Baidur was already tall, with the pale yellow eyes that marked the line from the great khan, ensuring instant obedience among those who had known Genghis. Chagatai watched him closely as he guided his mare across broken ground. It was a different world, Chagatai thought, a little ruefully. At Baidur’s age, he had been locked in a struggle with his older brother, Jochi, neither willing to give up the prospect of being khan after their father. It was a bittersweet memory. Chagatai would never forget the day when their father had denied them both and made Ogedai his heir.

The air had been baked all day, but as the sun sank it grew cooler and Chagatai could relax and enjoy the sights and sounds around him. His khanate was a huge area, larger even than the homeland. It had been won by Genghis, but Chagatai would not scorn the gift of his brother. The cliffs were looming closer and he saw Baidur look back at him to see where he wanted to go.

“To the foot of the cliffs,” he said. “I want you to see a wonder.”

Baidur smiled and Chagatai felt a burst of affection and pride. Had his own father ever felt such an emotion? He did not know. For a moment, he almost wished Jochi alive so he could tell him how different things were, how his world had grown larger than the small inheritance they had fought over. The horizons were wide enough for them all, he realized now, but the wisdom of age is bitter when those you have failed have gone. He could not bring back the years of his youth and live them with greater understanding. How impatient he had been once, how foolish! He had vowed many times not to make the same mistakes with his own sons, but they too would have to find their path. He thought then of another son of his, killed in a raid by some ragged tribesmen. It had just been his bad luck that he had come across them as they camped. Chagatai had made them suffer for the death of that boy. His grief swelled and vanished just as quickly. There had always been death in his life. Yet somehow Chagatai survived where other, perhaps better, men had fallen. His was a lucky line.

At the base of the cliffs, Chagatai could see hundreds of dark spots. From his previous trips, he knew they were caves, some natural, but most hewn from the rock by those who preferred the cool refuges to a brick-built house on the plain. The brigand he sought that day had his base in those caves. Some of them went back into the earth for a great distance, but Chagatai did not think it would be too hard a task. The tuman that rode at his back had brought firewood to bank at the entrance to every cave, smoking them out like wild bees from their nest.

In among the dark fingernail smudges of the cave mouths, two fingers of shadow rose above them, immense alcoves cut into the rock. Baidur’s sharp eyes picked them out from a mile away, and he pointed excitedly, looking to his father for an answer. Chagatai smiled at him in response and shrugged, though he knew very well what they were. It was one reason he had brought his son out on the raid. The dark shapes grew before them as they came closer, until Baidur reined in his mare at the foot of the largest of the pair. The young man was awestruck as his eyes made out the shape inside the cliff.

It was a huge statue, larger than any man-made thing Baidur had ever seen before. The drapes of robes could be seen cut into the brown stone. One hand was held up with an open palm, the other outstretched as if in offering. Its partner was only slightly smaller: two smiling figures looking out onto the fading sun.

“Who made them?” Baidur asked in wonder. He would have walked even closer, but Chagatai clicked his tongue to stop him. The cave dwellers were sharp-sighted and good with a bow. It would not do to tempt them with his son.

“They are statues of the Buddha, some deity of the Chin,” he said.

“Out here? The Chin are far away,” Baidur responded. His hands opened and closed as he stood there, obviously wanting to walk up and touch the enormous figures.

“The beliefs of men know no borders, my son,” Chagatai said. “There are Christians and Moslems in Karakorum, after all. The khan’s own chancellor is one of these Buddhists.”

“I cannot see how statues could be moved … no, they were cut here, the rock removed around them,” Baidur said.

Chagatai nodded, pleased at his son’s sharp wits. The statues had been chiseled out of the mountains themselves, revealed with painstaking labor.

“According to the local men, they have stood here as long as anyone can remember. Perhaps even for thousands of years. There is another one in the hills, a huge figure of a man lying down.”

Chagatai felt an odd pride, as if he were somehow responsible for them himself. His son’s simple pleasure was a joy to him.

“Why did you want me to see them?” Baidur asked. “I am grateful—they are … astonishing—but why have you shown them to me?”

Chagatai stroked the soft muzzle of his mare, gathering his thoughts.

“Because my father did not believe in building a future,” he said. “He used to say there was no better way for a man to spend his life than in war with his enemies. The spoils and land and gold you have seen came almost by accident from those beliefs. He never sought them for themselves. Yet here is proof, Baidur. What we build can last and be remembered, perhaps for a thousand generations to come.”

“I understand,” Baidur said softly.

Chagatai nodded. “Today, we will smoke out the thieves and brigands who inhabit the caves. I could have hammered the cliffs with catapults. In months or years, I could have reduced them to rubble, but I chose not to because of those statues. They remind me that what we make can survive us.”

As the sun set, father and son stood and watched the shadows move across the faces of the huge stone figures. Behind them, minghaan officers shouted and whistled to their men until the khan’s ger was up and the fires lit for the evening meal. The men in the caves would wait another night. Some of them would escape in the darkness, perhaps, though Chagatai had warriors hidden on the other side, waiting for anyone who tried.

As they sat down to eat, Chagatai watched as Baidur crossed his legs and took salt tea in his right hand, the left cupping the elbow automatically. He was a fine young warrior, coming into his prime years.

Chagatai accepted his tea and a plate heaped with pouches of unleavened bread and mutton, well spiced and fragrant.

“I hope you understand now why I must send you away, my son,” he said at last.

Baidur stopped chewing and Chagatai went on.

“This is a beautiful land, ripe and rich. A man could ride all day here. But this is not where the nation will make its history. There is no struggle here, even if you count a few rebels and cattle thieves. No, the future is being written in the sweep west, Baidur. You must be part of that.”

His son did not reply, his eyes dark in the gloom. Chagatai nodded, pleased that he did not waste words. He reached into his deel robe and withdrew a sheaf of bound parchments.

“I sent messages to the khan, my brother, asking that you be allowed to join Tsubodai. He has given me that permission. You will take my first tuman as your own and learn all you can from Tsubodai. He and I have not always fought on the same side, but there is no better teacher. In years to come, the fact that you knew the orlok will be worth much in the eyes of men.”

Baidur swallowed his mouthful with difficulty, bowing his head. It was his greatest wish and he did not know how his father had understood. Loyalty had kept him in the khanate, but his heart had been with the great trek, thousands of miles west and north. He was overcome with gratitude.

“You honor me,” he said, his voice tight.

Chagatai chuckled and reached over to ruffle his son’s hair. “Ride fast, boy. If I know Tsubodai, he will not slow down for anyone.”

“I thought you might send me to Karakorum,” Baidur said.

His father shook his head, his face suddenly bitter. “There is no future being written there. Trust me in this. It is a place of stagnant water, where nothing moves and no life stirs. No, the future is in the west.”

NINETEEN

The wind moaned and then whispered like a living thing, biting into their lungs as they breathed. Snow fell constantly, though it could not obscure the path. Tsubodai and his men walked their horses along the line of the frozen Moskva River beneath them. The ice was like bone, white and dead in the dark. The city of Moscow lay ahead, its cathedrals and churches rising high on the horizon. Even in the darkness, lights gleamed behind wooden shutters in the walls: thousands of candles lit to celebrate the nativity of Christ. Much of the city was shuttered and closed for the heart of winter, the terrible cold that stole away the old and the weak.

The Mongols trudged on, heads down, hooves and reins muffled in cloth. The river they walked ran right through the center of the city. It was too wide to guard or block, a natural weakness. Many of the warriors looked up as they passed under a bridge of wood and stone, spanning the icy road in arches that were anchored in huge columns. There was no outcry from the bridge itself. The city nobles had not considered any invading army could be insane enough to walk the ice into their midst.

Only two tumans followed the course of the river into Moscow. Batu and Mongke roamed to the south, raiding towns and making certain there were no forces on their way to intercept the Mongol armies. Guyuk and Kachiun were farther north, preventing a relief army from force-marching to save the city. It was not likely. The tumans seemed to be the only ones willing to move in the coldest months. The chilled air was brutal. The cold numbed their faces, hands, and feet, leaching away their strength. Yet they endured. Many of them wore deel robes as cloaks over their armor. They slathered thick mutton fat on exposed skin and wrapped themselves in layers of silk and wool and iron, their feet frozen despite the lambswool stuffed into their boots. Many of them would lose toes, even so. Their lips were already raw, gummed shut with frozen spit. Yet they survived, and when the rations ran short, they took blood from their mounts, filling their mouths with the hot liquid that could sustain them. The ponies were thin, though they knew to dig through the snow to crop frozen grass beneath. They too had been bred in a harsh land.

Tsubodai’s scouts moved faster than the main force, risking their mounts on the icy ground to bring back the first warning of any organized defenses. The city seemed eerily silent, the snow lending such a stillness to the air that Tsubodai could hear hymns being sung. He did not know the language, but the distant voices seemed to suit the cold. He shook his head. The ice road was strangely beautiful in the shadows and moonlight, but it was no place for sentiment. His aim was to crush anyone with the strength to stand before him. Only then could he move on, knowing his flanks and rear were safe.

The city itself was not large. Its cathedrals had been built on high ground above the river, and around them clustered the houses of churchmen and wealthy families. In the moonlight, they could be seen spreading down the hills into a town of smaller buildings, haphazard across the landscape. The river fed them all, gave them life as it would now bring death. Tsubodai’s head jerked up as he heard a voice call nearby, high and broken. The panic was unmistakable. They had been seen at last. He was only surprised it had taken so long. The voice yelled and yelled, then was choked off as one of the scouts riding along the banks used the sound to guide himself in. There would be bright red blood on the snow, the first of the night. Yet the watcher had been heard and it was not long before bells began to sound in the distance, tolling a warning through the still darkness.

•   •   •

The cathedral was silent, the air heavy with incense issuing from the censer in a trail of white smoke. Grand Duke Yaroslav sat with his family in the pews reserved for him, his head bowed as he listened to the plainsong words of a prayer written eight centuries before.

“If He was not flesh, who was laid in a manger? If He is not God, whom did the angels who came down from heaven glorify?”

The duke was not at peace, no matter how he tried to put the cares of the world aside and take comfort from his faith. Who could know where the damned Mongols would strike next? They moved with incredible speed, making children of the armies he had sent. Three thousand of his finest knights had been slaughtered at the beginning of winter. They had ridden out to find the Mongol army and report their position, not to engage them. They had not come back. All he had were rumors of a bloody streak in the hills, already covered in snow.

Duke Yaroslav twisted his hands together as the heavy incense filled his lungs.

“If He was not flesh, whom did John baptize?” Father Dmitri intoned, his voice strong and resonant in the echoing church.

The benches were full and not just to celebrate the birth of Christ. Yaroslav wondered how many of them had heard of the red-mouthed wolf hunting through the hills and snow. The cathedral was a place of light and safety, though it was cold enough to need the heavy furs. Where better to come on such a night?

“If He is not God, to whom did the Father say: This is my beloved Son?”

The words were comforting, summoning an image of the young Christ. On such a night, Yaroslav knew he should be focusing his thoughts on birth and rebirth, but instead he thought of crucifixion, of pain and agony in a garden, more than a thousand years before.

His wife’s hand touched his arm and he realized he had been sitting with his eyes closed, silently rocking like the old ladies at prayer. He had to keep up a calm front, with so many eyes watching. They looked to him to protect them, but he felt helpless, lost. Winter did not stop the Mongol armies. If his brothers and cousins had trusted him, he could have put a force in the field to destroy the invaders, but instead they thought he schemed for power and ignored his letters and messengers. To be surrounded by such fools! It was hard to find peace, even on such a night.

“If He was not flesh, who was invited to the marriage in Cana? If He is not God, who turned the water into wine?”

The priest’s voice echoed, rolling in a rhythm of its own that should have been comforting. They would not read the darker verses on the night of Christ’s birth. Yaroslav did not know if the Mongol host would attack his cities of Vladimir and Moscow. Would they reach even Kiev? It was not so many years since they had struck so deep into the forests and tundra, killing at will and then vanishing again. There were many stories and legends of the fearsome “Tartars.” It was all they had left behind the last time. Like a storm, they had struck and then vanished.

He had nothing that could stop them. Yaroslav began to wring his hands again, praying with all his heart that his city, his family, might be spared. God had mercy, he knew. The Mongols had none.

Far away, thin shouts could be heard. The duke looked up. His wife was staring at him, her expression confused. He turned at the sound of running feet. Surely he would not be called out at this hour? Could his officers not handle one night without him, while he found solace in the Mother Church? He did not want to rise from the hard-won warmth of his seat. As he hesitated, more running steps could be heard as someone raced up the stairs to the bell tower. Yaroslav’s stomach clenched in sudden terror. No, not here, not this night.

The bell began to toll above his head. Half the congregation looked up as if they could see it through the wooden beams. Yaroslav saw Father Dmitri walking toward him and stood quickly, struggling to master his fear. Before the priest could reach him, he bent down and spoke into his wife’s ear.

“Take the children now. Take the carriage to the barracks, for your life. Find Konstantin; he will be there, with my horses. Get out of the city. I will come when I can.”

His wife was white-faced with terror, but she did not hesitate as she gathered his daughters and sons, herding them like sleepy geese. Duke Yaroslav was already moving, leaving his pew and striding down the central aisle. All eyes were on him as Father Dmitri caught up with the duke and dared to take his arm. The priest’s voice was a harsh whisper.

“Is it an attack? The Tartars? Can you hold the city?”

Duke Yaroslav stopped suddenly, so that the elderly man stumbled into him. On another night, he might have had the priest whipped for his insolence. Yet he would not lie in the presence of the born Christ.

“If they are here, I cannot hold them, Father, no. Look to your flock. I must save my own family.”

The priest fell back as if he had been struck, his mouth open in horror. Above their heads, the bell tolled on, calling despair across the city and the snow.

The duke could hear screaming in the distance as he raced outside, his riding boots skidding on the icy cobbles. His family’s coach was already moving, a black shape slipping into the darkness with the driver’s whip-crack echoing on either side. He could hear his son’s high voice fading into the distance, unaware of the danger as only a child can be.

Snow had begun to fall again and Yaroslav shivered as he stood there, his mind racing. For months he had heard reports of the Mongol atrocities. The city of Riazan had been reduced to smoking rubble, with wild animals tearing at bodies in the streets. He had ridden there himself with just a few of his guards, and two of them had vomited into the snow at what they saw. They had been hard men, used to death, but what they had encountered was utter desolation, on a scale they had never known. This was an enemy with no concept of honor, who fought wars and destroyed cities to crush the will of an enemy. The duke stepped toward the snorting mount of his aide. It was a stallion, uncut, fast and black as night.

“Dismount,” he snapped. “Return to the barracks on foot.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” the man said immediately, swinging his leg over and jumping down to the snow.

As the duke mounted in his place, finding the saddle still warm, the aide stood back and saluted. Yaroslav didn’t look at him, already turning the animal and digging in his heels. The hooves clattered on the stone road as he trotted away. He could not gallop on the ice without risking a fall that could kill both him and the horse. He heard shouting voices nearby and then a single clash of steel on steel, a sword blow that carried in the frozen air from God alone knew how far away.

Around him, the sleeping city was waking up. Candles and lamps appeared in the windows and swung in the hands of men as they came out to stand in the street and shout questions to one another. None of them knew anything. More than once, they stumbled and fell as they tried to avoid the black horse and its rider.

The barracks were not far away. He half expected to see his family’s coach up ahead. The driver could force his horses to more speed, held steady by the weight of the carriage and those within. Duke Yaroslav prayed under his breath, asking the innocent virgin to take care of his little ones. He could not hold the city against the wolves that came in the snow. All he could do was escape. He told himself it was the correct tactical decision, but the shame of it burned him even against the cold.

As he rode he ignored the voices calling behind him. There would be few survivors, not now the enemy had come in the depths of winter. No one could have expected it, he told himself. He had gathered his main army near Kiev, ready for the spring. They sat in a winter camp behind vast wooden palisades, almost three hundred miles to the southwest. He had just two thousand men in Moscow, and they were not his best troops. Many were injured soldiers wintering in the comfort of the city rather than the army camps, where dysentery and cholera were a constant threat. The duke hardened his heart to their fate. They had to fight, to give him time to get free. He could only hope that the Mongol army had not yet blocked the roads out of the city. One of them must still be open, for his family.

Moonlight gleamed through the falling snow above him as he crossed a wooden bridge, the frozen Moskva River below. He glanced at it as he clattered over the ancient wood and stiffened in the saddle at the sight of the white river covered with horses and men. They were already spreading onto the banks like spilled blood, black in the night. He could hear more screaming as they tore into homes near the river. He put his head down and rode on, drawing the ornate dress sword on his hip. In terror, he saw dark figures clambering over the wooden bridge railings: two, no four, men. They had heard his horse, and as he saw them, something buzzed by his face, too fast even to flinch from it. He hoped the black horse made a difficult target and dug in his heels again, suddenly heedless of the slippery ground. A man loomed up on his right flank, and Yaroslav kicked, feeling a spike of pain up his leg as the impact twisted his knee. The man fell away in silence, his chest crushed from the blow. The duke was through then, the white road opening before him as the bridge came to an end.

He felt the arrow strike as a shudder in his mount. The animal whinnied in pain, snorting harder and harder with every step. The gallop slowed and Yaroslav kicked and leaned forward, trying for the last burst of speed. His hands had held reins from a young age, and he could almost feel the life drain out of the stallion as it struggled on, panic and duty keeping it going. He rounded a corner, leaving the bridge behind, but the animal’s great heart could take him no farther. The stallion went down hard, without warning, the front legs collapsing. Yaroslav tumbled, tucking in his head and trying to roll as he hit. Even with the snow, the ground was like iron and he lay winded and stunned, knowing he had somehow to regain his feet before they came looking. Dazed and helpless, he struggled up, wincing as his knee crackled and shifted under him. He would not cry out. He could hear their guttural voices just around the corner.

He began to stagger away, more from instinct than with any sense of purpose. His knee was on fire, and when he reached down to it, he bit his lip to stop a shout of pain. It was already swelling. How far was the barracks? Walking had become agony and he could only shuffle on the bad leg. His eyes filled with unwanted tears as he was forced to put his weight on it, lurching over it with each step and beginning again. If anything, the pain worsened, until he thought he might pass out in the snow. Surely he could not endure much longer? He reached another corner and behind him he heard the voices grow louder. They had found the horse.

The duke had seen the burnt dead in Riazan. He forced himself to go faster for a few steps, but then his leg crumpled as if he had no control over it. He hit the ground hard and bit his tongue, feeling sour blood fill his mouth.

Weak and still dazed, he turned over and spat. He could not kneel to gasp and recover. His knee was still too painful even to touch. Instead, he reached out to a wall and dragged himself up with his arms. At any moment, he expected to hear running footsteps as the Mongol animals caught him, drawn by the scent of blood perhaps. Yaroslav turned to face them, knowing he could run no longer.

From the deep shadows by the wall of a house, he saw a group of Mongols on foot, leading their horses as they followed his tracks. He groaned at the sight. The snow was still falling, but his prints would be visible for another hour, more. They had not yet seen him, but a child could follow that path. He looked around desperately for some bolt-hole, painfully aware that all his soldiers were at the barracks. His family would already be on the road west and south to Kiev. If he knew Konstantin, the grizzled old soldier would send a hundred of the best men and horses with them.

Yaroslav did not know if the rest would stay and fight or simply melt away into the darkness, leaving the citizens to their fate. He could already smell smoke on the air, but he could not drag his gaze from the men hunting him. In his delirium, he thought he had come farther, but they were no more than fifty or sixty paces away. They were already pointing in his direction.

A rider came trotting down the road from the bridge. Yaroslav saw the men straighten from where they stared at his tracks. To his eyes, they looked like dogs faced with a wolf, and they stood with their heads down. The man snapped orders at them and three of the four immediately began to move. The last one stared into the shadows that hid the duke as if he could see him. Yaroslav held his breath until his senses swam. Finally the last man nodded grimly and mounted his pony, turning the animal back to the bridge.

The duke watched them go with mixed emotions. He could hardly believe he would live, but at the same time he had discovered the Mongols had discipline, ranks, and tactics. Someone higher up had told them to take and hold the bridge. The brief chase had dragged them away, but the structure of some sort of regular army had found them and dragged them back. He had survived, but he had yet to face them in the field and the task ahead had suddenly become a great deal harder.

He staggered as he set off again, the pain making him swear under his breath. He knew the street of weavers. The barracks was not too far away. He could only pray there was someone still there waiting for him.

Tsubodai stood alone in a stone tower, looking out over the frozen city. To reach the window, he had inched past a massive bronze bell, dark green with age. As he stared across the night, parts of it were lit by flames, spots of gold and flickering yellow. He drummed his fingers on the engraved surface of the bell, listening idly to the deep tone that went on for a long time.

The vantage point suited him perfectly. In the light of distant flames, he could see the result of his sudden strike along the ice road. Below him, Mongol warriors were already running wild. He could hear their laughter as they tore silk hangings from the walls and threw goblets and chalices across the stone floors, unimaginably ancient. There was screaming below, as well as laughter.

There had been little resistance. What soldiers there were had been slaughtered quickly as the Mongols spread through the streets. The conquering of a city was always bloody. The men received no gold or silver from Tsubodai or their generals. Instead, they expected to loot and take slaves wherever he led them. It made them hungry as they stared at city walls, but when they were inside, his officers had to stand back.

Not one of them could control the minghaans after that. It was their right to hunt women and men through the streets, drunk on wine and violence. It offended Tsubodai’s senses to see the warriors reduced to such a state. As a commander, he had to keep a few minghaans sober in case a counterattack appeared, or a new enemy hove into view in the morning. The tumans had drawn lots for those unlucky ones who would stand and shiver all night, listening to the screams and revelry and wishing they were allowed to join in.

Tsubodai thinned his lips in irritation. The city had to burn, he had no qualms about that. He cared nothing for the fate of the citizens within. They were not his people. Still, it seemed … wasteful, undignified. It offended his sense of order to have his tumans run riot the moment a city wall fell. He smiled wearily at the thought of how they would respond if he offered them regular pay and salt instead of loot. Genghis had once told him he should never give an order they would not obey. He should never let them see the limits of his authority. The truth was that he could have called them back from the city. They would form up at his order, dropping everything, drunk or sober, to ride back. They would certainly do it once. Just once.

He heard raucous laughter coming closer. A woman’s voice whimpered and he blew air out in irritation as he realized the men were coming up the steps. In just moments, he saw two of his warriors dragging a young woman as they looked for a quiet place. The first one froze as he saw the orlok, standing at the bell-tower window of the cathedral. The warrior was roaring drunk, but Tsubodai’s gaze had a way of cutting through the fog. Caught by surprise, the man tried to bow on the steps and stumbled. His companion behind him called out an insult.

“I will leave you in peace, Orlok,” the warrior said, slurring and dipping his head. His companion heard and fell silent, but the woman continued to struggle.

Tsubodai turned his gaze on her and frowned. Her clothes were well made, of good materials. She was the daughter of some wealthy family, probably already killed before her. Her dark brown hair had been bound in a silver clasp, but it had torn half free, so it hung in long tresses, swinging as she tried to pull away from the grip of the warriors. She looked at Tsubodai and he saw her terror. He almost turned and let them retreat. The warriors were not so drunk that they would dare move until he dismissed them. He had no living children himself, no daughters.

“Leave her here,” Tsubodai snapped, surprising himself even as he spoke. He was the ice general, the man without emotion. He understood the weaknesses of others, he did not share them. Yet the cathedral was beautiful in its way, with great fluted arches of stone that appealed to him. He told himself it was those things that touched his sensibilities, not the girl’s animal panic.

The warriors let go of her and vanished back down the steps at a great pace, pleased to get away without a punishment or extra duties. As the clatter of their boots faded, Tsubodai turned again to look out over the city. There were more fires by then and parts of Moscow glowed red with flame. By morning much of it would be ashes, the stones so hot they would crack and burst apart in the walls.

He heard her panting and the slight scrape as she sank down the wall.

“Can you understand me?” he asked in the Chin tongue, turning.

She looked blankly at him and he sighed. The Russian language had little in common with either of the tongues he knew. He had picked up a few words, but nothing that would let her know she was safe. She stared at him and he wondered how a father would feel in such a position. She knew she could not escape back down the stairs. Violent, drunken men roamed the church and streets around it. She would not get far. It was quieter in the bell tower, and Tsubodai sighed as she began to sob softly to herself, bringing her knees up to her chest and keening like a child.

“Be silent,” he snapped, suddenly irritated with her for spoiling his moment of peace. She had lost her shoes somewhere, he noticed. Her feet were scratched and bare. She had fallen silent at his tone, and he watched her for a while until she looked up at him. He held up his hands, showing they were empty.

“Menya zavout Tsubodai,” he said slowly, pointing at his chest. He could not ask her name. He waited patiently and she lost some of her tension.

“Anya,” she said. A torrent of sound followed that Tsubodai could not follow. He had all but exhausted his stock of words.

In his own language, he went on. “Stay here,” he said, gesturing. “You are safe here. I will go now.”

He began to walk past her and at first she flinched. When she realized he was trying to step past onto the stone steps, she cried out in fear and spoke again, her eyes wide.

Tsubodai sighed to himself. “All right. I will stay. Tsubodai stay. Until the sun comes up, understand? Then I will leave. The soldiers will leave. You can find your family then.”

She saw he was turning back to the window. Nervously she crept farther into the room so that she sat at his feet.

“Genghis Khan,” Tsubodai muttered. “Have you heard the name?” He saw her eyes widen and nodded to himself. A rare bitterness showed in his expression.

“They will talk of him for a thousand years, Anya. Longer. Yet Tsubodai is unknown. The man who won his battles for him, who followed his orders. The name of Tsubodai is just smoke on the breeze.”

She could not understand him, but his voice was soothing and she pulled her legs in tighter, making herself small against his feet.

“He is dead now, girl. Gone. I am left to atone for my sins. You Christians understand that, I think.”

She looked blankly at him and her lack of understanding freed words that were lodged deep in his chest.

“My life is no longer my own,” Tsubodai said softly. “My word is worthless. But duty goes on, Anya, while there is breath. It is all I have left.”

The air was frozen and he saw she was shivering. With a sigh, he removed his cloak and draped it over her. He watched as she curled into its folds until only her face showed. The cold intensified without the warm cloth around his shoulders, but he welcomed the discomfort. His spirits were in turmoil and sadness swelled in him as he rested his hands on the stone sill and waited for the dawn.

TWENTY

Yao Shu fumed as he faced Sorhatani. Even the air in the room was subtly scented as it had not been before. She wore her new status like heavy robes, taking delight in the number of servants attending her. Through Ogedai, she had been given the titles of her husband. At a single stroke, she controlled the heartlands of the Mongol plains, the birthplace of Genghis himself. Yao Shu could not help but wonder if the khan had considered all the implications when he made the offer to Tolui before his death.

Another woman would have quietly managed the lands and titles for her sons until she passed them on. Surely that was what Ogedai had intended. Yet Sorhatani had done more. Only that morning, Yao Shu had been forced to stamp and seal an order for funds from the khan’s treasury. Tolui’s personal seal had been used on the papers, and as chancellor, Yao Shu could not refuse it. Under his sour-faced glare, vast sums of gold and silver had been packed into wooden crates and delivered to her guards. He could only imagine what she would do with enough precious metal to build herself a palace or a village, or a road into the wilderness.

As Yao Shu sat in her presence, he ran a Buddhist mantra through his mind, bringing calm to his thoughts. She had granted him an audience as his superior, fully aware of how her manner irked the khan’s chancellor. It was not lost on him that Ogedai’s own servants scurried to serve them tea. No doubt Sorhatani had chosen ones he would know personally, to demonstrate her power.

Yao Shu remained silent as he was handed the shallow bowl. He sipped, noting the quality of Chin leaf that had been used. It was probably from the khan’s personal supply, brought at immense cost from the tea plantations at Hangzhou. Yao Shu frowned to himself as he put the cup down. In just a few months, Sorhatani had made herself indispensable to the khan. Her energy was extraordinary, but Yao Shu could still be surprised at how deftly she had read the khan’s needs. What was particularly galling was that Yao Shu had respected the orders he had been given. He had accepted Ogedai’s need for privacy and seclusion. The chancellor had done nothing wrong, yet somehow she had bustled into the palace, wielding her sudden authority over servants as if she had been born to it. In less than a day, she had furnished and aired a suite of rooms close by Ogedai’s own. The servants assumed the khan’s approval, and though Yao Shu suspected she had overreached his favor a hundred times over, Sorhatani had dug herself into the palace like a tick burrowing under skin. He watched her closely as she sipped her own tea. Her robe of fine green silk was not lost on him, nor the way her hair was bound in silver and her skin dusted with pale powder, so that she looked almost like porcelain, cool and perfect. The robes and manner of a Chin noblewoman were deliberately assumed, but she returned his gaze with the calm directness of her own people. In itself, her stare was a challenge to him and he struggled not to respond.

“The tea is fresh, Chancellor?” she asked.

He inclined his head. “It is very good, but I must ask—”

“You are comfortable? Shall I have the servants bring a cushion for your back?”

Yao Shu rubbed one of his ears before settling himself again.

“I need no cushions, Sorhatani. What I need is an explanation of the orders that were delivered to my rooms last night.”

“Orders, Chancellor? Surely such things are between you and the khan? It is certainly no business of mine.”

Her eyes were wide and guileless and he covered his irritation by signaling for more of the tea. He sipped the pungent liquid once more before trying again.

“As I’m sure you know, Sorhatani, the khan’s Guards will not let me speak to him.”

It was a humiliating admission and he colored as he spoke, wondering how she had come between Ogedai and the world with such neatness. All the men around the khan had respected his wishes. She had ignored them, treating Ogedai as if he were an invalid or a child. The gossip in the palace was that she doted on him like a mother hen with a chick, but instead of being irritated, Ogedai seemed to find relief in being cosseted. Yao Shu could only hope for his swift recovery, that he might throw the she-wolf out of the palace and rule again in earnest.

“If you wish, Chancellor, I can ask the khan about the orders you say were sent to you. However, he has been unwell in spirit and body. Answers cannot be demanded from him until he is strong again.”

“I am aware of that, Sorhatani,” Yao Shu said. He clenched his teeth for an instant, so that she saw the muscles ripple in his jaw. “Nonetheless, there has been some mistake. I do not think the khan wishes me to leave Karakorum for some pointless tax-gathering tally in the northern Chin towns. I would be away from the city for months.”

“Still, if those are your orders,” she said, shrugging. “We obey, Yao Shu, do we not?”

His suspicions hardened, though he could not see how she could have been the author of the command to send him away. It made him more determined to remain and challenge her control of the khan in his weakened state.

“I will send a colleague. I am needed here, in Karakorum.”

Sorhatani frowned delicately. “You take great risks, Chancellor. In the khan’s state of health, it would not do to anger him with disobedience.”

“I do have other work, such as bringing the khan’s wife back from the summer palace where she has languished these long months.”

It was Sorhatani’s turn to look uncomfortable. “He has not called for Torogene,” she said.

“She is not his servant,” he replied. “She was most interested in your care of her husband. When she heard you were in such close contact, I am told she was keen to return and thank you personally.”

Sorhatani’s eyes were cold as she regarded the chancellor, their mutual loathing barely hidden by the facade of manners and calm.

“You have spoken to her?”

“By letter, of course. I believe she will be arriving in just a few days.” In a moment of inspiration, he embroidered the truth a little for his benefit, playing the game. “She has asked that I be here to receive her, so that she can be told all the latest news of the city. You see now why I cannot go haring off at such a time.”

Sorhatani bowed her head slightly, giving him the point. “You have been … conscientious in your duties, I see,” she said. “There is a great deal to do to welcome back the wife of the khan. I must thank you for letting me know in time.”

A tic had begun high on her forehead, evidence of internal strain. Yao Shu watched it in delight, knowing she felt his gaze on that spot. He chose his moment to add to her discomfort.

“For my own part, I would also have wanted to discuss the permission Ogedai gave for his nephew to travel to Tsubodai.”

“What?” Sorhatani said, shaken from her reverie. “Mongke will not be an observer of the future, Chancellor. He will help to shape it. It is right that my son is present as Tsubodai secures the west. Or should the orlok take all the credit for giving us a safe border?”

“I’m sorry, I did not mean your own son. I meant Baidur, the son of Chagatai. He too is following in Tsubodai’s steps. Oh, I thought you would have heard.”

He tried not to smile as he spoke. For all her connections at the heart of the city, Sorhatani had no access to his network of spies and gossipmongers stretching for thousands of miles in every direction, at least not yet. He watched as she mastered her surprise and her emotions settled. It was impressive control and he had to remind himself that her beauty hid wits sharper than most.

Yao Shu leaned forward so the servants around them could not easily overhear.

“If you are truly one who looks to the future, I am surprised you did not consider Baidur joining the great trek west. His father is next in line to be khan, after all.”

“After Ogedai’s son, Guyuk,” Sorhatani snapped.

Yao Shu nodded. “All being well, of course, but it was not so many years ago that these corridors and rooms were full of armed men contesting just such an event. May it never happen again. The princes are gathering, Sorhatani, with Tsubodai. If you are planning to have your sons reach for the khanate one day, you should be aware of the stakes involved. Guyuk, Batu, and Baidur have as strong a claim as your own, don’t you think?”

She glared at him as if he had raised a hand to her. He smiled and stood, the meeting at an end.

“I will leave you to your tea and fine things, Sorhatani. I have found such luxuries are fleeting, but do enjoy them for the moment.”

As he left her sitting in thought, he promised himself that he would be there to witness the khan’s wife returning to Karakorum. It was one pleasure he would not deny himself after so many months of strain.

The soldiers stood and shivered in the shadow of the huge gate. Like the stockade around them, it was made of ancient black logs, lashed together with ropes that became brittle in the winter cold. There were men in the stockade whose daily task was to walk the outer line, stepping carefully along a tiny walkway. With frozen hands, they checked that each rope was still like iron in the cold. It took them the best part of the day. The stockade was more like a town than a camp, and many thousands were crammed inside.

The yard in front of the gate was a good place to stand, Pavel thought, a safe place. He was there because he had been among the last to come in the night before. Yet the soldiers who stamped and shoved their hands into their armpits for warmth felt its strength looming over them. They tried not to think of the moments to come when the gate would be heaved open by snorting oxen and they would go out among the wolves.

Pavel stood back from the men close to the gate. He felt his sword nervously, wanting to draw it again and look at it. His grandfather had told him the importance of keeping it sharp. He had not told him what to do if he was given a blade older than he was himself, with more nicks, cuts, and scratches than he could believe. Pavel had seen some of the real soldiers run a whetstone along their swords, but he had not had the courage to ask to borrow one. They did not look like the sort of men who would lend anything to a boy. He had not seen the grand duke yet, though Pavel had craned his neck and stood as tall as he could. That would be something to tell his grandfather when he went home again. His dedushka remembered Krakow and, in his cups, the old man claimed to have seen the king when he was young, though it might have been just a story.

Pavel longed for a glimpse of the freemen adventurers, the Qasaks the duke had bought for the campaign with a river of gold. He tried not to get his hopes up that his father could be among them. Part of him saw the sadness in his grandfather’s eyes whenever he spoke of the brave young man who had gone to join the horsemen. Pavel had seen his mother weep in the house when she thought he couldn’t hear. He suspected his father had simply abandoned them, as so many did when the winters were too hard. He had always been a wanderer. They had left Krakow looking for land of their own to buy, but farmwork had turned out to be one step from starvation and with little more joy. If anything, the Russian farmers were worse off than those they had left behind.

There were always men who traveled to Kiev or Moscow looking for work. They promised they would send money to their families, but few ever did and fewer still came back. Pavel shook his head. He was not a child, hoping for a little truth in all the lies. He had a sword and he would fight for the duke alongside those fierce, coarse riders. He smiled, amused at himself. He would still look for his father’s face among them, tired and lined with hard work, with the hair cropped close to the skull against lice. He hoped he would be able to recognize him after so long. The Qasaks were somewhere outside the stockade, riding their horses in the snow.

The cold was biting as the sun came up, the ground rubbed to slush by men and horses. Pavel wrung his hands together and cursed aloud as he was jostled from behind. He enjoyed cursing. The men around him used terms he had never heard before, and he growled a good blasphemy at his unseen assailant. His irritation faded as he saw it was just a runner boy carrying dough balls stuffed with meat and herbs. Pavel’s hands were quick and he lifted two of the steaming lumps as the boy struggled to get past him. The boy swore at the theft, but Pavel ignored him, cramming one into his mouth before someone noticed and took it away. The taste was glorious and the juices dribbled down his chin and under the mailed jerkin he had been given just that morning. He had felt like a man then, with a man’s weight to carry. He had thought he would be frightened, but there were thousands of soldiers in the stockade and many more Qasaks outside. They did not seem afraid, though many of the faces were stern and quiet. Pavel did not speak to those who wore beards or heavy mustaches. He was still hoping to grow whiskers of his own, but there was nothing there yet. He thought guiltily of his father’s razor in the barn. For a month or so, he’d gone out there every evening to run it up and down his cheeks. The boys in the village said it made the hair grow faster, but there was precious little sign of it on him, at least so far.

Horns sounded somewhere distant and men began shouting orders all around him. There was no time to eat the second dough ball, so Pavel shoved it down his jerkin, feeling the heat spread against his skin. He wished his grandfather could have been there to see him. The old man had been away from home, gathering firewood from miles out so that the easy stocks would still be there as winter tightened its grip. His mother had wept, of course, when Pavel brought the duke’s recruiter to the back door. With the man watching, she hadn’t been able to refuse him, just as he’d planned it. He’d walked tall behind the recruiter and he still remembered the combination of excitement and nervousness in the faces of the others on the road. Some of them were older than Pavel, and one had a beard that reached almost to his chest. He’d been disappointed not to see any of the other village lads there. No doubt they had run from the recruiters. He’d heard of boys hiding in hay barns and even lying down with cattle to avoid the duke’s call. Their fathers were not Qasaks. Pavel hadn’t looked back at the village as he’d left, or only once at least, to see his mother come to the boundary and hold up her hand to him. He hoped his grandfather would be proud when he heard. Pavel wasn’t sure how the old man would react, but at least he’d miss the beating, if that was the result. He grinned at the thought of the old devil standing in the yard with the chickens, with no one to take his strap to.

Something was happening, that much was obvious. Pavel saw his sotski march past, the one officer he knew. The man looked tired and though he didn’t notice Pavel, instinct made him fall in behind. If they were going out, his place was in the hundred, as he’d been told. Pavel didn’t know any of the ones walking with him, but that was where he was meant to be and his sotski at least seemed to be marching with purpose. Together, they crossed the gate and the officer finally saw Pavel standing behind him.

“You are one of mine,” he said, then pointed to a slightly larger group without waiting for an answer.

Pavel and six more walked over, smiling sheepishly at one another. They looked as ungainly as he felt, standing with their swords and iron jerkins that draped almost to their knees, rubbing their frozen hands as they went red and pale blue in the cold. The sotski had gone off to shepherd in a few more of those in his charge.

Pavel jumped as horns sounded again, this time from the walls of the stockade. One of the men with him laughed unpleasantly at his reaction, revealing brown and broken teeth. Pavel’s cheeks burned. He had hoped for the sort of brotherhood his grandfather had described, but he couldn’t see it in the frozen yard, with men pissing in the slush, their thin faces pinched with cold. Snow began falling out of the white sky above, and many of the men cursed it, knowing it would make the day harder in all ways.

Pavel watched as steaming brown oxen were driven past him and roped to the gates. Were they going out already? He could not see the sotski anywhere. The man seemed to have vanished, just when Pavel needed to ask him all sorts of things. He could see daylight through the gates as they groaned inward. Those in the yard were forced back by shouting officers, the crowd swaying in like a drawn breath. Some of the men were facing the widening gap, but a new commotion started somewhere far back and heads turned to see what it was. Pavel could hear voices raised in pain and anger. He craned his neck to look behind him, and the one who had laughed shook his head.

“The whips are out, boy,” he said gruffly. “They’ll send us into battle like animals being driven. It’s the way of the duke’s fine officers.”

Pavel did not like the man who spoke, especially as he seemed to be criticizing the duke himself. He looked away rather than answer, then shuffled forward as those behind began to press into the open yard. The gate yawned wider and the whiteness was almost blinding after so long in its shadow.

The air was painful in his lungs and throat, the cold so intense that Batu could hardly breathe. The mounts of his tuman cantered in together, judging the range to the Russian horsemen. They were already sweating from the maneuvers as the sun came up. All they could do then was keep moving. To stop was to let the sweat freeze and begin to die slowly, unaware of the spreading numbness.

Shortly after first light, Tsubodai had sent his right wing forward, Batu at the head. They did not fear the levies and conscripts the duke had gathered in his great stockades. Those could be torn apart by arrows. The enemy cavalry were the danger and Batu felt pride at being first against them. They had feinted left at dawn, forcing the Russians to bolster their lines there. As the duke pulled men from his other wing, Batu had waited for Tsubodai’s signal, then gone in fast. He could see huge numbers of horses, and as he rode he saw the lines accelerate toward his tuman, rippling forward as the orders came. The duke had gathered a massive force to defend Kiev, but none of them had expected to fight in winter. It was a killing cold.

Batu tested his bowstring, easing and heaving back on the bow as he rode, feeling the action loosen the great muscles in his shoulders. The arrows were thick in the quivers on their backs, and he could hear the feathers crackle against each other by his ear.

The duke had spotted the threat. Batu could see the man and his pretty flags off to one side. Horns blew his orders, but Tsubodai had sent Mongke in on the left, the two wings drawing ahead of the main force. The orlok held the center with Jebe and Kachiun, his heaviest horsemen armed with lances. Whoever came out of the stockade would be met with a massed black line, ready for them.

Batu nodded to his bannerman and a great streak of orange silk began to swing back and forth, visible all along the line. The creak of thousands of bows bending sounded, a groan that seemed to hum in the air. Four thousand shafts soared as the first ranks released, reaching behind them for another arrow and fitting it at a canter as they had learned to do as children. They lifted themselves slightly off the saddle, letting their knees balance against the lunge of the horse beneath. There was no great need for accuracy at full range. The arrows flew high, then sank into the Qasak horsemen, blurring the air and leaving it clean and dead in their wake.

Horses collapsed among the enemy. Those who had bows responded, but they could not match the range of the Mongol weapons and their shafts fell short. Batu slowed the pace, rather than throw away such an advantage. His signal brought the cantering line down to a trot and then a walk, but the arrows continued to fly out, one every six heartbeats, like hammer blows on an anvil.

The Russian horsemen forced their mounts through the barrage, racing blindly forward as they held shields high and crouched as low as they could on the saddles. The two wings would clash around the stockaded town, and Batu eased himself into the front rank. His men expected to see him there since his wild ride against the Russian prince, and his blood ran faster and hot when he was facing down the enemy, his tuman around him.

There was no break, no respite in the arrow waves. From soaring arcs, the Mongol riders adjusted and sent them lower, then began to pick targets. The Russian charge was not clad in steel like the duke’s personal guard. Tsubodai would have to take those on in the center. The duke’s Qasaks continued to fall, riding into a gale of shafts that seemed to leave no space for man or horse.

Batu found his quiver empty and he grimaced, tucking his bow on the saddle hook without thought. He drew his sword and that action was copied all along the line. The Russian wing had been battered, hundreds of them left behind the charge. Those who remained were still coming on, but many were wounded, swaying in the saddle, breathing blood from shafts through their lungs. They wheezed defiance still, but the Mongols cut them down as they passed, striking out with armored fists and forearms, using the swords with neat precision.

Batu’s tuman swept over the remnants of the wing and on past the stockade walls. He had a glimpse of the great gates opening, but then it was behind him and he was chasing an enemy half hanging out of his saddle as he tried to get away. The Mongol warriors hooted as they rode, calling out prime targets to each other. Batu could feel their pride and pleasure as they nodded to him. This was the best of times, when the enemy was in disarray and could be hunted like a herd of deer.

As the gates swung open, Pavel was shoved out into the bright light, the snow making the dawn blinding. He blinked in confusion and fear. There were too many voices shouting. He could not make sense of any of it. He drew his sword and marched forward, but the man in front of him stopped suddenly, the one who had spoken earlier.

“Keep moving!” Pavel said.

Already he was being shoved from behind. The man with the broken teeth hawked and spat as he stared out at the Mongol army riding toward them. The lances came down in a line.

“Jesus Christ save us,” the man muttered, and Pavel did not know if it was a prayer or a curse. He heard the men behind him begin a martial shout, trying to spur one another on, but it was thin on the wind and Pavel felt his hands weaken, his stomach clench.

The Mongol line grew larger, bringing with them a swelling vibration of the ground beneath their feet. They could all feel it and many of them turned to each other. The officers were shouting, pointing to the Mongols, red in the face and spraying spittle in their urging. The column still moved, unable to stop as those behind pressed them out into the snow. Pavel tried to slow his steps, but he was shoved by men as reluctant as he was.

“For the duke!” one of the officers shouted. A few took up the cry, but their voices were feeble and they soon fell silent. The Mongol tuman came on, a line of darkness that would sweep them all away.

TWENTY-ONE

Kachiun heard the laughter before the group was even in sight. He winced as his bad leg throbbed. An old wound had suppurated in the thigh, and he had to drain it twice a day, according to Tsubodai’s Moslem healer. It didn’t seem to help. The wound had troubled him for months, flaring up without warning. It made him feel old to approach the young officers limping like a cripple. He was old, of course. Limping or not, they would have made him feel his years.

He heard Guyuk’s voice rise above the others, telling some story of Batu’s triumphs. Kachiun sighed to himself as he walked past a final ger. The noise stopped for a moment as Guyuk spotted him. The others turned to see what had caught the young man’s attention.

“The tea has just boiled, General,” Guyuk called cheerfully. “You’re welcome to share a cup with us, or something stronger if you prefer.” The others laughed as if this were a great jest, and Kachiun repressed his grimace. He had been young too, once.

The four of them were sprawled around like young lions, and Kachiun grunted as he lowered himself to the mat of felt, easing his leg out carefully. Batu noticed the swollen thigh, of course. That one missed nothing.

“How is the leg, General?”

“Full of pus,” Kachiun snapped.

Batu’s face closed at his tone, shuttering his emotions away. Kachiun cursed himself. A little pain and sweating and there he was, snapping at boys like a bad-tempered old dog. He looked around the little group, nodding to Baidur, who was hard-pressed to contain the sheer excitement he felt at joining the campaign. The young warrior was jittery and bright-eyed to be in such company and be treated as an equal. Kachiun wondered if any of them knew the treacheries of their fathers, or whether they cared if they did.

Kachiun accepted the bowl of tea in his right hand, and tried to relax as he sipped. The conversation did not resume immediately in his presence. He had known all their fathers and, for that matter, Genghis himself. The years weighed heavily on him at that thought. He could see Tolui in Mongke and the memory saddened him. The promise of Chagatai’s strong features looked out from Baidur’s face in its lines and jutting jaw. Time would tell if he had the man’s stubborn strength as well. Kachiun could see the lad had something to prove yet in this company. He was not among the leaders of the group, by any means.

That brought Kachiun’s thoughts to Batu, and as he glanced over, he found the young man watching him with something like a smile, as if he could read his thoughts. The others deferred to him, that much was obvious, but Kachiun wondered if their newfound friendship would survive the challenges of the years. When they were rivals for the khanates, they would not be so relaxed in each other’s presence, he thought, sipping.

Guyuk smiled easily, one who expected to inherit. He had not had Genghis as a father to harden him and make him understand the dangers of easy friendship. Perhaps Ogedai had been too soft on him, or perhaps he was just a normal warrior, without the ruthless quality that set men like Genghis apart.

And men like me, Kachiun thought, considering his own dreams and past glories. Seeing the future in the relaxing cousins was bittersweet for him. They showed him respect, but he did not think they understood the debt they owed. The tea tasted sour in his mouth at the thought, though his teeth were rotting at the back and everything tasted bad to him.

“Did you have a reason to visit us on this cold morning?” Batu said suddenly.

“I came to welcome Baidur to the camp,” Kachiun replied. “I was away when he brought in his father’s tuman.”

“His own tuman, General,” Guyuk said immediately. “We have all been raised by the hands of our fathers.”

He did not notice how Batu stiffened. His father, Jochi, had done nothing for him, yet he sat with the others, cousins and princes, as strong and perhaps harder than they were. Kachiun did not miss the flicker of emotions that played across the younger man’s face. He nodded to himself, silently wishing them all luck.

“Well, I cannot waste a morning sitting here,” Kachiun said. “I have to walk this leg, I’m told, to keep the bad blood moving.”

He clambered painfully to his feet, ignoring Guyuk’s outstretched arm. The useless thing was throbbing again, in time with his heart. He would go back to the healer and endure another knife in the flesh to release the brown filth that filled his thigh. He frowned at the prospect, then inclined his head to the group as one, before limping away.

“He’s seen a few things in his time,” Guyuk said wistfully, looking after him.

“He’s just an old man,” Batu replied. “We will see more.” He grinned at Guyuk. “Like the bottom of a few skins of airag, for a start. Bring out your private store, Guyuk. Don’t think I haven’t heard of your father’s packages to you.”

Guyuk blushed to be the center of attention, as the others clamored for him to bring out the drink. He rushed away to fetch the skins for his friends.

“Tsubodai told me to report to him at sunset,” Baidur said, his voice worried.

Batu shrugged. “And we will, though he didn’t say we had to be sober. Don’t worry, cousin, we’ll put on a show for the old devil. Perhaps it’s time he realized we are the princes of the nation. He is just an artisan we employ, like a painter … or a maker of bricks. Good as he is, Baidur, that’s all he is.”

Baidur looked uncomfortable. He had joined the army after the battles around Kiev, and he knew he had yet to prove himself to his cousins. Batu had been the first to greet him, but Baidur was enough of a judge to see the spite in the older man. He was wary of the group, for all they were his cousins and princes of the same nation. He chose to say nothing and Batu relaxed back into a pile of grain sacks. It was not long before Guyuk returned, bearing fat skins of airag over each shoulder.

Yao Shu had put a lot of effort into being ready for the meeting of Sorhatani and the khan’s wife. The summer palace on the Orkhon River was barely a day’s ride away for a scout, but the khan’s wife had never traveled at that sort of speed. For all her apparent urgency, moving her staff and baggage had taken the best part of a month. Yao Shu had enjoyed the secret pleasure of watching Sorhatani’s strain grow daily as she bustled about the palace and city, checking the tallies in the treasury and coming up with a thousand things for which she might be reproached in her care of the khan.

In that time, with just a few letters and messengers, he had won back the freedom of his office. No longer was he troubled by Sorhatani’s constant inquiries and demands on his time and resources. No longer was he summoned at all hours of the day and night to explain some matter of policy, or some aspect of the titles and powers she had been granted in her husband’s stead. It was a perfect application of power, he decided: the minimum force to achieve the desired outcome.

For the previous two days, the palace corridors had been scrubbed by an army of Chin servants. Anything made of cloth had been sent to the courtyard and beaten free of dust before being carefully replaced. Fresh fruit had been packed in ice barrels and brought to the kitchens belowground, while cut flowers were placed in such profusion that the entire building was heavy with their scent. The khan’s wife was coming home and she must not be disappointed.

Yao Shu strolled along an airy corridor, enjoying the weak sunshine on a cold, clear day with blue skies. The joy of his position was that no one would challenge the khan’s own chancellor if he chose to be there when Torogene returned. It was almost his duty to welcome her and there was little Sorhatani could do about it.

He heard a horn blow from the outskirts of the city and he smiled to himself. Her baggage train was in sight at last. He had time to go to his offices and put on his most formal robes. His current deel was grubby and he brushed at the cloth as he jogged to his workrooms. He barely noticed the servant prostrating himself at the doorpost as he passed. He had clean robes in a chest. They would be a little musty, but the cedarwood should have kept the moths at bay. He crossed the room with quick steps and was bent over the chest when he heard the door swing closed behind him. As he spun round in surprise, a click sounded, then the scrape of a key in a lock.

Yao Shu forgot about the chest. He crossed to the door and tried the handle, knowing it would not open. Sorhatani’s orders, of course. He could almost smile at the woman’s sheer effrontery to lock him in his own rooms. It was all the more irritating that he was the one responsible for introducing locks to the doors of the palace, at least those which guarded valuables. The lessons of the long night had been learned, when Chagatai had sent men into the palace to spread terror and destruction. Only good doors had saved the khan then. Yao Shu ran his hands over the wood, his calloused skin making a sibilant sound. He matched it with a hiss of air through his teeth.

“Really, Sorhatani?” he muttered to himself.

He resisted the pointless urge to rattle the handle or call for help. The whole palace was busy that morning. There could be servants rushing by outside, but it was more than his dignity would take to have to be rescued from his own rooms.

He tapped the door with the palm of his hand, testing its strength. From childhood, he had conditioned his body to hardness. For years he had begun each day with a thousand blows on his forearms. The bones had cracked in tiny fissures, filling and growing dense so that he could unleash all his strength without fearing his wrists would snap. Yet the door felt depressingly solid. He was no longer a young man, and, smiling ruefully to himself, he put aside the young man’s response of force.

His questing hands moved to the hinges instead. They were simple iron pegs, lowered onto rings of iron, but the door had been put into place while it was open. Now that it was closed, the frame prevented him from lifting it. He looked around his offices, but there were no weapons there. The chest was too heavy to be flung at the door, and the rest—his inkstone, his pens and scrolls—were all too light to be of any use. He muttered a curse under his breath. The windows of the room were barred in iron, high and small enough so that the winter wind did not freeze him as he worked.

He felt his anger growing again as all his attempts at reason failed. It would have to be force. He rubbed the two large knuckles on his right hand. Years of the striking post had given them a sheath of callus, and the bones underneath were like marble, cracked and healed until they were a mass of dense bone.

Yao Shu removed his sandals and stretched his legs for a moment. They too had been hardened. Time would tell if he could break through a door with nothing else.

He chose the weakest spot, where a panel had been fitted into the main frame. He took a deep breath, readying himself.

Sorhatani stood at the main gate to Karakorum. She had fretted for some time over where to receive Ogedai’s wife. Would it seem like a challenge to force her to come all the way through the city to the palace before they met? She did not know Torogene well enough to be certain. Her main memory of her was a motherly woman who had remained calm on the long night when Ogedai had come under attack in his rooms. Sorhatani told herself she had done nothing wrong, that she could not be reproached for her care of the khan. Yet she knew well enough that a wife’s feeling about a younger woman was not always a rational thing. No matter how it went, the meeting was going to be delicate, to say the least. Sorhatani had prepared herself as best she could. The rest was up to the sky father and earth mother, and Torogene herself.

The retinue was an impressive sight, with outriders and carts stretching back along the road for almost a mile. Sorhatani had ordered the city gates opened, rather than insult Torogene, yet she feared that the khan’s wife would just sweep by her as if she did not exist. She watched nervously as the first rows of riders passed under the gate and the largest cart trundled closer. Pulled by six oxen, it moved slowly and creaked loudly enough to be heard some distance away. The khan’s wife sat under a canopy, with four poles of birch supporting a silk roof. The sides were open and Sorhatani twisted her hands together at the first sight of Torogene returning to her husband and Karakorum. It was not reassuring, and Sorhatani felt the woman’s eyes seek her out at a distance, then rest on her as if fascinated. She thought she could see the gleam of them and knew that Torogene would be seeing a slim and beautiful woman in a Chin dress of green silk, her hair tied with a silver clasp as large as a man’s hand.

Sorhatani’s thoughts raced as the cart came to a halt just a few paces away from where she stood. Status was the issue and the one thing she had not been able to decide in the days previously. Torogene was the khan’s wife, of course. When they had met last, she had been Sorhatani’s social superior. Yet in the time since, Sorhatani had been granted all the titles and authority of her husband. There was no precedent in the short history of the nation. Certainly no other woman had ever had the right to command a tuman if she so chose. It was a mark of the khan’s respect for her husband’s sacrifice that he had made the ruling at all.

Sorhatani took a deep, slow breath as she saw Torogene was moving to the edge of the cart, extending her hand to be helped down. The gray-haired woman was older, but the khan’s wife would have bowed to Tolui if he had been standing there. The khan’s wife would have spoken first. Without knowing how Torogene would react to her, Sorhatani didn’t want to throw away her sole advantage. She had the status to demand respect, but she did not want to make an enemy of the older woman.

The moment when she would have to decide came too quickly, but her attention was dragged away by the sound of running footsteps. Sorhatani and Torogene both looked up at the same time as Yao Shu came through the gate. His face was stiff with anger and his eyes glittered as they took in the scene. Sorhatani caught a glimpse of bloody knuckles before he clasped his hands behind his back and bowed formally to welcome the khan’s wife.

Perhaps it was his example, but Sorhatani stepped aside from her newfound dignity. As Torogene turned to face her, she too bowed deeply.

“Your return is welcome, lady,” Sorhatani said, straightening. “The khan is on his way to health, and he needs you now more than ever.”

Torogene relaxed subtly, a hint of tension vanishing from the way she held herself. As Yao Shu watched in anticipation, the older woman smiled. To his fury, he saw Sorhatani echo the expression.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me everything I need to know,” Torogene said, her voice warm. “I was sorry to hear about your husband. He was a brave man, more so than I ever knew.”

Sorhatani found herself blushing, relieved beyond words that the khan’s wife had not snubbed her or begun hostilities. She bowed again on impulse, overcome.

“Join me on the cart, dear,” Torogene said, fitting her arm through Sorhatani’s. “We can talk on the way to the palace. Is that Yao Shu I see there?”

“My lady,” Yao Shu murmured.

“I will want to see the accounts, Chancellor. Bring them to me in the khan’s rooms at sunset.”

“Of course, my lady,” he replied.

What trickery was this? He had hoped for two cats spitting rage over Ogedai, and instead they seemed to have assessed each other and found something to like in just a glance and a greeting. He would never understand women, he thought. They were life’s great mystery. His hands ached and throbbed from hammering through the door panels, and he was suddenly tired. He wanted nothing more than to return to his offices and settle down with something hot to drink. He watched in numb frustration as Sorhatani and Torogene were handed up onto the cart and took seats next to each other, already chattering like birds. The column moved off with cries from the drivers and warriors riding escort. It was not long before he was standing alone on the dusty road. The thought came to him that the accounts were in no state to be perused by anyone apart from himself. He had a great deal of work to do before sunset, before he could rest.

Karakorum was far from quiet as the riders and carts made their way through the streets. The khan’s own Guards had been brought out from their barracks to man the roads and keep back crowds of well-wishers, as well as those who just wanted to catch a glimpse of Torogene. The khan’s wife was seen as the mother of the nation, and the Guards were hard-pressed. Torogene smiled indulgently as they wended their way through the streets to the golden dome and tower of the khan’s palace.

“I had forgotten there were so many people here,” Torogene said, shaking her head in wonder. Men and women held children out to her in the vain hope that she would bless them with a touch. Others cried her name, or called out blessings of their own on the khan and his family. The Guards linked arms at crossroads, struggling to hold back a tide of humanity.

When she spoke again, Sorhatani could see a faint flush in Torogene’s cheeks.

“I understand that Ogedai is much taken with you,” Torogene began.

Sorhatani closed her eyes for a moment of irritation. Yao Shu.

“Looking after him gave me something to do while I bore my own grief,” she said. Her eyes were clear of guilt and Torogene regarded her with interest. She had never been so beautiful, even when young.

“You seem to have offended my husband’s chancellor, at least. That says something for you.”

Sorhatani smiled. “He feels the khan’s wishes should have been respected. I … did not respect them. I think I irritated Ogedai into taking a grip on his duties again. He is not fully well, my lady, but I think you will see a change in him.”

The khan’s wife patted her knee, reassured by Sorhatani’s babbling. By the spirits, the woman had secured her husband’s titles with just a few ruffled feathers! If that was not enough, she had nursed the khan back to health, when the man was refusing to see his wife or his chancellor. Some part of Torogene knew Ogedai had chosen to die alone in his palace. He had sent her away with a sort of cold resignation she could not pierce. Somehow, she had thought that to defy him would be to see him break down completely. He had not allowed her into his grief. It still hurt.

Sorhatani had done what Torogene could not, and she silently thanked the younger woman, however she had achieved it. Even Yao Shu had been forced to admit Ogedai was in better spirits. It was somehow good to know Sorhatani could be as nervous as a girl. It made her less frightening.

Sorhatani regarded the motherly lady at her side. It had been a very long time since anyone had shown her this sort of affection, and she found herself liking the woman more. She could hardly express her relief that there was no bad blood between them. Torogene wasn’t the foolish sort to come storming home. If Ogedai had the sense of a marmot, he’d have had her close from the moment he returned. He’d have healed himself in her arms. Instead, he’d chosen to wait for death in a frozen room. He’d seen it as refusing to flinch in the face of death, she knew now. He had tormented himself with past sins and errors until he could no longer move even to save himself.

“I am glad you were there for him, Sorhatani,” Torogene said. The color in her cheeks deepened suddenly, and Sorhatani prepared for the question she knew would come.

“I am not a young girl, a blushing virgin,” Torogene said. “My husband has many wives … and slaves and servants to attend to every need. I will not be hurt, but I do want to know if you comforted him in all ways.”

“Not in bed,” Sorhatani said, smiling. “He came close to grabbing me once when I was bathing him, but I hit him with a foot-brush.”

Torogene chuckled. “That’s the way to deal with them, dear, when they get warm. You’re very beautiful, you see. I think I would have been jealous of you if you had.”

They smiled at each other, each one realizing she had found a friend. Both women wondered if the other valued the discovery anywhere near as much.

TWENTY-TWO

Tsubodai moved slowly west over the following spring and summer. Leaving the Russian principates behind, he reached the limits of his maps. His scouts spread out ahead of the tumans, ranging in unknown territory for months at a time as they sketched valleys and towns and lakes, putting together a picture of the land that lay before him. Those who could read and write made notes on the strength of armies they encountered or the moving columns of refugees fleeing before them. Those who could not write bound sticks in bundles of ten, with each ten representing a thousand. It was a rough system, but Tsubodai was content to move in summer and fight each winter, playing to the strengths of his people. The lords and nobles of these new lands were made weak by such an approach to war. As yet, they had shown him nothing that could threaten his horse warriors.

Tsubodai assumed he would eventually face armies the equal of those wielded by the Chin emperor. At some point, the foreign princes would join forces against the sweep west. He heard rumors of armies like clouds of locusts, but he did not know if it was exaggeration. If the foreign lords did not join together, they would be taken one by one, and he would not stop, would not ever stop, until he saw the sea.

He rode to the front of a column of the closest two tumans, checking on the supplies Mongke had promised to send after a lucky find. Just keeping so many in the field forced them to move constantly. The horses needed vast plains of sweet grass, and the sheer number of ragged foot soldiers was becoming a greater problem every day. They served a purpose when used ruthlessly. Tsubodai’s tumans sent them in first, forcing the enemy to use all their bolts and arrows before they met the main Mongol forces. In that way, they were valuable enough, but anything that lived or moved had to be shot to feed the men—not just herds of cattle and sheep, but foxes, deer, wolves, hares, and wild birds, anything they could find. They scoured the land, leaving almost nothing alive behind them. He thought the destruction of villages was something like a mercy. Better a quick death than being left to starve, without grain or meat for the winter to come. Time and again, Tsubodai’s tumans had found abandoned villages, places filled with ghosts from years back, when plague or starvation had forced the people to leave. It was no wonder they gathered in great cities. In such places, they could pretend they were safe and find comfort in numbers and high walls. They did not yet know how weak those walls were for his tumans. He had brought down Yenking, with the Chin emperor inside it. Nothing he had seen in the west could match that stone city.

Tsubodai firmed his jaw as he saw Batu in the company of Guyuk yet again. Mongke and Baidur were a hundred miles away, or he thought he might have found them there as well. The four princes had become friends, which could have been useful enough, if Batu had not been the one holding them together. Perhaps because he was the oldest, or because Guyuk followed his lead, Batu seemed to set the tone for the others. He made a great show of respect whenever Tsubodai spoke to him, but always there was the mocking half-smile. It was never so obvious that the orlok could react, but still, it was there. He felt it like a thorn in his back, too far to reach and pluck out.

Tsubodai reined in as he reached the head of the column. Behind him, Batu’s tuman rode alongside Guyuk’s. There was none of the usual rough competition between those warriors, as if they took their manner from the generals at the head. Tsubodai grunted at the clean lines. He could not fault them, but it rankled to have Guyuk and Batu talking the day away as if they were riding to a marriage feast and not through hostile territory.

Tsubodai was hot and irritable. He had not eaten that day and he had ridden the best part of twenty miles since dawn, checking on the columns as they clawed their way across the earth. He stifled his temper as Batu bowed in the saddle to him.

“Do you have new orders, Orlok?” Batu called.

Guyuk looked up as well and Tsubodai brought his horse in closer, matching their pace. He did not bother to answer the pointless question.

“Has the beef herd reached you from Mongke yet?” Tsubodai said. He knew it had, but he needed to broach the subject. Guyuk nodded immediately.

“Just before dawn. Two hundred head and large. We’ve slaughtered twenty bulls and the rest are in the herds behind.”

“Send sixty more to Kachiun. He has none,” Tsubodai said, curt and stiff with them. He did not like even the appearance of asking for a favor.

“Perhaps because Kachiun sits on a cart, instead of riding out and finding meat,” Batu muttered.

Guyuk almost choked as he tried to smother laughter. Tsubodai stared them both down coldly. If it was not enough to have the khan’s own son act the fool, Batu’s insolence was something he would have to face and crush eventually. He hoped Batu would step over the line before it became a killing matter. He was young and headstrong. He would make a mistake, Tsubodai was sure.

A scout raced in to report and Tsubodai turned automatically, only to find the man heading across him toward Batu. He took a slow breath as the scout saw him and started, bowing deeply in the saddle.

“The village by the river is coming up, General,” he said to Batu. “You asked to be told when we were in range.”

“And the river itself?” Batu asked. He knew Tsubodai had scouted it for fords and bridges days before. The half-smile was playing over his mouth again—he knew Tsubodai could hear every word.

“Two shallow fords in our path, General. The better one is to the north.”

“Very well. That’s the one we’ll take. Show my bondsmen where it is, then lead us in.”

“Yes, my lord,” the scout replied. He bowed to Batu, then Tsubodai, before kicking in his heels and trotting along the line of moving warriors.

“Was there anything else, Orlok?” Batu asked innocently. “I have things in hand here.”

“Camp as soon as you are over the river, then both of you come and see me at sunset.”

He saw them look at each other and then away before they could laugh. Tsubodai gritted his teeth and left them. He had news of two cities beyond the mountains, cities his scouts said were flooded with refugees running from the Mongol tumans. Yet instead of preparing a campaign against Buda and Pest, he was dealing with generals acting like children. He wondered if he could take Guyuk aside and shame the young man into something resembling duty or dignity. He nodded to himself as he rode. Ever since his charmed strike to the heart of a Russian army, Batu had eaten away at the orlok’s authority. If it went on, it would cost lives, perhaps see them all destroyed. It was not too early to grab the problem by the throat, or even the man. There was no place on the march for challenges to his authority, even from the sons and grandsons of khans.

The generals rode to Tsubodai’s ger as the sun set. The tumans slept around them, an ocean of pale gers as far as the eye could see. Huddled in their midst was a darker mass of fighting men. The vast majority were Russian, either those who had survived the destruction of their towns and cities or a much smaller number who had come for spoils, tracking the army across the valleys and offering their weapons and strength. Most of those were made officers of the rest, as ones who knew one end of a sword from the other. Their equipment was whatever they could scavenge, and the best food went to the tumans, so that they were lean and always hungry.

Pavel was one of them, thin as a wild wolf and always bruised or tired from the training. He did not understand half of what he was made to do, but he did it. He ran in the mornings, loping along behind the tumans for ten miles at a time. He had lost his rusty sword in the only battle of his life and come just a hair’s breadth from losing his life with it. The blow that had felled him had torn a flap of skin from his scalp, leaving him stunned. When he finally awoke, it was to find the stockade burning and the tumans arrayed in a vast camp. The dead lay where they had been cut down, and some of the bodies had been stripped. His face was stiff with his own blood, frozen in layers from his hair to his chin. He had not dared to touch it, though it had closed his right eye in a solid mass.

Pavel might have slunk away then, if it had not been for the man with the rotting teeth, who had walked past him carrying a skin of some bitter fluid. It had made Pavel vomit, but the man only laughed in that unpleasant way of his and said his name was Alexi and that they had stood together. It was Alexi who had walked him through the camp where Mongol warriors lay sprawled and drunken, half of them asleep. He had taken Pavel to a man so badly scarred it made Pavel flinch.

“Polan blood,” Alexi had said. “Just a farm boy, but he didn’t run.”

The scarred man had grunted, then spoken in Russian and told him they could use another sword. Pavel had held up empty hands. He had no idea where his blade had gone by then, and the world still swam around him. Before he passed out, he remembered the man saying his skull was probably cracked.

His new life was hard. Food was scarce, though he had been given a new sword without the flaws and rust of the last one. He ran with the tumans and endured, until the air in his lungs blew hot enough to burn and his heart pounded as if it would burst. He tried not to think of the farm he had left with his mother and grandfather. They would be tending the smallholding, watching the crops grow ready for harvest. He would not be there to help them this year.

Pavel was still awake when he saw three men ride toward the large ger at the center of the camp. He knew the tall one with the cruel face was Batu, a grandson of Genghis. Pavel learned all the names he could. It was the only way he could draw threads from the new chaos of his life. He did not know the one who grinned foolishly as Batu made some comment. Pavel fingered his sword hilt in the darkness, wishing he had the strength to stride over to them and cut them down. He had not seen the duke killed, though the other men shook their heads and looked away when he asked about it. They did not seem to care as he did.

Unseen, Pavel wandered closer to the ger. He knew the name of their leader, though it was hard to make his mouth say the sound. Tsubodai, they had called him, the man responsible for burning Moscow. Pavel craned for a glimpse of him, but as the three generals dismounted, their horses blocked a view inside the ger. He sighed to himself. He could run farther than he would have believed possible just a few months before. It was tempting to escape when there was no moon, though he had seen the fate of a few men who tried it. They had been brought back in pieces, and the haunches of meat had been thrown to the others, as an insult. He had not joined in, but he thought his starving companions had eaten the bloody lumps. Hunger made light of squeamish stomachs.

He could smell tea and roasting lamb on the breeze, and his mouth filled with saliva. He had been hungry since leaving the farm, but there would be nothing until the morning and then only after he had run and loaded carts until his arms and shoulders burned. He rubbed a spot on his back at the thought, feeling the new muscle there. He wasn’t large, just hard from work. Silently, in the darkness, he told himself he might run at the next new moon. If they caught him, at least he would have tried, but they’d have to ride fast and hard to do it.

Batu ducked his head to enter the ger, straightening up as he greeted those inside. He had brought Guyuk and Baidur with him, and he was pleased to see Mongke already there. Batu nodded to him, but Mongke merely glanced over and then went back to filling his mouth with hot mutton. Batu reminded himself that Mongke too had lost a father. It was a way in, perhaps, to share that grief. The fact that he felt only hatred for his own father was no obstacle if he handled the younger man carefully. They were all princes of the nation, with blood ties to Genghis that Tsubodai could never claim. Batu enjoyed the idea, the sense of identity it gave him to know he was part of that group. No, that they were his group, to lead. He was the eldest of them, though Mongke had the build and dour manner of an experienced man, heavy with muscle. He would be the hardest to influence, Batu thought. Guyuk and Baidur were just boys in comparison, young and enthusiastic about everything. It was easy to imagine ruling an empire with them.

Before he sat down, he acknowledged Kachiun, Jebe, and Chulgetei, bowing briefly. More old men. He noticed Kachiun’s thigh was hugely swollen, far worse than before. The general sat on a low pallet with the distended leg stretched out before him. A quick glance at Kachiun’s face showed tired eyes and skin a deep yellow from sickness. Batu thought his great-uncle would not survive the winter to come, but that was the way of things. The old died to give way to the young. He did not let it trouble him.

Tsubodai was watching, his eyes cold as he waited for Batu to speak first. Batu made a point of smiling widely, his thoughts making him mellow.

“It is a fine night, Orlok,” he said. “My men say this is the best grassland they have seen since home. The horses have put on a layer of fat you wouldn’t believe.”

“Sit, Batu. You are welcome here,” Tsubodai replied curtly. “Guyuk, Baidur, there is tea in the kettle. There are no servants tonight, so pour your own.”

The two younger men set to the task, with clinking and chuckles as they poured boiling tea from a huge iron urn on the stove at the center of the ger, under the smoke hole. Tsubodai watched as Baidur handed Batu a cup of the steaming salt liquid. It was natural enough, but such small things were always to do with power. In just a short time, it seemed Batu had found himself another follower. Tsubodai might have admired Batu’s gift for leadership if it had not interfered with his own control of the army. His father, Jochi, had had the same talent. Tsubodai had heard the name Batu had given the army. It would have been hard not to hear it. Over the years of campaign, “the Golden Horde” had almost passed into common use, as such things will. Half the men seemed to think Batu was in overall command, and he did nothing to dispel their belief. Tsubodai clenched his jaw at the thought.

Ogedai had honored Jochi’s bastard with titles and authority, making a point of it, in the face of Tsubodai’s objections. In fact, Batu had not disgraced himself, far from it. His tuman was well organized, his officers carefully chosen. Some men could inspire loyalty and others could only demand it. It was strangely galling to see Batu was one of the first kind. Such men were always dangerous. The difficulty lay in handling them, directing their energies, if it was not already too late.

“The Magyars of Hungary are horsemen,” Tsubodai began, his voice deliberately low so that they had to lean in to listen. “They have vast herds and they use the central plains much as we do. They are not nomads, however. They have built two cities on the banks of the river Danube. Pest and Buda are the names. Neither is well defended, though Buda rests on hills. Pest stands on a plain.”

He paused for questions.

“Defenses?” Batu said immediately. “Walls? Weapons? Supply lines?”

“Pest has no walls. The scouts report a stone palace on one of the hills by Buda, perhaps the residence of their king. His name—”

“Is not important,” Batu went on. “It does not sound like such a task to take these cities. Why even wait for winter?”

“His name is Bela the Fourth,” Tsubodai replied, his eyes dark with anger. “We will wait for winter because the river can be crossed when it freezes. As with Moscow, it gives us a road between the cities, right into their heart.”

Guyuk sensed the tension between the two men and put a hand on Batu’s arm. He shook it off irritably.

“My tuman is ready to ride today, Orlok,” Batu continued. “My scouts tell me the mountains to the west are passable before winter. We could be in these cities before the first snow. You are the one who said speed was important, or is it caution that is important now?”

“Keep your arrogance in your mouth, lad,” Jebe snapped suddenly.

Batu’s gaze flickered over the older man. Jebe had ridden with Genghis through the Afghan hills. He was dark and lean, his face seamed with years and experience. Batu snorted in contempt.

“There is no need to leave the major targets to winter, General, as I’m sure the orlok knows. Some of us would like to see an end to the conquests before we are old men. For others, of course, it is already too late for that.”

Jebe surged to his feet, but Tsubodai raised a hand across him and he did not move from the spot. Batu chuckled.

“I have carried out all of Tsubodai’s orders,” he said. He looked around as he spoke, deliberately including the princes. “I have taken cities and towns because the great strategist said ‘Go here. Go there.’ I have not questioned a single command.” He paused and the ger was very still. No one else would speak if Tsubodai did not, and he remained silent. Batu shrugged as if it were nothing and went on.

“Yet I do not forget that the khan himself raised me, not the orlok. I am the khan’s man first, as are we all. More than that, I am of the blood, in the line of Genghis, as are Guyuk, Baidur, and Mongke. It is not enough to follow blindly and hope that it is right. We are the ones who lead, who question the orders given, is that not right, Orlok Tsubodai?”

“No,” Tsubodai said. “It is not right. You obey orders, because if you do not, you cannot expect the same from your men. You are part of the wolf, not the whole wolf. I would have thought you had learned that when you were a boy, but it is not the case. A wolf cannot have more than one head, General, or it tears itself apart.”

He took a deep breath, thinking deeply. Batu had chosen the wrong moment to assert himself, Tsubodai could feel it. The older men were shocked at his words, while the princes were nowhere near ready to overthrow Tsubodai Bahadur, not this season. With hidden satisfaction, he spoke again.

“You have displeased me, Batu. Leave us. I will have fresh orders for you in the morning.”

Batu turned to Guyuk, looking for support. He felt his stomach drop away as the khan’s son would not meet his eyes. Batu winced then and nodded.

“Very well, Orlok,” he said stiffly. No one spoke as he left.

In the silence, Tsubodai refilled his cup and sipped at the hot tea.

“The mountains ahead are more than just a ridge or a few peaks,” he said. “My scouts tell me we will have to cross sixty or seventy miles of crags. My scouts have made it through, but without local men, we cannot know the major passes. I could force a few minghaans through to map the valleys, without carts or supplies beyond a few weeks. For the rest, the siege machines, the carts, the families and injured, it will be slow and difficult. We need to know where the passes are, to survive. We may have to build ramps or bridges. Even so, we have to make good speed or we will lose many when winter comes in. We cannot be in the highlands then. There is no grazing up there.”

Tsubodai looked around at the assembled generals. There was one man he needed to make strong, to separate from the rest, but it was not Batu.

“Guyuk. You will go first. Leave tomorrow with two minghaans. Take tools to cut a path, timber, anything you might need. Make a way through that will be suitable for the heavy carts. Stay in contact with scouts and guide us in.”

The play of authority over Batu had not been wasted on Guyuk. He did not hesitate.

“Your will, Orlok,” he said, bowing his head. He was pleased at the responsibility, knowing that the survival of the rest depended on finding a good path. At the same time, it would be grim work, and every dead end or false opening would be his to find and mark.

“My scouts say open land lies beyond those mountains,” Tsubodai said. “They could not see an end to it. We will force the peoples there to meet us in the field. For the khan, we will take their cities, their women, and their lands. This is the great raid, the farthest strike in the history of the nation of Genghis. We will not be stopped.”

Jebe grunted in pleasure and hefted a skin of airag, throwing it to Tsubodai, who scored his throat with the liquid. The ger stank of wet wool and mutton, a sweet smell that he had known all his life. Guyuk and Baidur exchanged glances at seeing the orlok so animated, so confident. Mongke watched them all, his face unreadable.

Pavel ran, as fast as he had ever run in his life. The dim lights of Mongol fires faded on the horizon behind him. He fell more than once and the third time winded him badly enough to make him limp. He had struck his head hard on something in the darkness, but the pain was nothing to what the Mongols would do if they caught him.

He was alone in the night, with neither the sound of pursuing horses nor any companion. Many of the other men had lost their homes in the years of war. Some of them could barely remember another life, but Pavel had not lost his memory. Somewhere to the north, he hoped his grandfather and mother still tended their little farm. He would be safe once he reached them, and he told himself that he would never leave again. As he ran he imagined the other young men looking on him with envy in their eyes for the things he had seen. The village girls would see him as a hardened soldier, something different from the country boys around them. He would never tell them about the bodies heaped like straw bales, or the hot release as his bladder unclenched in fear. He would not mention those things. His sword was heavy and he knew it slowed him down, but he could not bring himself to throw it away. He would walk into the yard and his mother would surely weep to see him return from the wars. He would make it home. The sword tripped him, and as he stumbled he let it fall and hesitated before going on. He felt much lighter without it.

TWENTY-THREE

Batu cursed as he found himself sweating again. He knew that sweat could freeze under clothes in such cold, making a man listless and sleepy until he just lay down and died in the snow. He snorted at the thought, wondering if his constant, simmering anger would help to keep him alive. It was all very well knowing that sweat should be avoided, but there was no help for it when you were manhandling a heavy cart with eight others, heaving and rocking it until the stubborn thing finally shifted another few feet. Ropes stretched from the cart to a group of men pulling like horses; sullen, trudging Russians who never looked back and had to be struck or whipped to break through to them. It was maddening work, needing to be done over and over again as the carts lurched and spilled their contents. The first time Batu had seen one break free and race back to the bottom of the hill, he’d almost laughed. Then he’d seen a man holding his bloody face where a rope had lashed across it and another nursing a broken wrist. Every day brought injuries, and in the cold, even a small wound sapped the strength and made it harder to get up the next morning. They were all stiff and sore, but Tsubodai and his precious generals drove them on, higher into the Carpathian Mountains every day.

The sky had come lower and grown blinding white, threatening snow all morning. When it began to fall again, many of the men groaned. The carts were hard enough to maneuver on good ground. With fresh slush, the men slipped and fell at every step, gasping for air and knowing that no one was coming to relieve them. Everyone was involved and Batu wondered how they had come to amass such a weight of carts and equipment. He was used to riding out with his tuman and leaving most of it behind. At times, he thought they could have built a city in the wilderness with all the tools and equipment they had with them. Tsubodai had even brought timber into the mountains, a weight of wood that took hundreds of men to move. It meant they had fires at night, when there was nothing else to burn, but the wind sucked away the small heat, or chilled one side of you while the other roasted. Batu seethed at the way he had been treated, more so because Guyuk had not spoken up for him. All he had done was question Tsubodai’s absolute authority over them, not refuse an order. He prided himself on that, but he was being punished almost as if he had.

Batu bent his back again to get his shoulder under a beam with the other men, ready to heave the cart over a rut where the wheels had sunk in.

“One, two, three …”

They grunted with effort as he called the rhythm. Tsubodai had not been able to stop his men dismounting to help him with the work. Perhaps at first it was only the loyalty of a warrior to his general, but after days of the backbreaking labor, he thought they felt as disgusted with Tsubodai Bahadur as he was.

“One, two, three …” he growled again.

The cart lifted and thumped down. Batu’s feet went out from under him and he grabbed the cart bed to steady himself. His hands were wrapped in wool and sheepskin, but they stung bitterly, raw as fresh meat. He used spare moments to swing his arms, forcing blood to the fingertips so he would not lose them to frost. Too many of the men had those white patches on their noses, or on their cheeks. It explained the faded scars on the older men who had been through it all before.

Tsubodai had the right to set him any task, but Batu thought his authority was more fragile than the orlok realized. His right to command came from the khan, but even on the march, not all of their actions were purely military. There would be moments when political decisions had to be made, and those were the responsibility of princes, not warriors. With Guyuk’s support, the orlok could be overruled, even dismissed, Batu was certain. It would have to be the right moment, when the orlok’s authority was not so clear-cut. Batu took hold of the cart again as the cursed thing lurched and almost tipped over. He was willing to wait, but he found his temper growing shorter each day. Tsubodai was not of the blood. The princes would make the future, not some broken-down old general who should have retired to tend his goats long before. Batu used his anger in a surge of strength, so that he felt as if he lifted the cart almost by himself, shoving it onward and upward.

Ogedai mounted slowly, feeling his hips protest. When had he become so stiff? The muscles in his legs and lower back had grown astonishingly weak. He could make them shudder like a horse shrugging off flies just by raising himself in the stirrups.

Sorhatani was deliberately not watching him, he noticed. Instead, she was fussing around her sons. Kublai was checking his pony’s belly strap, while Arik-Boke and Hulegu were very quiet in the presence of their khan. Ogedai knew the younger ones only by sight, but Sorhatani had brought Kublai to talk to him in the evenings. She had made it seem a favor to her, but Ogedai had grown to look forward to the conversations. The boy was sharp and he seemed to have an endless interest in the stories of past battles, particularly if Genghis had been part of them. Ogedai had found himself reliving past glories through Kublai’s eyes and spent part of each day planning what he would tell the young man that evening.

The khan tested his legs again surreptitiously, then looked down as Torogene chuckled behind him. He turned his horse to see her standing there. He knew he was thin and pale from too much time indoors. His joints hurt and he ached for wine so that his mouth grew dry at the thought of it. He had promised Torogene he would drink fewer cups each day. More than that, she had made him swear a solemn oath. He had not told her about the set of enormous cups the kilns were firing for him. His word was iron, but wine was one of his few remaining joys.

“Don’t stay out if you feel yourself getting tired,” Torogene said. “Your officers can wait for another day if they have to. You must build your strength back slowly.”

He smiled, wondering if all wives became mothers to their husbands at some point. He could not help glancing at Sorhatani at that thought, still as lean and strong as a herd-boy. There was one who should not go to waste in a cold bed. He could not remember when he had last felt honest lust outside of dreams. His body felt worn out, withered, and old. Yet the sun shone weakly and the autumn sky was blue. He would ride along the canal to see the new works. Perhaps he would even bathe in the river that fed it, if he could bring himself to enter the icy waters.

“Do not set my city on fire while I am gone,” he said gruffly.

Torogene smiled at his tone. “I cannot promise, but I’ll try,” she replied. She reached out and touched his foot in the stirrup, holding it hard enough for him to feel the pressure. He did not need to speak the love he felt for her; he just reached down and touched her cheek before digging in his heels and clattering through the gate.

Sorhatani’s sons came with him. Kublai held the reins of three packhorses, laden high with supplies. Ogedai watched as the young man clucked to them, so full of life that it was almost painful to see. He had not told Kublai his memories of Tolui’s death. He was not yet ready to tell that story, with all the pain that continued to that cold day.

It took half the morning to reach the river. His stamina had melted away over so many months of inactivity. His arms and legs were leaden by the time he dismounted, and he had to struggle not to cry out as his thighs cramped. He could already hear the rippling cracks across the valley, and in the distance smoke hung like morning mist. The air had the tinge of sulfurous bitterness he remembered from the Sung border. To his surprise, he found it almost pleasant to breathe in the exotic scent.

Sorhatani and her sons made camp around him, setting up a small ger on dry ground by the bank and starting tea on the stove. While it brewed, Ogedai mounted once again. He clicked his tongue to catch Kublai’s attention, and the young man leapt into his saddle to join him, his face bright with excitement.

Together, both men rode across a sunlit field to where Khasar readied the ordnance crews for inspection. Ogedai could see the old general’s pride in the new weapons from a distance. He too had been on the Sung border and seen their destructive potential. Ogedai rode up slowly. He felt no sense of urgency or hurry. His glimpse at the greater night had given him a long perspective. It was just harder to care about the smaller things. Having Kublai with him was a reminder that not everyone shared his long view. The sight of the polished bronze guns had Kublai practically sweating.

Ogedai suffered through the formalities with his uncle. He declined the invitation of tea and food and finally gestured for the gunners to begin.

“You might want to dismount and hold your horse, my lord khan,” Khasar said.

He looked thin and weary, but his eyes were bright in his enthusiasm. Ogedai wasn’t touched by his uncle’s mood. His legs felt weak and he did not want to stumble in front of such men. He took a moment to remind himself that he was in the eye of the nation once again. One slip and his weakness would reach every ear.

“My horse was at the Sung border,” he replied. “He will not bolt. Kublai? You should do as he says.”

“Very well, my lord,” Khasar said formally. He clasped his hands behind his back as he gestured sharply to the gunnery teams. They stood in groups of four, carrying sacks of black powder as well as a range of odd-looking equipment. Kublai drank it all in, fascinated.

“Show me,” Ogedai said to them.

Khasar snapped orders and Ogedai watched from the saddle as the first team checked that their weapon had blocks against the massive, studded wheels. A warrior placed a reed in a hole in the tube, then lit a taper from a lamp. When the taper touched the reed, there was a spark, then an explosion that sent the cannon rocking back. The blocks barely held it and the weapon leapt and crashed back down. Ogedai did not see the ball that came flying out, but he nodded, deliberately calm. His horse flicked up its ears, but then bent to crop at the grass. Kublai had to slap his gelding on the face, shocking it out of panic. The young man snarled at the animal. He would not be shamed by seeing his horse break free and run in front of the khan. However, he was more than thankful he was not in the saddle.

“Fire the rest together,” Ogedai said.

Khasar nodded proudly and eight other teams inserted their reeds into the touch-holes and lit tapers.

“On my mark, gunners. Ready? Fire!”

The crash was extraordinary. The teams had practiced outside the city for weeks, and the guns fired almost together, with only a slight delay. This time Ogedai saw blurs vanishing across the valley, one or two skipping along the ground. He smiled at the thought of a line of horses or men in the path of such weapons.

“Excellent,” he said.

Khasar heard and chuckled, still delighted at controlling thunder.

Ogedai’s gaze drifted to the lines of heavy catapults beyond the guns. They could launch barrels of gunpowder for hundreds of feet. His engineers had learned from the Chin, but they had improved the powder, so that it burned faster and more fiercely. Ogedai did not understand the process, nor care. What mattered was that the weapons worked.

More men waited by the catapults, standing perfectly at attention. Ogedai suddenly realized that he did not feel tired. The explosions and bitter smoke had invigorated him. Perhaps because of that, he noticed how Khasar’s shoulders had slumped. The older man wore his exhaustion for all to see.

“Are you ill, Uncle?” he said.

Khasar shrugged with a wince. “I have lumps in my shoulders. The things make it hard to move my arm, that’s all.”

His yellow complexion gave the lie to his word, and Ogedai frowned as his uncle went on.

“The shamans say I should have them cut out, but I won’t let those butchers have me, not yet. Half the men they cut don’t walk out again, maybe more.”

“You should,” Ogedai said softly. “I don’t want to lose you yet, Uncle.”

Khasar snorted. “I’m like the hills, boy. A few lumps won’t stop me.”

Ogedai smiled. “I hope not. Show me more, Uncle,” he said.

When Ogedai and Kublai returned to the small camp by the river, the morning was almost over and the tea was long past stewed and undrinkable. The gunnery went on behind them, using vast stocks of the powder to train the men who would play a vital role in future battles. Khasar could be seen striding up and down the lines, in his element.

Sorhatani saw that her son’s flushed face was smudged with soot. Both the khan and Kublai reeked of sulfurous fumes, and Arik-Boke and Hulegu could only look on with transparent envy. Sorhatani left her sons to make fresh tea and walked over to where Ogedai had dismounted.

He stood at the river’s edge and stared over it, shading his eyes against the sun. The noise of the waterfall hid Sorhatani’s steps as she came up behind him.

“Kublai is chattering like a bird,” she said. “I take it the demonstration went well.”

Ogedai shrugged. “Better than I had hoped. With the new powder mix, Khasar is convinced our guns have the range of the Sung cannon.” He clenched his fist at the thought, his expression fierce. “That will make a difference, Sorhatani. We will surprise them one day. I only wish I could get some of them out to Tsubodai, but it would take years to drag those heavy things so far.”

“You are getting stronger,” she said, smiling.

“It’s the wine,” he replied.

Sorhatani laughed. “It’s not the wine, you great drunkard, it’s morning rides like this one and bow work each afternoon. You already look a different man from the one I found in that cold room.” She paused, tilting her head.

“There’s a little more meat on you as well. Having Torogene back is good for you, I think.”

Ogedai smiled, but the excitement of the great guns was fading and his heart wasn’t in it. He sometimes thought of his fears as a dark cloth that draped itself over him, choking off his breath. He had died on that campaign, and though the sun shone and his heart still beat in his chest, it was hard to go on with each day. He had thought Tolui’s sacrifice might have given him fresh purpose, but instead he felt the loss as another burden, one too great to bear. The cloth still clung to him, for all Sorhatani had done. He could hardly explain it and part of him wished the woman would leave him alone to find a quiet path onward.

Under Sorhatani’s watchful gaze, Ogedai sat with the family, drank the tea and ate the cold food they had brought. No one brought him wine, so he rummaged for a skin of it in the packs, drinking straight from the teat, like airag. He ignored Sorhatani’s expression as the red liquid brought a glow back to his cheeks. Her eyes seemed made of flint, so he spoke to distract her.

“Your son Mongke is doing well,” he said. “I have reports from Tsubodai that speak highly of him.”

The other sons sat up in sudden interest, and Ogedai wiped his lips, tasting the wine. It seemed bitter that day, sour on the tongue as if there were no goodness in it. To his surprise, it was Kublai who spoke, his tone respectful.

“My lord khan, have they taken Kiev?”

“They have. Your brother was part of the battles around that city.”

Kublai seemed to be struggling with impatience. “Are they at the Carpathian Mountains yet then? Do you know if they will breach them this winter?”

“You will tire the khan with your chatter,” Sorhatani said, but Ogedai noticed she still looked for an answer.

“The last I heard, they are going to try and cross before next year,” he said.

“That’s a hard range,” Kublai murmured to himself.

Ogedai wondered how a young man could presume to know anything of mountains four thousand miles away. The world had grown since he was a boy. With the chains of scouts and way stations, knowledge of the world was flooding into Karakorum. The khan’s library already contained volumes in Greek and Latin, full of wonders he could hardly believe. His uncle Temuge had taken the task of building its reputation seriously, paying fortunes for the rarest books and scrolls. It would be the work of a generation to translate them into civilized languages, but Temuge had a dozen Christian monks working on the task. Lost in a reverie, Ogedai dragged himself back and considered the words that had led him to drift away in thought. He wondered if Kublai was worried for his brother’s safety.

“With Baidur, Tsubodai has seven tumans and forty thousand conscripts,” he said. “The mountains will not stop them.”

“And after the mountains, my lord?” Kublai swallowed, trying not to irritate the most powerful man in the nation. “Mongke says they will ride all the way to the sea.”

The younger brothers hung on his response, and Ogedai sighed. He supposed distant battles were exciting compared to a life of study and quiet in Karakorum. Sorhatani’s sons would not stay in the nest of stone for long, he could see.

“My orders are to secure the west, to give us a border without enemies clamoring beyond it to invade our lands. How Tsubodai chooses to do that is up to him. Perhaps in a year or two you will travel out to him. Would you like that?”

“Yes. Mongke is my brother,” Kublai replied seriously. “And I would like to see more of the world than just maps in books.”

Ogedai chuckled. He could remember when the world seemed limitless and he had wanted to see it all. Somehow, he had lost that terrible hunger, and for a moment he wondered if it was Karakorum that had taken it from him. Perhaps that was the curse of cities, that they rooted nations in one place and made them blind. It was not a pleasant thought.

“I would like to have a private word with your mother,” he said, realizing he would not have a better moment that day.

Kublai moved fastest, shepherding his brothers to their horses and taking them in the direction of Khasar’s gun teams, still practicing in the afternoon sun.

Sorhatani sat down on the mat of felt, her expression curious.

“If you are going to declare your love for me, Torogene told me what to say,” she said.

To her pleasure, he laughed aloud. “I’m sure she has, but no, you are safe from me, Sorhatani.” He hesitated and she leaned closer, surprised to see a touch of pink come to his cheeks.

“You are still a young woman, Sorhatani,” he began.

She shut her mouth rather than reply, though her eyes sparkled. Ogedai began twice more, but stopped himself.

“We have established my youth, I think,” she said.

“You have your husband’s titles,” he went on.

Sorhatani’s light mood dropped away. The one man who could remove the extraordinary authority she had been given was nervously trying to say what was on his mind. She spoke again, her voice harder.

“Earned by his sacrifice and death, my lord, yes. Earned, not given as a favor.”

Ogedai blinked, then shook his head. “They too are safe, Sorhatani,” he said. “My word is iron and you have those things from my hand. I will not take them back.”

“Then what is sticking in your throat so that it chokes you to say it?”

Ogedai took a deep breath. “You should marry again,” he said.

“My lord khan, Torogene told me to remind you—”

“Not to me, woman! I’ve told you before. To my son. To Guyuk.”

Sorhatani looked at him in stunned silence. Guyuk was the heir to the khanate. She knew Ogedai too well to think the offer was made in haste. Her mind whirled as she tried to see through to what he truly wanted. Torogene must have known the offer would be made. Ogedai would never have thought of it on his own.

The khan turned away from her, giving her time. As he stared into the middle distance, the cynical part of Sorhatani wondered if this was a way to bring her husband’s vast holdings back into the khanate. At a stroke, marriage to Guyuk would reverse the rashness of Ogedai’s offer to Tolui. The effects of that unique decision were still rippling out, and she did not know where it would end. The original lands of Genghis Khan were ruled by a woman, and she had still barely come to terms with it.

She thought of her own sons. Guyuk was older than Mongke, but not by many years. Would her sons inherit, or would their birthright be stolen from them in such a union of families? She shuddered and hoped Ogedai had not seen. He was the khan and he could order her to marry, just as he had given her the titles of her husband. His power was near absolute over her, if he chose to use it. She looked at him without turning her head, weighing up the man she had nursed through fits and darkness so strong that she had thought he would never return. His life was as fragile as porcelain, yet he still ruled and his word was iron.

She could sense his patience was unraveling. A small muscle fluttered in his neck and she stared at it, searching for words.

“You do me great honor with such an offer, Ogedai. Your son and heir …”

“Then you accept?” he said curtly. His eyes knew the answer from her tone, and he shook his head in irritation.

“I cannot,” Sorhatani replied softly. “My grief for Tolui is the same. I will not marry again, my lord khan. My life now is my sons and no more than that. I want no more than that.”

Ogedai grimaced and the silence came back between them. Sorhatani feared his next words would be to command her, ignoring her will. If he spoke the words, she would have no choice but to obey. To resist would be to throw the bones with the futures of her sons, to see them stripped of authority and power before they had even learned to use it. She had wiped the khan’s skin when he had soiled himself unknowing. She had fed him from her own hand when he moaned for peace and death. Yet he was the son of his father. The fate of one wife, one woman, would mean little to him, and she did not know what he would say. Keeping silent, she waited with her head bowed, the breeze blowing between them.

It took an age, but at the last, he nodded to himself.

“Very well, Sorhatani. I owe you your freedom, if that is your wish. I will not demand your obedience in this. I have not told Guyuk. Only Torogene knows it was even a thought.”

Relief flooded through Sorhatani. On instinct, she prostrated herself on the grass, placing her head by his foot.

“Oh, get up,” he said. “A less humble woman I have never met.”

TWENTY-FOUR

Kachiun died in the mountains, above the snow line, where there was neither time nor strength to tend to his body. The general’s flesh had swollen with the poison from his infected leg. His last days had been spent in delirious agony, his hands and face mottled with sickness. He had died hard.

The winter had struck early just days afterwards, with blizzards howling through the mountains. Heavy snow blocked the narrow passes Guyuk had scouted through to the plains below. The only blessing of the plummeting temperatures was that it kept the dead from rotting. Tsubodai had ordered Kachiun’s body wrapped in cloth and bound to a cart. The brother of Genghis had expressed a wish to be burned in death, rather than sky-buried, laid out for birds and animals in high crags. The Chin ritual of cremation was becoming more popular. Those of the nation who had become Christian were even buried, though they preferred to go into the ground with the hearts of enemies in their hands, servants for the next life. Neither Tsubodai nor Ogedai laid down the law on any of the practices. The people of the nation made their own choices at a time that could hurt no one else.

There was no single peak to the Carpathians, but dozens of valleys and ridges to be traversed. At first they were the only presence apart from distant birds, but then they came upon the first of the frozen bodies, high up, where the air was painful in the lungs. It lay alone, the hands and face wind-seared to black, almost as if charred by fire. Snow half covered the man, and one of the minghaan officers set his warriors to dig at similar humps of snow. There were more bodies, the faces dark or pale, Turkic or Russian, often bearded. Men lay with women, their children frozen between them. They were preserved on the heights, their bodies thin, their flesh made stone forever.

In all, there were hundreds and the generals could only wonder who they had been, or why they had chosen to risk death in the mountains. The bodies did not look old, but there was no way to tell. They could have lain there for centuries, or starved just months before the Mongols came loping along the tracks after them.

The wind and snow of winter came like a new world. From the first flakes, the animal paths vanished and the drifts built and built, having to be dug out at every step. Only the links between scouts at every pass and the sheer numbers and discipline of the tumans saved them. Tsubodai could relieve those at the front, who had to push through with hands and shovels. Those behind walked a wide trail of brown slush, churned up by tens of thousands of trudging feet and hooves. The snows could not stop them. They had already come too far.

As the cold deepened, the weakest and the wounded struggled to keep up. The tumans passed more and more seated figures, their heads bowed in death. There had been children born in the years away from Karakorum. Their small bodies froze quickly, the wind ruffling their hair as they were left behind in the snow. Only the fallen horses were butchered for meat to sustain the living. The tumans pushed on, never stopping until they saw the plains before them and they had left the mountains and eternity behind. It took them two months longer than Tsubodai had hoped.

On the other side of the Carpathian Mountains, the tumans gathered to mourn a general and a founder of the nation. The army of conscripts sat uncomprehending and sullen as they watched the Mongol shamans sing and tell the story of his life. For a man of Kachiun’s history, the tales and songs lasted two full days. Those who witnessed it ate where they stood and heated frozen airag from the icy slush it had become, until they could drink to the brother of Genghis Khan. At sunset of the second day, Tsubodai himself lit the funeral pyre they had soaked in oil, then stood back as the black smoke poured out.

Tsubodai watched the dark column rise and he could not help thinking of the signal it would send to their enemies. For anyone with eyes to see, the smoke meant the Mongols had crossed the mountains and reached the plains. The orlok shook his head, remembering the white, red, and black tents Genghis had raised before cities. The first was simply a warning to surrender quickly. The red cloth went up if they refused and was a promise to kill every male of fighting age. The black tent meant that nothing would survive when the city fell at last. It promised only destruction and bare earth. Perhaps the rising thread of sparks and oily smoke was an omen for those who saw it. Perhaps they would see it and know Tsubodai had come. He could smile at his own vanity, commanding men still thin and weak from the crushing labor they had endured. Yet his scouts were already running. They would find a place to rest and recover, for those who had lost the use of fingers to have them cut away.

The flames gusted and crackled as the wind huffed across the pyre, sending the smoke back into the faces of the men standing around it. They had used a part of the seasoned timber Tsubodai had brought across the mountains, layering it to twice the height of a man over Kachiun’s body. The smoke carried the sweetish smell of frying meat, and some of the younger ones gagged as they took a breath. Tsubodai could hear pings and creaks from the general’s armor as it expanded in the heat, at times sounding like a voice in the fire. He shook his head to clear it of foolishness, then sensed Batu watching him.

The prince of the nation stood with Guyuk, Baidur, and Mongke, a group of four all under his command, yet separate from the rest. Tsubodai returned the stare until Batu looked away, his constant half-smile flickering on his mouth.

With a chill, Tsubodai realized Kachiun’s death was a personal loss to him. The old general had supported him in council and on the field, trusting Tsubodai to find a way through, no matter what the odds. That blind faith had died with him, and Tsubodai knew his flank was exposed. He wondered if he should promote Mongke to some senior post. Of the princes, he seemed least under Batu’s spell, but if Tsubodai had misjudged him, there was a chance it would just make Batu’s growing power even greater. As the wind gusted stronger still, Tsubodai cursed under his breath. He hated the labyrinth of politics that had sprung up since the death of Genghis. He was used to tactics, to the ruses and stratagems of battle. The city of Karakorum had added layers to those, so that he could no longer predict the knife thrust, the betrayal. He could no longer know the simple hearts of the men around him and trust them with his life.

He rubbed his eyes roughly and found a smear of moisture on his gloves that made him sigh. Kachiun had been a friend. His death had brought home the fact that Tsubodai too was getting old.

“This is my last campaign,” he murmured to the figure in the pyre. He could see Kachiun in his blackened armor, alone in a furnace of yellow-gold. “When I am done, I will bring your ashes home, old friend.”

“He was a great man,” Batu said.

Tsubodai gave a start. He had not heard him approach over the crackling flames. Fury welled up in him that Batu would bring his petty bitterness even to the funeral of Kachiun. He began to reply, but Batu held up an open palm.

“No mockery, Orlok. I did not know half his story until I heard it from the shaman.”

Tsubodai stifled his retort and held Batu’s steady gaze for a few more moments before looking back to the pyre. Batu spoke again, his voice gentle with awe.

“He hid with Genghis and other children from their enemies. They were hardened by starvation and fear. From that family, from those brothers, we all spring. I understand that, Orlok. You too were there for some of it. You have seen a nation born. I can hardly imagine such a thing.” Batu sighed and gripped the bridge of his nose between his fingers, rubbing the tiredness out. “I hope there is a tale to tell when it is my turn in the flames.”

Tsubodai looked at him, but Batu was already walking away through the snow. The air was clean and cold, promising more snow on the way.

TWENTY-FIVE

The dancers came to a halt, sweat gleaming on their bodies, the bells on their wrists and ankles falling silent. Incense was strong in the air, pouring in wreaths of white smoke out of censers as they swung at the foot of the marble stairs. The influence of Greece was everywhere in the palace, from columns of fluted marble and busts of King Bela and his ancestors, to the scanty costumes of the dancing girls waiting with their heads bowed. The walls themselves were decorated in gold leaf from Egypt and blue lapis lazuli from the Afghan hills. The ceiling stretched above them in a great dome that dominated the river city of Esztergom. In the inlaid images, it proclaimed the glory of the risen Christ, and of course the glory of the Hungarian king.

The courtiers prostrated themselves, pressed as close as bees in a hive, so that their bodies covered the tiled floor. Only the martial lords remained standing around the walls, looking at each other with poorly concealed irritation. Among them was Josef Landau, master of the Livonian Brothers. He glanced at his brother knight, a man who had recently become his commanding officer. Conrad von Thuringen was a powerful figure in all senses, with the build to handle the enormous longsword he wore and a black beard shot through with gray that did nothing to reduce his physical menace. Von Thuringen was the grand master of the Teutonic Knights, an order that had been formed in the city of Acre, near Galilee. He bowed only to priests. The pomp and glitter of King Bela’s court made little impression on a man who had dined with the Holy Roman Emperor and even Pope Gregory himself.

Josef was a little in awe of the grizzled commander. If the Teutonic Knights had not agreed to amalgamate, his Brothers of Livonia would have been disbanded after their losses in war. The double-headed black eagle he now wore had its twin on Conrad’s chest. Together, their landholdings made them almost the equal of the king who made them wait on him like servants. Yet they served a higher power and the delay only served to tighten Josef’s nerves and temper.

King Bela’s seneschal began to recite the titles of his master, and Josef saw Von Thuringen’s eyes flicker upward in frustration. The Holy Roman Emperor ruled a hundred territories, as far-flung as Italy and Jerusalem. King Bela of Hungary could not match those possessions. It pleased Josef that his commander had little patience for vanities. Such things were of the world and the Teutonic Order forced their gaze to heaven, so that the venal sins of men were far beneath them. Josef touched the cross of black and gold that he wore on his chest, proud that his Brothers of Livonia had been taken up by a noble order. If they had not been, he thought he might have put away his armor and sword and become a wandering monk, with a begging bowl and rags to serve the Christ. At times when politics hung as thick in the air as incense, such a life still appealed to him.

The seneschal finished his litany of titles, and the crowd in the palace hall grew tense for the arrival of their master. Josef smiled to see Conrad scratch the side of his mouth in boredom, where a sore had scabbed over. Horns sounded a low note across the city to announce the arrival of the king. Josef wondered if the peasants in the markets were meant to prostrate themselves as well. The idea made his own mouth twitch, but he controlled himself as King Bela entered at last, striding to the top of the marble steps, so that he was almost the height of a man above them all.

The king was blond-bearded and wore his hair to his shoulders. A gold crown sat firmly on his head, and his pale blue eyes looked out from under it. As his gaze traveled across them, both Josef Landau and Conrad von Thuringen bowed, the angle carefully chosen. King Bela did not acknowledge their presence beyond a brief nod, then took his place on a throne decorated in the same gold and blue as the walls. It glittered behind him as he was handed the ceremonial regalia of his monarchy, including a great staff of gold. As Josef watched, the king lifted it and let it fall three times, striking the ground. The seneschal stood back and some other servant dressed almost as richly came forward to address the crowd.

“There will be no judgments today, no court. The king has spoken. Let those who have such business remove themselves from his presence. You may petition the master of the court at noon.”

Josef could see anger and frustration on the faces of many of the men and women who rose from prostration and turned away. They had more sense than to let the king see their response to his edict. Josef could imagine how they had bribed and waited to get into that room, only to be told to leave before a word was spoken about their cases. He saw one young woman in tears as she left, and he frowned to himself. The room emptied quickly, until only a dozen or so men remained, all senior lords or knights.

“The Cuman Lord Köten is summoned!” cried the seneschal.

Some of the lords looked askance at one another, but Josef noted that Conrad appeared relaxed. When their eyes met, the older man shrugged very slightly, all the answer he could give with the king’s gaze on them.

Doors at the back opened and a small man walked in, in many ways the opposite of the king above him. Köten’s skin was almost as dark as the Moors of Jerusalem to Josef’s eyes. He had the sunken face and wiry build of a man who had never known more food than he needed to stay alive, a rarity in that court. His eyes were fierce and he bowed only a fraction deeper than Conrad and Josef had before him.

King Bela rose from his throne and spoke for the first time that morning.

“My lords, honored knights, freemen. The Tartars have crossed the mountains.”

He repeated the words in Russian and Latin, a demonstration of his scholarship.

Conrad and Josef both crossed themselves at the words, with Conrad going on to kiss a heavy gold ring he wore on his left hand. Josef knew it contained a tiny relic of the True Cross from Calvary. He could only wish he had such a talisman of power to soothe his own nerves.

The reaction of Köten was to lean his head to one side and spit on the floor at his feet. The king and his courtiers froze at the action, and high points of color appeared in Bela’s cheeks. Before he could act, perhaps to order the man to lick up his own spittle, Köten spoke.

“They are not Tartars, Your Majesty, they are Mongol warriors. They move quickly and they slaughter every living thing in their path. If you have friends, my king, call them now. You will need them all.”

The king’s eyes were cold as he looked down on the room. “I gave your people sanctuary here, Köten. Two hundred thousand of your tribe, your families. You crossed the mountains to get away from these … Mongol warriors, did you not? You were not so well dressed then, Köten. You were ragged and close to death. Yet I took you in. I gave you lands and food from my own hand.”

“In exchange for taking the body and blood, Your Majesty,” Köten replied. “I was baptized myself into … our faith.”

“That is the gift of the Spirit, God’s favor to you. The world’s price has yet to be paid, Köten.”

The small man clenched his hands behind his back as he waited. Josef was fascinated. He had heard of the mass exodus of refugees from Russia, leaving their dead in the frozen mountains rather than be hunted down. The stories they had spread of this “Golden Horde” of Mongols had done the work of an army all on its own. Half of Hungary quaked at the threat and the rumors of black smoke in the mountains. Josef could see the whiteness of Köten’s knuckles against the darker skin as King Bela went on.

“If I am to count you friend, I will need every warrior under your command. I will supply what arms they need and I will give them good soup to keep them warm, fuel for their fires, fodder for their horses, salt for their food. Your oath has been sworn, Köten. As your liege lord, my orders are to stand and face the enemy with me. Do not fear for your people. This is my land. I will stop them here.”

He paused and for a time Köten let the silence go on. At last, as if exhausted, his shoulders dipped.

“Will your allies be sending armies? The Pope? The Holy Roman Emperor?”

It was King Bela’s turn to grow stiff and still. Pope Gregory and Emperor Frederick were locked in their own struggle. He had entreated them both for men and arms for more than a year, ever since the refugees had arrived from Russia. King Frederick had sent the Teutonic Knights: 1,190 men chosen for the founding year of their order and never exceeding that number. They were legendary fighters, but against a Golden Horde of savage warriors, Bela could imagine them being swept away like leaves in a storm. Still he showed only confidence to the men he needed to support him.

“I have been promised an army from King Boleslav of Krakow, one from Duke Henry of Silesia, another from King Wenceslas of Bohemia. There will be fresh reinforcements in the spring. In the meantime, we have my own men of Hungary, Lord Köten: sixty thousand soldiers, all well trained and hungry to defend their land. And we have the knights, Köten. They will hold the line. With your horsemen, I can field a hundred thousand soldiers.” He smiled at the thought of such a colossal number. “We will take the worst they can offer us, and then we will strike back in the thaw and end this threat to peace forever.”

Köten sighed visibly. “Very well. I can bring my forty thousand to this dance, my king. We will stand.” He shrugged. “In winter there is nowhere to run anyway, not where they cannot catch us.”

Conrad von Thuringen coughed into his mailed hand. The king looked across the meeting hall at him and nodded graciously. The knight marshal of the Teutonic Order scratched his beard for a moment, reaching through the heavy thatch to some flea or louse on the skin.

“Your Majesty, my lord Köten. The Emperor Frederick did not send us to you. His is the authority over the earth, not the souls of men. We came because of the Christian brothers from Russia, fresh converted to the True Faith. We will stand between those families and the storm. It is no more than our duty.”

Around the room, other noblemen stepped forward to pledge their soldiers and houses to the king’s cause. Josef waited until they had finished before he too swore his eight hundred knights of Livonia to service. He saw that Köten looked less than impressed, and he smiled slightly at the man. As one of those “fresh converts” Conrad had mentioned, Köten had no inkling yet of the force of men armed in Christ. The knights were few in number, but each one was a master of weapons, as strong on the field as in his faith in God. For all their fearsome reputation, he was certain the Mongol army would break on the knights like a wave on a rock.

“Every king should have such men to follow him,” Bela said, visibly pleased at their open support. For once he would not have to broker deals and persuade or bribe his lords to save themselves. “The enemy has gathered in the foothills of the Carpathians. They are no more than three hundred miles away, with the Danube and Sajó rivers between us. We have a month, perhaps two at most, to make ready for them. They will not be here before spring.”

“Your Majesty,” Köten said in the pause. “I have seen them move. It is true the entire camp would take so long to reach us, but the tumans—the raiding armies—could cross that much land in eight days. If they did not spend the summers resting, Majesty, they could have been here long before. They came into Moscow on the frozen river. They run like wolves in winter, while other men sleep. We should be ready, at least as ready as it is possible to be.”

King Bela frowned. Standing above them, he twisted an ornate gold ring on one hand with the fingers of the other, a gesture of nerves that was not lost on Köten or the lords present. He had ascended the throne only six years before, on the death of his father. Nothing in his experience had prepared him for the sort of war he now faced. At last he nodded.

“Very well. Marshal von Thuringen, you will decamp today to Buda and Pest to oversee the preparations. We will be ready for them when they come.”

The king put out his hand and his seneschal drew a longsword and handed it to him. In front of them all, Bela raised the blade and cut his forearm. He remained impassive as blood flowed, using his hand to daub it all along the blade, until most of the silver was red.

“My lords, you see the blood royal of Hungary. Make a dozen like this and take the swords out to the villages and towns. Hold them high. The people will answer the call of their noblemen, the call to arms of their king. We will defend the kingdom. Let this be the sign.”

Tsubodai stood huddled in furs, stretching out his hands to a crackling fire. The smoke rose and his gaze followed it, drifting up to ancient beams in the barn. It had been long abandoned by the farmer, and part of the roof had sagged and broken. It smelled of horses and straw and it was dry enough, at least at one end. It was not much of a place to begin the conquest of a country, but there was nowhere else in the frozen fields that stretched to the horizon. He watched as an icicle on the open door dripped, and frowned at the sight. Surely it was just the warmth from the fire reaching it. Yet this was a new land. He knew nothing of the seasons, or how long the winter would last.

His seven generals waited patiently for him, chewing noisily on pouches of bread and meat and passing a fat skin to take gulps of airag that kept them warm.

Kachiun’s senior minghaan, Ilugei, had taken over the tuman. In time, a new general would be appointed at the khan’s order, but in the field, Tsubodai had raised Ilugei. It was no coincidence that the man was gray-haired and wiry, almost forty years of age and one of those trained in the personal guard of Genghis. Tsubodai had had enough of the young lions Batu had gathered around him. He would have preferred Khasar, if he had not been almost five thousand miles away in Karakorum. He needed dependable men if he was to take the army on to the sea.

“Attend me,” Tsubodai said, without preamble. He paused only for a beat as the generals stopped eating and came closer to hear. “The farther we go west, the more danger comes from the flanks. If we drive on, it is as a spear thrust into the center of an army: Every step is greater risk.”

He did not look at Batu as he spoke, though the prince smiled. Tsubodai paused to take a draft of airag, feeling the warmth spread in his stomach.

“I am splitting the army in three. Baidur and Ilugei will strike north. My scouts tell me there is an army near a city named Krakow. Your orders are to remove it from the field and burn the city. The small kings there cannot be allowed to form up on our flank.”

He looked Ilugei in the eye.

“You have more years of experience than Baidur, who is new to the role.” Tsubodai sensed Baidur stiffen as the younger man saw his authority threatened before his eyes. He went on. “Can you accept his command over you, Ilugei?”

“I can, Orlok,” Ilugei replied, bowing his head.

Baidur let out a breath. It was a small thing, but Tsubodai had taken one of Batu’s supporters and deliberately favored him.

“Guyuk and Mongke, the lands to the south must be laid waste. You will take your tumans to the south of us. Sweep the land clear of anyone capable of fielding a force of men or horses. When you have scorched the earth, return and support me.”

“What about me, Orlok?” Batu said softly. He was frowning deeply at the news that Guyuk would be sent to the south, well away from him. “Where would you have me stand?”

“At my side, of course,” Tsubodai replied with a smile. “You and I will strike west with Jebe, Chulgetei, and the ragged army we command on foot. With three tumans, we will raze Hungary together, while our brothers clear the flanks.”

There was no ceremony as the men walked away from the old barn. Tsubodai noticed how Batu made a point of clapping Guyuk on the back, but there was strain in both men’s faces. They had fought and ridden with Tsubodai’s eyes on them and other tumans ready to ride in support. They were not afraid of the responsibility. Each man there welcomed the chance to act on his own. It was why they had sought power, and it had come upon them in the foothills of the Carpathians, from the hand of Tsubodai. Only Batu, Jebe, and Chulgetei would remain. The three men were a little wistful as they watched the others break into a jog to reach their warriors quickly.

“It feels like a race, does it not?” Jebe said.

Batu turned cold eyes on him. “Not to me. It seems I am to stay with my wet nurse and you.”

Jebe laughed and stretched the stiffness out of his back. “You think too much, Batu, do you know that?” he said, and walked away, still smiling.

Ogedai was in the gardens of Karakorum, watching the sun set from a stone bench. He felt at peace there in a way he could never have explained to his father. He chuckled softly. Even the thought of Genghis was like bringing darker shadows into the groves of trees. Ogedai loved the gardens in summer, but in winter they had a different beauty. The trees stood bare, their branches outstretched and waiting silently for green life. It was a time of darkness and yearning, of snug gers and heated airag, of being wrapped tight against the wind. Life in the gers was one thing he missed in the palace of Karakorum. He had even considered having one built in a courtyard before he dismissed the idea as foolishness. He could not go back to a simpler life, not now that he had left it behind. It was the longing of a child, for the days when his mother and father were still alive. His grandmother Hoelun had lived long enough to lose her mind and memories, and he shuddered at the thought of her last days. The first mother of the nation had become a babbling child at the end, unable even to clean herself. No one would wish such a fate on an enemy, never mind someone they loved.

He stretched his back, loosening the cramps from a day of sitting and talking. There was so much talking in a city. It was almost as if the streets were built on words. He smiled at the thought of his father’s reaction to all the meetings he had attended that day. The problems of clean water and sewage pipes would have driven Genghis to apoplexy.

Ogedai shaded his eyes as the sunlight struck across Karakorum. The city was washed in dark gold, making every line of it stand out with extraordinary clarity. His eyes were not as sharp as they had once been, and he relished the light and what it revealed. He had made Karakorum, no one else, certainly not his father. The palace tower cast a long shadow across the city in the wilderness. It was young yet, but in time it would be the true heart of the nation, the seat of khans. He wondered how they would remember him in the centuries to come.

He shivered slightly as the evening breeze picked up. With a quick gesture, he pulled his deel tighter over his chest, but then let it fall open again. What would his life have been without the weakness of the flesh? He sighed slowly, feeling the erratic thumping in his chest. He had grown weary waiting. He had thrown himself into battle to conquer the terror, ridden into an enemy army as if fear were a snake to be crushed under his sandal. In response it had sunk its fangs into his heel and dropped him into darkness. There were times when he thought he had not yet climbed out of that pit.

He shook his head in memory, trying not to think of Tolui and what he had done for him. A brave man could conquer fear, he had learned that, but perhaps only for a time. It was something the young did not understand, the way it could gnaw at a man, the way it came back stronger every time, until you were alone and gasping for breath.

He had smothered himself in despair, giving up the struggle; giving in. Sorhatani had pulled him back and given him hope again, though she could never know how it was an agony to hope. How could he live with death crouched on his shoulders, gripping him from behind, weighing him down? He had faced it. He had summoned his courage and raised his head, but it had not looked away. No man could be strong all day, all night. It had worn him down to nothing.

Ogedai rested his hands on his knees, turning them upward so he could see the palms. The callus had begun to return, though he had experienced blisters for the first time in years. One or two were still weeping from just an hour with the sword and bow that afternoon. He could feel his strength coming back, but too slowly. In his youth, he had been able to call on his body without thought, but his heart had been weak even then. He raised a hand to his neck and pushed his fingers under his silk tunic over his chest, feeling the thready beat there. It seemed such a fragile thing, like a bird.

A sudden pain made him start. It was as if he had been struck, and as his vision blurred, he turned to see whatever had hit him. He felt his head for blood, bringing his hands close to his eyes. His hands were clean. Another spasm made him hunch over, leaning against his knees as if he could press it away. He gasped aloud, panting. His pulse thumped in his ears, a hammer that throbbed through him.

“Stop,” he snapped, furious. His body was the enemy, his heart the betrayer. He would command it. He clenched his fist and pressed it against his chest, still bent over to his knees. Another pain hit him then, even worse than the last. He groaned and threw back his head, staring at the darkening sky. He had survived before. He would wait it out.

He did not feel himself slump, slipping sideways off the bench so that the stones of the path pressed against his cheek. He could hear his heart beat in great, slow thumps, then nothing, just an awful silence that went on and on. He thought he could hear his father’s voice and he wanted to weep, but there were no tears left in him, just darkness and cold.

TWENTY-SIX

Sorhatani was tugged from sleep by the creak of the floor. She woke with a start to see Kublai standing by her bed, his expression grim. His eyes were red and she was suddenly afraid of what he would say. Though years had passed, the memory of Tolui’s death was still painfully fresh. She sat up sharply, pulling the blankets around her.

“What is it?” she demanded.

“It seems your sons are cursed to bear bad news, Mother,” Kublai replied. He looked away as she stood and removed her shapeless nightdress, pulling on clothes from the day before.

“Tell me,” she said, yanking at a tunic’s buttons.

“The khan is dead. Ogedai is dead,” Kublai replied, staring out of the window at the night outside the city. “His Guards found him. I heard them and I went to see.”

“Who else knows?” Sorhatani said, all thought of sleep forgotten as the news sank in.

Kublai shrugged. “They sent someone to tell Torogene. The palace is still quiet, at least for the moment. They found him in the gardens, Mother, without a mark on him.”

“Thank God for that at least. His heart was weak, Kublai. Those of us who knew have feared this day for a long time. Have you seen the body?” she asked.

He winced at such a question and the memory it evoked. “I did. Then I left and came to tell you.”

“You were right. Now listen to me. There are things we must do now, Kublai, as the news begins to spread. Or before summer you will see your uncle Chagatai come riding through the gates of Karakorum to claim his birthright.”

Her son stared at her, unable to comprehend her sudden coldness. “How can we stop him now?” he asked. “How can anyone stop him?”

Sorhatani was already moving toward the door. “He is not the heir, Kublai. Guyuk stands in line and in his way. We must send a fast rider to Tsubodai’s army. Guyuk is in danger from this moment until he is declared khan by an assembly of the nation, just as his father was.”

Kublai gaped at her. “Have you any idea how far away they are?” he said.

She halted, with her hand on the door. “It does not matter if Guyuk stands at the end of the world, my son. He must be told. The yam, Kublai, the way stations. There are enough horses between us and Tsubodai, are there not?”

“Mother, you don’t understand. It is more than four thousand miles, maybe even five thousand. It would take months to bring word.”

“Well? Write the news on parchment,” she snapped. “Is that not how it works? Send a rider with a sealed message for Guyuk alone. Can these messengers hand a private letter over such a distance?”

“Yes,” Kublai replied, shocked by her intensity. “Yes, of course.”

“Then run, boy! Run to Yao Shu’s offices and write the news down. Get the news moving to the one who must have it.” She wrestled a ring from her hand and shoved it into his palm.

“Use your father’s ring to seal it in wax and get the first rider on his way. Make him understand there has never been a message as important as this one. If there was ever a reason to create the scout line, this is it.”

Kublai broke into a sprint down the corridors. Sorhatani bit her lip as she watched him go before turning the other way, toward Torogene’s rooms. Already, she could hear raised voices somewhere nearby. The news would not be kept in the city. As the sun rose, it would fly from Karakorum in all directions. She felt sadness swell in her at the thought of Ogedai, but pressed it down, clenching her fists. There was no time to grieve. The world would never be the same after the day to come.

Kublai had cause to thank his mother as he sat at Yao Shu’s writing desk. The door to the chancellor’s workrooms had been replaced by carpenters, but the holes for the new locks still sat ready, clean and sanded. It had swung open at just a push, and Kublai had shivered in the cold as he took a Chin tinderbox and scratched sparks with a flint and iron until a wisp of tinder blew into flame. The lamp was small and he kept it well shuttered, but there were already voices and movements in the palace. He looked for water, but there was nothing, so he spat on the inkstone and blackened his fingers to rub a paste. Yao Shu kept his badger-hair brushes neatly and Kublai worked fast with the thinnest of them, marking the Chin characters on the parchment with delicate precision.

He had barely finished a few stark lines and sanded them dry when the door creaked open and he looked up nervously to see Yao Shu standing there in a sleeping robe.

“I do not have time to explain,” Kublai said curtly as he stood. He folded the vellum parchment, goatskin beaten and stretched until it was as thin as yellow silk. The lines that would change the nation were hidden, and before Yao Shu could speak, Kublai dripped wax and jammed his father’s ring down, leaving a deep impression. He faced Ogedai’s chancellor with a strained expression. Yao Shu stared at the neat package and the glistening wax as Kublai fanned it in the air to dry. He could not understand the tension he saw in the younger man.

“I saw the light. Half the palace is awake, it seems,” Yao Shu said, deliberately blocking the door as Kublai moved toward it. “You know what is happening?”

“It is not my place to tell you, Chancellor,” Kublai replied. “I am on the khan’s business.” He met Yao Shu’s eyes steadily, refusing to be cowed.

“I’m afraid I must insist on an explanation for this … intrusion before I let you go,” Yao Shu replied.

“No, you will not insist. This is not your business, Chancellor. It is a matter of family.”

Kublai did not let his hand drift to the sword he wore on his hip. He knew the chancellor could not be intimidated with a blade. They locked eyes and Kublai kept silent, waiting.

With a grimace, Yao Shu stepped aside to let him pass, his gaze falling onto the desk with its still-wet inkstone and writing materials scattered in confusion. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but Kublai had already vanished, his footsteps echoing.

It was not far to the yam way station, the central hub of a network that extended as far as Chin lands to the east and beyond. Kublai raced through the palace outbuildings, across a courtyard and along a cloister around a garden, where the wind caught him up and passed him with a cold breath. He could see torches in the garden, lighting a spot in the distance as men gathered by the khan’s body. Yao Shu would hear the terrible news soon enough.

Out of the palace, he ran along a street made gray in the dawn. He skidded on the cobbles as he rounded a corner and saw the lamps of the yam. There was always someone awake there, at every hour of the day. He called as he passed under the stone arch into a large yard, with horse stalls on either side. Kublai stood panting, listening as a pony snorted and tapped the door of its stall with its hoof. Perhaps the animal sensed the excitement that gripped him; he did not know.

It was just moments before a burly figure came into the yard. Kublai saw the yam master had only one hand, his job a compensation for losing his ability to fight. He tried not to look at the stump as the man approached.

“I speak with the authority of Sorhatani and Torogene, wife to Ogedai Khan. This has to reach Tsubodai’s army as fast as you have ever run before. Kill horses and men if you have to, but get it into the hands of the heir, Guyuk. No other but Guyuk. His hands alone. Do you understand?”

The old warrior gaped at him. “What is so urgent?” he began. It seemed the news had not yet spread to those who carried it. Kublai made a decision. He needed the man to jump quickly and not waste a moment longer.

“The khan is dead,” he said flatly. “His heir must be told. Now move, or give up your post.”

The man was already turning away and calling for whoever was on duty that night. Kublai stayed to watch the pony brought out to a taciturn young rider. The scout stiffened as he heard the order to kill horses and men, but he understood and nodded. The papers went deep into a leather satchel that the scout strapped tightly to his back. At a run, yam servants brought a saddle that jingled with every movement.

The pony chosen for the task raised its head at the sound, snorting once more and flicking its ears. It knew the sound of saddle bells meant it would run fast and far. Kublai watched the rider kick in his heels and canter under the arch, out into the waking city. He rubbed his neck, feeling the stiffness there. He had done his part.

Torogene was awake and weeping when Sorhatani arrived at her rooms. The Guards at the door let her pass with no more than a glance at her expression.

“You have heard?” Torogene asked.

Sorhatani opened her arms and the older woman came into her embrace. She was larger than Sorhatani, and her arms came fully round her, so that they clung to each other.

“I’m just going to the gardens,” Torogene said. She was shuddering with grief, close to collapse. “His Guards are standing over … him there, waiting for me.”

“I must speak to you first,” Sorhatani said.

Torogene shook her head. “Afterwards. I cannot leave him out there alone.”

Sorhatani weighed her chances of stopping Torogene and gave up. “Let me walk with you,” she said.

The two women moved quickly along the corridors that led to the open gardens, Torogene’s guards and servants falling behind. As they walked, Sorhatani heard Torogene choke into her hands, and the sound tore at her own control. She too had lost a husband and the wound was still fresh, ripped open by the news of the khan’s passing. She had the unpleasant sensation of events slipping beyond her control. How long would it be before Chagatai heard that his brother had fallen at last? How long after that would he come to Karakorum to challenge for the khanate? If he moved quickly, he could bring an army before Guyuk could come home.

Sorhatani lost track of the corners and turns in the palace until she and Torogene felt the breeze on their faces and the gardens lay before them through a cloister. The torches of the Guards still lit the spot, though dawn had come. Torogene gave a cry and broke into a run. Sorhatani stayed with her, knowing she could not interrupt.

As they reached the stone bench, Sorhatani stood rooted, letting Torogene cross the last few steps to her husband. The Guards stood in mute anger, unable to see an enemy, but consumed with the failure of their office.

Ogedai had been turned to face the sky by whoever had found him. His eyes had been closed and he lay in the perfect stillness of death, his flesh as white as if he had no blood in him. Sorhatani rubbed tears from her eyes as Torogene knelt at his side and brushed his hair back with her hand. She did not speak, or weep. Instead, she sat on her heels and looked down at him for a long time. The breeze passed through them all and the gardens rustled. Somewhere close, a bird called, but Torogene did not look up or move from the spot.

Yao Shu arrived in the silence, still in his sleeping robe and with a face almost as pale as his master’s. He seemed to age and shrink as he looked on the fallen khan. He did not speak. The silence was too deep for that. In misery, he stood as one of the sentinel shadows in the garden. The sun rose slowly and more than one man looked at it almost in hatred, as if its light and life were not welcome there.

As the morning light turned the city a bloody gold, Sorhatani stepped forward at last and took Torogene gently by the arm.

“Come away now,” she murmured. “Let them take him to be laid out.”

Torogene shook her head and Sorhatani bent closer to her, whispering into her ear.

“Put aside your pain for today. You must think of your son, Guyuk. You hear me, Torogene? You must be strong. You must shed your tears for Ogedai another day if your son is to survive.”

Torogene blinked slowly and began to shake her head, once, then twice, as she listened. Tears came from under her closed eyelids, and she reached down and kissed Ogedai on the lips, shuddering under Sorhatani’s hand at the terrible coldness of him. She would never feel his warmth, his arms around her, again. She reached out to touch the hands, rubbing her fingers over the fresh calluses there. They would not heal now. Then she stood.

“Come with me,” Sorhatani said softly, as if to a frightened animal. “I will make you tea and find you something to eat. You must keep up your strength, Torogene.”

Torogene nodded and Sorhatani led her back through the cloister to her own rooms. She looked back almost at every step, until the garden hid her view of Ogedai. The servants ran ahead to have tea ready as they arrived.

The two women swept into Sorhatani’s rooms. Sorhatani saw the Guards were taking positions on her door and realized they too were without direction. The death of the khan had taken away the established order, and they seemed almost lost.

“I have orders for you,” she said on impulse. The men straightened. “Send a runner to your commander, Alkhun. Tell him to come to these rooms immediately.”

“Your will, mistress,” the Guard said, bowing his head. He set off and Sorhatani told her servants to leave. The tea urn was already beginning to steam, and she needed to be alone with Ogedai’s wife.

As she closed the doors, Sorhatani saw how Torogene sat staring, stunned with grief. She bustled about, deliberately making noise with the cups. The tea was not fully hot, but it would have to do. She hated herself for intruding on a private grief, but there was no help for it. Her mind had been throwing sparks from the moment she had woken to find Kublai standing beside her. Some part of her had known even before he spoke.

“Torogene? I have sent a runner to Guyuk. Are you listening? I am truly sorry for what has happened. Ogedai …” She choked off as her own grief threatened to overwhelm her. She too had loved the khan, but she forced the sadness away once again, pressing it into a closed part of her mind so that she could go on.

“He was a good man, Torogene. My son Kublai has sent a letter to Guyuk, with the yam riders. He says it will not reach him for months. I do not suppose Guyuk will return as quickly.”

Torogene looked up suddenly. Her eyes were terrible.

“Why would he not come home, to me?” she said, her voice raw.

“Because by then he will know that his uncle Chagatai could be in the city with his tumans, Torogene. Chagatai will hear the news faster and he is far closer than Tsubodai’s armies. By the time Guyuk returns, Chagatai could be khan. No, listen to me now. At that point, I would not give a copper coin for your son’s life. Those are the stakes, Torogene. Put aside your grief now and listen to counsel.”

The sound of boots on the stones outside made them both look up. The senior minghaan of the khan’s Guards entered the room in full armor. He bowed briefly to the two women, unable to hide his irritation at such a summons. Sorhatani glanced at him without warmth. Alkhun may not have realized how power had shifted in the palace since dawn, but she did.

“I do not wish to intrude on your grief,” Alkhun said. “You will both understand that my place is with the Guard tuman, keeping order. Who knows how the city will react when the news spreads. There could be riots. If you will excuse me …”

“Be silent!” Sorhatani snapped. Alkhun froze in amazement, but she did not give him time to think and realize his error. “Would you walk in on the khan without so much as a knock on the door? Then why show less honor to us? How dare you interrupt?”

“I was … summoned,” Alkhun stammered, his face flushing. It was many years since anyone had raised a voice to him in anger. Sheer surprise made him hesitate.

Sorhatani spoke slowly, with complete confidence. “I have title to the ancestral lands, Minghaan. There is but one in the nation senior to me. She sits here.” Sorhatani saw Torogene was staring at her in bewilderment, but went on. “Until Guyuk arrives in Karakorum, his mother is regent. If it is not obvious to even the least of men, I decree it from this moment.”

“I …” Alkhun began, then fell silent as he considered. Sorhatani was willing to wait and she poured more tea, hoping that neither one noticed the way her shaking hands made the cups clink together.

“You are correct, of course,” Alkhun said, almost with relief. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, mistress. My lady.” He bowed again to Torogene, this time much deeper.

“I will have your head if you displease me again, Alkhun,” Sorhatani continued. “For the time being, secure the city as you say. I will let you know details of the funeral as I have them.”

“Yes, my lady,” Alkhun replied. The world had ceased spinning wildly, at least in those rooms. He did not know if the sense of chaos would return outside them.

“Bring your nine minghaan officers to the main audience chamber at sunset. I will have further orders for you by then. I do not doubt Chagatai Khan will be considering an assault on Karakorum, Alkhun. He must not set one foot in this city, do you understand?”

“I do,” Alkhun replied.

“Then leave us,” Sorhatani said, waving her hand to dismiss him. He closed the door carefully behind him, and Sorhatani let out a huge breath. Torogene was watching her with wide eyes.

“May all our battles go so smoothly,” Sorhatani said grimly.

Baidur rode north with a fierce pride in his heart, leaving Tsubodai and Batu behind. He suspected that Ilugei would report back his every action, but he was not daunted by thought of close scrutiny. His father, Chagatai, had trained him in every discipline and tactic—and his father was a son of Genghis Khan. Baidur had not gone into the wilderness unprepared. He just hoped he would have the chance to use some of the things he had packed onto spare horses. Tsubodai had given his approval to leave carts behind. The vast herd of ponies that traveled with a tuman could carry almost anything except the spars of heavy catapults.

It was difficult to smother his visible joy as he rode with two tumans through lands he had never imagined. They covered around sixty miles a day, by the best reckoning. Speed was important, Tsubodai had made that clear enough, but Baidur could not leave armies in his wake. That was why he had taken a path almost true north of the Carpathian Mountains. Once he was in position, he would drive west in concert with Tsubodai, breaking anything that stood in his way. His men had begun to scour the land clear as they reached a position with Krakow to the west and the city of Lublin ahead of them.

As Baidur reined in, he stared at the walls of Lublin with a sour expression. The land around him was barren in winter, the fields black and bare. He dismounted to feel the soil, crumbling the black muck in his hands before moving on. It was good land. Only rich earth and horses could excite a real greed in him. Gold and palaces meant nothing at all; his father had taught him that much. Baidur had never heard of Krakow until Tsubodai had given him the name, but he hungered to claim the Polish principalities for the khan. It was even possible that Ogedai would reward a successful general with a khanate of his own. Stranger things had happened.

Tsubodai had given him vellum skins with all he knew about the land ahead, but he had not yet had a chance to read them. It did not matter. No matter who he faced, they would be as wheat.

He mounted again and rode closer to the city. It was not long till sunset and the gates were closed against him. As he approached he saw the walls were shored up, showing the patches and marks of generations of poor repairs. In places, there was little more than a barrier of piled wood and stone. He smiled. Tsubodai expected speed and destruction.

He turned to Ilugei, who sat his mount and watched with an impassive expression.

“We will wait for darkness. One jagun of a hundred men will climb the walls on the other side, drawing their guards to them. Another hundred will go in and open the gates from inside. I want this place burning by sunrise.”

“It will be done,” Ilugei said, riding away to pass on the orders of the younger man.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Baidur and Ilugei moved at blistering speed across the landscape. No sooner had Lublin fallen than Baidur was urging the tumans onward to the cities of Sandomir and Krakow. At such a pace, the tumans came across columns of men marching to relieve cities already taken. Again and again, Baidur was able to surprise the nobles in the area, his twenty thousand routing larger forces, then hunting them down piecemeal. It was the sort of campaign Baidur’s grandfather had relished and his father, Chagatai, recounted in detail. The enemy were sluggish and slow to react against a knife thrust across their lands. Baidur knew there would be no mercy if he failed, from his own people or those he faced. Given the chance, the Poles would wipe out his tumans to the last man. It made sense not to meet them on their own terms or fight to their strengths. He had no reinforcements to call on, and he husbanded his tumans carefully, knowing he had to keep them intact, even if it meant refusing to engage.

He did not know the name of the man who led out the regiments of bright knights and foot soldiers against him near Krakow. Baidur’s scouts reported an army of around fifty thousand, and Baidur swore to himself when he heard. He knew what Tsubodai would want him to do, but he had never seen the race across the north as suicide. At least the Polish noble hadn’t retreated behind thick walls and dared them to take the city. Krakow was as open as Moscow and as hard to defend. Its strength lay in the massive army that gathered before it, waiting in camp for the Mongol tumans to attack.

Baidur rode dangerously close to the city with his senior minghaans, observing the formations of soldiers and the lie of the land. He had no idea whether the Poles presented a threat to Tsubodai, but it was for exactly this task that he had been sent north. Such an army could not be allowed to join forces with those in Hungary, but it was not enough to pin them down around Krakow. Baidur’s task was to tear a strip right through the country, to make sure that no armed force could consider moving south in support, not with such a wolf loose among their own people. Apart from anything else, Tsubodai would have his ears if Baidur ignored those orders.

Baidur rode to a small hill and stared at the sea of men and horses revealed to him. In the distance, he could see his presence had been marked. Polish scouts were already galloping closer, their weapons drawn in clear threat. Other men were mounting on the outskirts, ready to defend or attack, whatever his presence called for. What would his father do? What would his grandfather have done against so many?

“That city must be rich to have so many men guarding it,” Ilugei muttered at his shoulder.

Baidur smiled, making a quick decision. His men had almost sixty thousand horses with them, a herd so vast it could never remain in one place for more than a day. The horses stripped the grass like locusts, just as the tumans ate anything that moved. Yet each spare mount carried bows and shafts, pots, food, and a hundred other items the men needed for the campaign, even the wicker and felt for gers. Tsubodai had sent him well equipped, at least.

“I think you are right, Ilugei,” Baidur said, weighing his chances. “They want to protect their precious city, so they cluster around it, waiting for us.” He grinned. “If they are kind enough to stay in one place, our arrows will speak for us.”

He turned his pony and rode back, ignoring the enemy scouts who had come close while he sat and observed. As one of them darted in, Baidur drew an arrow smoothly, fitting it to his bowstring and loosing in one movement. It was a fine shot and the scout went tumbling. A good omen, he hoped.

Baidur left their shouts and jeers behind him, knowing the scouts would not dare to follow. His mind was already busy. With the stores on the spare horses, he still had almost two million shafts—each a piece of straight birch, well fletched—bundled in quivers of thirty or sixty. Even with such abundance, he had been careful to retrieve and repair as many as he could from the battles. They were perhaps his most precious resource, after the horses themselves. He looked at the sun and nodded. It was still early. He would not waste the day.

King Boleslav, Grand Duke of Krakow, drummed his gauntlet on the leather pommel of his saddle as he watched the vast cloud of dust that marked the movements of the approaching Mongol horde. He sat a massive gray charger, a beast of the breed that could pull a plow through the black earth all day without tiring. Eleven thousand knights stood ready to destroy the invader once and for all. To his left, the French Knights Templar stood ready in their livery of red and white over steel. Boleslav could hear their voices raised in prayer. He had archers by the thousand and, most important of all, he had pikemen who could stand against a charge with lances. It was an army to inspire confidence, and he kept his messengers close by, ready to ride to his cousin in Liegnitz with news of the victory. Perhaps when he had saved them all, his family would finally recognize him as the rightful ruler of Poland.

The Mother Church would still stand in his way, he thought sourly. They preferred the princes of Poland to waste their strength in squabbles and assassinations, leaving the church to grow fat and wealthy. Only the month before, his cousin Henry had sponsored a monastery for the new order of Dominicans, paying for it all in good silver. Boleslav winced at the thought of the benefices and indulgences Henry had earned as a result. It was the talk of the family.

In his silent thoughts, Boleslav offered up a prayer of his own.

“Lord, if I see victory today, I will found a convent in my city. I will set a chalice of gold on the altar of the chapel, and I will find a relic to bring pilgrims from a thousand miles. I will have a Mass offered for all those who lose their lives. I give you my oath, Lord, my troth. Allow me your victory and I will have your name sung across Krakow.”

He swallowed drily and reached for a small bottle of water on a thong hanging from his saddle. He hated the waiting and he still feared that the reports of his scouts were true. He knew they were prone to exaggerate, but more than one had come back with tales of a horde twice the size of his fifty thousand, a great ocean of uncountable horses and terrible invaders, carrying bows and lances like the trees of a forest. His bladder made itself felt and Boleslav winced irritably. Let the damned dogs come, he told himself. God would speak and they would learn the strength of his right hand.

Boleslav could see the dark mass of the enemy as they rode closer. They poured across the ground, too many to count, though he did not think it was the vast army his scouts had described. That thought brought the worry that there might be more out of sight. He had only one report from Russia, but it warned they were fiends for trickery, in love with the ambush and the flanking blow. None of that was in evidence as his pikemen held their position. The Mongol warriors were riding straight at his lines as if they intended to gallop through them. Boleslav began to sweat, fearing he had missed something in the battle plans. He saw the Knights Templar ready themselves to countercharge, safe for the moment behind the ranks of stolid pikemen. Boleslav watched intently as the pikes came down, the butts firmly grounded in the earth. They would stop anything, gut anyone, no matter how fast or fierce they were.

The Mongols came in a wide line, no more than fifty deep. As Boleslav stared, they bent bows and released. Thousands of shafts rose in the air above his pikemen, and Boleslav knew a moment of horror. They had shields, but they had thrown them down to hold the pikes against a charge.

The sound of arrows striking men clattered across the field, followed by screaming. Hundreds fell and the arrows kept coming. Boleslav counted twelve heartbeats between each colossal strike, though his heart was racing and he could not calm himself. His own archers replied with volleys and he tensed in anticipation, only to see the shafts fall short of the Mongol horsemen. How could they have such a range? His bowmen were good, he was certain, but if they could not reach the enemy, they were useless to him.

Orders snapped up and down the lines as officers tried to respond. Many of the pikemen dropped the massive weapons. Some reached for their shields, while others tried to balance shield and pike together, neither one serving its purpose. Boleslav cursed, looking over their heads to the commander of the Templars. The man was like a dog straining on a leash. They were ready to ride, but the pikemen were still blocking the Templars’ path into the enemy. There could be no smooth maneuver as the foot soldiers pulled aside and let the Templars thunder through. Instead, they lay in tangled heaps of men and pikes like thorns, cowering under their shields as the arrows flew and thumped into them.

Boleslav swore, his voice cracking. His messengers looked up, but he had not spoken for them. He had seen armies all his life. He owed his power to the battles he had fought and won, but what he was seeing made a mockery of everything he had learned. The Mongols seemed to have no directing structure. There was no calm center to order their movements. That would have been something Boleslav could have countered. Yet neither were they a rabble, with each man acting on his own. Instead, they moved and attacked as if a thousand guiding hands were over them, as if each group were completely independent. It was insane, but they shifted and struck like wasps, instantly responding together to any threat.

On one side, a thousand Mongol warriors clipped their bows to their saddles and lifted up lances, turning a sweep along the line into a sudden crash into the shields of the pikemen. Before Boleslav’s officers could even react, they were riding clear and unlimbering bows yet again. The pikemen roared in fury and raised their weapons, only to swallow the bitter shafts that came buzzing back at them.

Boleslav gaped in horror as he saw the scene repeated up and down the lines. He felt his heart leap as the Knights Templar struggled through, shouting and kicking to clear the way of wounded men. They would make order from chaos. It was their mission.

Boleslav could not know how many hundreds of his footmen had been killed. There was no respite in the attack, no chance to reform and assess the enemy tactics. Even as he realized they would not stop, two more waves of arrows came at close range, taking anyone who chose his pike over a shield. The sound of yelling, bawling wounded grew in intensity, but the Templars were on the move, beginning the slow, rhythmic trot that put the righteous fear of God into their enemies. Boleslav clenched his fist as they forced their horses through the last of the dazed pikemen, the heavy mounts increasing their speed in perfect formation. Nothing in the world could resist them.

Boleslav saw the Mongols lose their nerve as the knights met them head-on. A few of the smaller ponies were bowled over, hammered aside by greater weight. The Mongol riders leapt clear of their falling mounts, but they were hacked down by broadswords or trampled under hooves. Boleslav exulted as they began to fall back. The fluid movement of their units seemed to stall, so that they jerked and lost their smoothness. The Mongols snapped arrows at the knights, but the shafts skipped away from the heavy armor or even shattered. Boleslav felt the battle turn and shouted aloud, urging them on.

The Templars roared as they struck the Mongol tuman. They were men who had fought in muddy fields as far apart as Jerusalem and Cyprus. They expected the enemy in front of them to give way, and they dug in their heels and stretched into a gallop. Their strength was the unstoppable hammer blow, a strike to tear an army in half, to reach the center and kill a king. The Mongols collapsed, hundreds at a time turning and racing before the knights, the heels of their horses almost within reach of the great swords and heavy lances. The Templar charge pounded on for half a mile or more, driving all before them.

•   •   •

Baidur raised his arm. The minghaans had been watching for his signal, the moment that was his to choose. They snapped orders along the line. Twenty men raised yellow flags high and roared to the jaguns of a hundred warriors. They passed the order down to tens. By eye or by ear, it spread like fire through straw, taking just moments. Out of the chaos came instant order. The jaguns peeled off to the flanks, letting the knights come without resistance. Some still ran ahead to draw them on, but the flanks were thickening as more and more men readied their bows.

The Templars had come far from their foot soldiers and their vicious pikes. Perhaps ten thousand of them had ridden out, a massive force, well used to victory. They had plunged deep into the Mongol tumans, carried by confidence and faith. The French knights stared out through slits in steel at the chaos of the Mongol retreat, and they cut hard with their swords at anything within reach. They saw the ranks splitting away to each side of them, but they still drove forward, focused on punching right through the enemy and reaching their leader, whoever he was.

From both sides, thousands of Mongol archers ceased their frightened yelling and placed arrows on the strings of bows. With calm deliberation, they picked their targets, looking down the shafts at the plunging necks of the huge warhorses. From the front, the animals were armored in steel. The sides of their necks were either bare or covered in flapping cloth.

Baidur dropped his arm. All the yellow flags fell in response, almost as one. The bows thumped, releasing the vast tension of the full draw and sending shafts whirring into the mass of horses streaming past them. The targets were not hard to hit at close range, and in the first blows, horses collapsed in shock and pain, their throats pierced right through. Blood sprayed from their nostrils in great gusts as they screamed. Many of the archers winced, but they took another arrow from the quiver and sent it in.

The knights roared a battle challenge. Those struck only once dug in their heels and tried to wheel out of the storm coming from both sides. Their horses began to shudder, their legs trembling in agony. Hundreds of the mounts crashed down with no warning, trapping or crushing the knights on their backs. They found themselves on the ground, dazed and struggling to rise.

For a time, the Templar charge drove on, regardless of losses. It was no easy task to turn the weight of horses and armor aside, but as the destruction mounted, Baidur heard new orders roared across them. The man who gave them became the instant target of every archer in reach. His horse fell, bristling arrows, and the man himself was sent reeling, his head snapped back in its iron shell by the impact of a shaft. The visor was punched in, so that he was blinded by it. Baidur could see the man wrestling to pull it free as he lay on the ground.

The Templars turned, wheeling right and left into the body of archers flanking them. The charge split along a line, with each man taking the opposite path to the one in front. It was a parade-ground maneuver, one the Mongols had never seen before. Baidur was impressed. It brought the knights into hand-to-hand combat with the men who stung them, their one chance to survive the carnage the charge had become. They had lost speed, but their armor was strong and they were still fresh. They used the great reach of the lance points to smash in the ribs of his warriors, then the huge swords rose and fell like cleavers.

The Mongol riders danced their mounts around them. They were smaller and less powerful, but so much faster than the armored men that they could pick each shot with care. From close enough to hear the knights panting beneath their iron plate, they could send their ponies skipping aside, bend the bow, and send a shaft wherever they saw a gap or flesh. The longswords swung over them, or where they had been moments before.

Baidur could hear the guttural laughter of his men, and he knew it was partly in relief. The sheer size of the knights and their horses was frightening. It was like a cool breeze on the skin to see them flail. When the knights struck cleanly, each blow was terrible, the wounds mortal. Baidur saw one knight with a ragged tabard of red and white bring his sword down with such force that it cut a warrior’s thigh through and gashed the saddle beneath. Even as the warrior died, he grabbed the knight and pulled him down with him in a crash of metal.

The smooth volleys from the flanks had become a melee of yelling men and horses, a thousand individual struggles. Baidur trotted his pony up and down, trying to see how his men were doing. He saw one knight stagger to his feet and pull off a battered helmet, revealing long dark hair, sweat-plastered to his head. Baidur kicked forward and cut downward as he rode past, feeling the shock of impact right up his arm.

He held back, reining in his horse tightly as he tried to keep a sense of the battle. He could not join the attack, he knew that. If he fell, the command would drop to Ilugei’s shoulders. Baidur stood in his stirrups and surveyed a scene he knew he would never forget. All across a vast field, knights in silver armor fought and struggled against the tumans. Their shields were battered and broken, their swords lay where they fell. Thousands were killed on the ground, held down by warriors while others heaved at a helmet, then jabbed a sword into the gap. Thousands more still stood, unhorsed, bellowing to their companions. There was little fear in them, Baidur saw, but they were wrong. It was a time to be afraid. He was not surprised to see the tail of the charge begin to wheel, turning in a chaotic mass so that they could run back to the foot soldiers around Krakow. He gave new orders and eight minghaans moved to follow them, loosing arrows as the knights pushed their tired horses into a canter. There would not be many left by the time they reached a safe haven behind the pikes.

Boleslav watched in despair as the cream of the nobility were torn apart almost in front of him. He would never have believed the knights could fail against horsemen if he had not seen it with his own eyes. Those arrows! The force and accuracy was staggering. He had never seen anything like it on the battlefield. No one in Poland ever had.

His hopes were raised when he saw the rear turn back to the city. He had not been able to observe the extent of the destruction, and his mouth slowly fell open as he realized how few they were, how ragged and battered in comparison to the shining glory of those who had ridden out. The Mongols came with them even then, loosing their infernal shafts with smooth pulls, as if the knights were merely targets to be picked off.

Boleslav sent out a regiment of four thousand pikemen to protect their retreat, forcing the Mongols to stop in their tracks. The shattered remnant of the Knights Templar came trotting in, almost every man dusty and bleeding, wheezing as chest plates pressed too close on their ribs. Boleslav turned in horror as the Mongol tumans came closer. They would use lances at last, he realized. He had lost his cavalry shield and they would ride through to Krakow. He shouted for the pikes to be raised, but there was no charge. Instead, the arrows began again, as if the knights had never ridden out, as if the Mongols had all day to finish the killing.

Boleslav looked at the sun dipping down on the distant hills. An arrow struck his charger without warning, making it buck. Another hammered his shield, pushing it back into his chest with the impact. He felt a sick fear overwhelm him. He could not save Krakow. The knights had been reduced to a shadow, and only his peasant foot soldiers remained. He would be hard-pressed to save his own life. He signaled and his heralds blew retreat across the battlefield.

The light was already failing, but the Mongols continued their shooting as the pikemen began to withdraw. The exhausted Templars formed a thin line in the rear, taking arrows on their armor as best they could to prevent the withdrawal becoming a complete rout.

Boleslav moved into a canter. His messengers went with him, their heads down. Defeat hung on them all, as well as fear. Instead of sending letters of victory, he would be running to his cousin Henry, asking for his charity and his pity. He rode numbly, watching the shadows before him. The Mongols had annihilated the French Templars, to that point the greatest fighting force he had ever known. Who could stop them, if not the martial orders? Those knights had slaughtered hordes of Moslem heretics in and around Jerusalem. To see them torn apart in a single day shook his very foundation.

Behind him, the Mongols howled like wolves, hundreds at a time darting in and killing those who wanted nothing more than to retreat. The arrows continued to fall even after the light grew poor. Men were dragged off their saddles from behind, tumbling into the arms of men who laughed as they killed them, pushing and shoving one another to get in a kick or a blow.

As full darkness came, Baidur and Ilugei called back their men at last. The city of Krakow stood naked before them, and they walked their horses in as the moon rose.

The moonlight was strong, the air clear and cold as the yam rider galloped at full speed along the dusty track. He was weary. It was hard to keep his eyes open, and the ache in his lower back had become a jarring pain. A sudden panic gripped him as he lost count of the way stations he had passed that day. Had it been two or three? Karakorum was far behind, but he knew he would have to hand on the bag with its precious contents. He did not know what he had been given, except that it was worth his life. The man from Karakorum had appeared out of the darkness and thrust it into his hands, snapping hoarse orders. He had been galloping even before the man dismounted.

With a jolt, the scout realized he had almost slipped out of the saddle. The warmth of the horse, the rhythm of hooves, the bells that jingled under him, all of them lulled his senses. It would be his second night without sleep with nothing but the track and the horse for company. He counted again in his head. He had passed six of the yam way stations, changing horses at each one. He would have to hand over the bag at the next one, or risk falling on the road.

In the distance, he saw lights. They would have heard his bells, of course. They would be waiting with a horse and spare rider as well as a skin of airag and sweet honey to keep him going. They would need the other rider. He could feel exhaustion washing over him. He was done.

He slowed to a trot as he reached the stone yard in the middle of nowhere, the visible sign of the khan’s influence and power. As the yam staff clustered around him, he swung his leg over and nodded to the spare rider, little more than a boy. There had been a verbal message as well as the bag. What was it? Yes, he remembered.

“Kill horses and men if you have to,” he said. “Ride as fast and far as you can. This is for the hands of Guyuk alone. Repeat my words.”

He listened as the fresh rider said them all again in a rush, overcome with excitement. The bag was passed from hand to hand, a sacred trust, never to be opened until it reached its destination. He saw a stone seat in the yard, some sort of mounting block perhaps. He sank onto it gratefully, watching the lad begin his run before he allowed himself to close his eyes. He had never run so fast or far in his life, and he wondered what could possibly be so important.

TWENTY-EIGHT

The funeral pyre of the khan was an immense structure, half as high as the palace tower in the city behind it. It had been constructed quickly, using vast stocks of cedarwood from the cellars of the palace. They had been found there when Ogedai’s instructions were read. The khan had prepared for death and every detail of the ceremony had been set out long in advance. There had been other letters in the sealed package Yao Shu had presented to Torogene. The personal one to her had left her weeping. It had been written before Ogedai went on the Chin campaign, and it broke her heart to read the brash enthusiasm of her husband’s words. He had prepared for death, but no man can truly understand what it means to have the world go on without him, how it is for those who must live without his voice, his smell, his touch. All that was left were the letters and her memories. Karakorum itself would be his tomb, his ashes placed in a vault below the palace, there to rest for eternity.

Temuge stood on the green grass in robes of golden silk inlaid with blue. His back hurt him all the time, and he had to strain to look up at the top of the pyre. He did not weep for his brother’s son. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and thought deeply about the future as the first flames spread, charring the wood and releasing a cedar sweetness into the air that would carry for many miles with the smoke.

His mind drifted into the past as he stood there, doing his duty and being seen by the thousands watching. His people were not given to huge displays of grief, but there were many red eyes in the crowd of workers that had come out from Karakorum. The city itself lay empty, as if they had never given it life.

A son of Genghis lay in those flames, a son of the brother he had loved and feared, hated and adored. Temuge could barely remember the first days of being hunted, when they were all just children. It was so very long ago, though there were times when he still dreamed of the cold and the aching hunger. An old man’s thoughts often wandered back to his youth, but there was little comfort in it. His four brothers had been there then. Temujin, who would choose the vainglorious name of Genghis; Kachiun, Khasar, and Bekter. Temuge struggled to remember Bekter’s face and could not bring it to mind. His sister Temulun had been there as well, another one torn from life.

Temuge thought of the yam letter Yao Shu had shown him just that morning. His brother Kachiun was dead and he looked inside for a sense of grief, of loss, such as Torogene displayed in her weeping. No, there was nothing. They had grown apart many years before, lost in the difficulties and irritations of life that soured clean relationships. Of the seven who had hidden in a cleft in the ground, only he and Khasar remained as witnesses. Only they could say they had been there from the very beginning. They were both old men and he felt the aches in his bones every day.

He looked past the growing brightness of the wooden tower and saw Khasar standing with his head bowed. They had crossed the Chin nation together when they were young, finding Yao Shu when he was just a wandering monk, waiting for his future to come upon him. It was hard to remember ever being that strong and vital. Khasar looked oddly thin, Temuge noticed. His head seemed over-large as the flesh had sunk away in his face and neck. He did not look well at all. On an impulse, Temuge walked over to him, and they nodded to each other, two old men in the sunshine.

“I never thought he’d go before me,” Khasar murmured.

Temuge looked sharply at him and Khasar caught the glance. He shrugged.

“I’m an old man and the lumps on my shoulder are getting bigger. I didn’t expect to see the boy die before it was my time, that’s all.”

“You should get them cut out, brother,” Temuge said.

Khasar winced. He could no longer wear armor that pressed against the painful spots. Each night it seemed the growths had swelled, like grapes under the skin. He did not mention the ones he had found in his armpits. Just to touch them was painful enough to make him dizzy. The thought of enduring a knife sawing at them was more than he could bear. It was not cowardice, he told himself firmly. The things would go away in time, or kill him; one or the other.

“I was sorry to hear about Kachiun,” Temuge said.

Khasar closed his eyes, stiff with pain. “He was too old to be on campaign; I told him that,” he replied. “No pleasure in being right, though. God, I miss him.”

Temuge looked quizzically at his brother. “You’re not becoming one of the Christians now, are you?”

Khasar smiled, a little sadly. “It’s too late for me. I just listen to them talk sometimes. They curse a lot, I’ve noticed. That heaven of theirs sounds a bit dull, from what I’ve heard. I asked one of the monks if there would be horses, and he said we wouldn’t want them; can you believe that? I’m not riding one of their angels, I tell you that now.”

Temuge could see that his brother was talking to cover the grief he felt over Kachiun. Once more he looked for it in his own heart and found an emptiness. It was troubling.

“I was just thinking of the cleft in the hills, where we all hid,” Temuge said.

Khasar smiled and shook his head. “Those were hard times,” he replied. “We survived them, though, like everything else.” He looked at the city behind the furnace that hid the khan’s body. “This place would not exist if it hadn’t been for our family.” He sighed to himself. “It’s a strange thing to remember when there was no nation. Perhaps that is enough for one man’s lifetime. We have seen some good years, brother, despite our differences.”

Temuge looked away rather than remember his dabbling in the darker arts. For a few years of his youth, he had been the chosen apprentice of one who had brought great pain to his family, one whose name was no longer spoken in the nation. Khasar had been almost an enemy for those years, but it was all far away, half-forgotten.

“You should write this down,” Khasar said suddenly. He jerked his head to the funeral pyre. “Like you did for Genghis. You should make a record of it.”

“I will, brother,” Temuge said. He looked again at Khasar and truly saw the way he had withered. “You look ill, Khasar. I would let them cut you.”

“Yes, but what do you know?” Khasar said with a sneer.

“I know they can dose you with the black paste so you don’t feel the pain.”

“I’m not scared of pain,” Khasar said irritably. Even so, he looked interested and shifted his shoulders with a wince. “Maybe I will. I can hardly use my right arm on some days.”

“You will need it if Chagatai comes to Karakorum,” Temuge said.

Khasar nodded and rubbed his shoulder with his left hand. “That’s one man I’d like to see with his neck broken,” he said. “I was there when Tolui gave his life, brother. What did we get for it? A few miserable years. If I have to see Chagatai ride through those gates in triumph, I think I’d rather die in my sleep first.”

“He will be here before Guyuk and Tsubodai, that’s the only thing we know for certain,” Temuge said sourly. He too had no love for the lout his brother had fathered. There would be no grand libraries under Chagatai’s rule, no streets of scholars and great learning. He was as likely to burn the city as anything, just to make a point. In that regard, Chagatai was his father’s son. Temuge shuddered slightly and told himself it was just the wind. He knew he should be making plans to remove the most valuable scrolls and books before Chagatai arrived, just until he was certain they would be honored and kept safe. The very thought of a Chagatai khanate made him sweat. The world did not need another Genghis, he thought. It had barely recovered from the ravages of the last one.

•   •   •

Köten of the Cumans crossed the Danube in a small boat, a wherry with a surly soldier on the oars who made it fairly skim across the dark water. Köten wrapped himself tightly in his cloak against the cold twilight, lost in thought. He could not resist his fate, it seemed. The king had every right to ask for his men. Hungary had given them sanctuary, and for a time Köten thought he had saved them all. Once the mountains were behind them, he had dared to hope that the Mongol tumans would not run so far west. They never had before. Instead, the Golden Horde had come roaring out of the Carpathians, and the place of peace and sanctuary was no refuge at all.

Köten seethed as he saw the shore approach, a dark line of sucking mud that he knew would pull at his boots. He stepped out into shallow water, wincing as his feet sank into the stinking clay. The oarsman grunted something unintelligible and examined his coin closely, a deliberate insult. Köten’s hand twitched for his knife, wanting to cut a scar on the man that would remind him of his manners. Reluctantly he let his hand fall. The man rowed away, staring back at him with a curled lip. At a safe distance, the man shouted something, but Köten ignored him.

It was the same story across the cities of Buda and Pest. His Cuman people had come in good faith, been baptized as their lord ordered and made every attempt to treat the new religion as their own, if only for their survival. They were people who understood that staying alive was worth sacrifice, and they had trusted him. None of the Christian priests seemed to think it strange that an entire nation would suddenly feel the urge to welcome Christ into their hearts.

Yet it was not enough for the inhabitants of Bela’s cities. From the first days, there had been tales of thefts and murders by his men, rumors and gossip that they were behind every misfortune. A pig couldn’t take sick without someone claiming that one of the dark-skinned women had cursed it. Köten spat on the pebbled shore as he trudged along it. The previous month, a local Hungarian girl had accused two Cuman boys of raping her. The riot that followed had been put down with ruthless ferocity by King Bela’s soldiers, but the hatred was still there, simmering under the surface. There were few who believed she had been lying. After all, it was just the sort of thing they expected from the filthy nomads in their midst. They were rootless and they could not be trusted, except to steal and kill and foul the clean river.

Köten disliked his hosts almost as much as they apparently hated him and the presence of his people. They could not take up less room than they did, he thought in irritation, seeing the city of tents and shacks huddled along the river. The king had promised them he would build a new city, or perhaps expand two or three of those already there. He had talked of a ghetto for the Cuman people, where they could live safely among their own. Perhaps Bela would have kept his word if the Mongols had not come, though Köten had begun to doubt it.

Somehow the threat of the Mongols had only increased the tension between the local Magyars and his tribe. His people could not walk down a street without someone spitting at them or jostling the women. Every night, there were dead men left in the gutters, their throats slit. No one was ever punished if they were Cuman bodies, but the local judges and soldiers hanged his men in pairs and more if it was one of their own. It was a poor reward for two hundred thousand new Christians. There were times when Köten wondered at a faith that could preach kindness and yet be so cruel to its own.

As he made his way along the shit-strewn shore, the smell made him gag. The wealthy people of Buda had fine drains for their waste. Even the poor quarters in Pest had half-barrels on the corners that the tanners would collect at night. The Cuman tent-people had nothing but the river. They had tried to keep it clean, but there were just too many of them crowded along too short a stretch. Already there were diseases ripping through his people, families dying with red marks on their skin he had never seen at home. The whole place felt like an enemy camp, but the king had asked for his army and Köten was honor-bound, oath-bound to him. In that one thing, King Bela had judged his man correctly, but as Köten kicked at a stone, he thought there were limits even to his honor. Would he see his people slaughtered for such a poor reward? In all his life, he had never broken his word, not once. At times, when he was starving or sick, it was all he had left to feed his pride.

He made his way into the town of Pest, human excrement and clay making his boots heavy. He had promised his wife he would buy some meat before he came back to her, though he knew the prices would be hiked as soon as they recognized him or heard him speak. He tapped the hilt of his sword as he increased his stride and stood tall. He felt like a dangerous man to insult on that day. No doubt the next day would be different, but for a while he would let in a little of his anger. It kept him warm.

As Köten clambered up a muddy rise that opened onto the line of merchants’ stores that formed a street, he heard something crash to the ground nearby. The wind was in his ears and he turned his head to listen. There was a lamp in the front of the butcher’s shop, he saw, but the wooden shutters were already coming down over the serving hatch. Köten swore to himself and broke into a run.

“Wait!” he shouted.

He did not notice the men struggling together until they collapsed almost at his feet. Köten drew his sword in reaction, but they were intent on punching and kicking each other. One of them had a knife, but the other had his hand in a tight grip. Köten knew neither of them. His head came up like a hunting dog as more shouting sounded nearby. The voices were angry and he felt an answering anger. Who knew what had happened in his absence? Another rape, or simply the accusation of one against his brothers? While he hesitated, the butcher finally succeeded in heaving his shutters down, shoving a bar through them from the inner side. Köten hammered on the shutters with his fists, but there was no answer. Furious, he turned the corner.

Köten saw the line of men, no, the crowd of men, stalking down the muddy street in the darkness toward him. He jerked back round the corner in two quick steps, but they had seen him outlined against the setting sun. The howl went up instinctively as they saw a frightened figure run from them.

Köten moved as quickly as he could. He had lived long enough to know he was in real danger. Whatever had brought the men out as a mob could end with his head being crushed or his ribs broken. He heard their roar of excitement and he ran, heading back toward the dark river. Their boots sounded on the wooden walkway, thumping ever closer.

He slipped, his mired feet skidding on the wet ground. His sword vanished from his hand, falling on mud so soft that it made no sound at all. Someone crashed into him as he rose, and then they were on him, taking out their rage on the shadowy stranger who had shown his guilt by running. He struggled, but they kicked and stabbed with short knives, pressing him down into the filthy mud until he was almost part of it, his blood mingling with the blackness.

The men stood clear of the lifeless body on the bank of the river. Some of them clapped others on the back, chuckling at the justice they had meted out. They had not known the name of the broken thing that lay there. In the distance, they heard the shouts of the king’s officers, and almost as one they turned away and began to disappear into the shadows of the merchants’ quarter. The nomads would hear and be afraid. It would be a long time before they walked without fear through the cities of their betters. Many of the men were fathers and they went home to their families, taking the back alleys so that they would not come across the king’s soldiers.

The army that assembled in front of the city of Pest was vast. King Bela had spent days in a sort of frenzy as he came to appreciate what it took to field so many men. A soldier could not carry food for more than a few days at most before it slowed him down and made it harder to fight. The baggage train had taken every cart and workhorse in the country, and it spread across almost as much land as the massed ranks before the Danube. King Bela’s heart filled in his chest as he surveyed the host. More than a hundred thousand men-at-arms, knights, and foot soldiers had responded to the bloody swords that he had sent racing the length and breadth of Hungary. His best estimates were of a Mongol army half the size or less than the one he had been told to expect. The king swallowed yellow bile as it surged into his throat. He may have been facing just half the Golden Horde, but the reports coming to him from the north were of destruction beyond belief. There would be no armies coming to his aid from Boleslav or Henry. From everything he had learned, they were hard-pressed to survive the onslaught of the tumans raiding there. Lublin had certainly fallen and there was a single report that Krakow had followed it into flames, though Bela could not see how such a thing was possible. He could only hope that the reports were exaggerated, composed by frightened men. It was certainly not information to share with his officers and allies.

At that thought, he looked to the Teutonic Knights on his right, two thousand of them in their finest battle array. Their horses showed no sign of the mud churned up by the army. They shone in the weak sunlight and blew mist from their nostrils as they pawed the ground. Bela loved warhorses and he knew the knights had the very best bloodlines in the world for their mounts.

Only the left wing caused him to pause in his proud assessment. The Cumans were good horsemen, but they were still seething about the death of Köten in some grubby river brawl. As if such a thing could be laid at the king’s feet. They were an impossible people, Bela acknowledged to himself. When the Mongols had been sent back over the mountains, he would have to give more thought to the practicalities of settling so many Cumans. Perhaps they could be bribed to find a new homeland where they would be more welcome and less of a drain on the royal purse.

King Bela cursed under his breath as he saw the Cuman horsemen move out of place in the line. He sent a runner across the field in front of the city with a terse order to hold position. He scratched his chin as he watched the runner’s progress. In the distance, he saw the Cuman riders coalesce around the single man, but they did not stop. Bela let his hand fall in growing amazement. He turned in the saddle, gesturing to the closest of his knights.

“Ride to the Cumans and remind them of their oath of obedience to me. My orders are to stay in position until I give the word.”

The knight dipped his lance in answer and cantered with dignity after the first messenger. By that time, the Cumans had ruined the neat symmetry of the lines, their horses spreading over the field in no obvious formation. Bela sighed to himself. The nomads could barely understand discipline. He tried to remember the name of Köten’s son, who was meant to have command over them, but it would not come to mind.

They did not halt for the knight’s arrival, though by then they were close enough for Bela to see him holding his arms out. He might as well have tried to stop the tide, for they simply flowed around him, trotting with no urgency. Bela cursed aloud as he saw they were making for his own position. No doubt they wanted to renegotiate some part of their oath, or ask for better food and arms. It was typical of the filthy breed to try to squeeze an advantage from him, as if he were a grubby merchant. Trade was all they understood, he thought savagely. They’d sell their own daughters if there was gold in it.

King Bela glared as the Cuman horsemen rolled out, moving slowly across his army. His messengers were still coming in with the latest reports on the Mongols, and he deliberately busied himself with them, showing his contempt. By the time one of his knights cleared his throat and Bela looked up, it was to see Köten’s son staring at him. The king struggled again for the younger man’s name, but it would not come. There had just been too many details in the previous days for him to remember everything.

“What is so important that you risk the entire formation?” Bela snapped, already red in the face from suppressed irritation.

Köten’s son bowed his head so briefly it was almost a jerk. “My father’s oath bound us, King Bela. I am not bound by it,” he said.

“What are you talking about?” Bela demanded. “Whatever your concern is, this is not the place or the time. Return to your position. Come to me this evening, when we have crossed the Danube. I will see you then.”

King Bela deliberately turned back to his messengers and took another sheaf of vellum to read. He jerked his head up in amazement when the young man spoke again, as if he had not just been given his orders.

“This is not our war, King Bela. That has been made clear to us. I wish you good fortune, but my task now is to shepherd my people out of the way of the Golden Horde.”

Bela’s color deepened and the veins stood out on his pale skin.

“You will return to the lines!” he roared.

Köten’s son shook his head. “Goodbye, Your Majesty,” he said. “Christ bless all your many works.”

Bela took a deep breath, suddenly aware that the Cuman horsemen were all staring at him. To a man, they had their hands on swords or bows, and their faces were very cold. His thoughts whirled, but they were forty thousand. If he ordered the son killed, they could very well attack his royal guards. It would be a disaster and only the Mongols would benefit. His blue eyes grew still.

“With the enemy in sight?” Bela roared. “I call you oath breakers! I call you cowards and heretics!” Bela shouted at Köten’s son as he trotted away. Christ, why could he not remember the man’s name? His words might as well have been empty air. The king could only froth and rage as the Cumans peeled off in a mass of riders after their leader. They took a path that led around the great army of Hungary and back to the encampment of their people.

“We did not need goatherds in the ranks, Your Majesty,” Josef Landau said, with distaste. His brother knights growled their affirmation on all sides. The Cumans were still streaming across the main lines, and King Bela struggled to master his fraying temper. He forced a smile.

“You are correct, Sir Josef,” he replied. “We are a hundred thousand strong, even without those … goatherds. But when we have triumphed, there will be a reckoning for such a betrayal.”

“I would be pleased to teach the lesson, Your Majesty,” Josef Landau replied, his expression unpleasant. It was matched or exceeded by Bela’s own.

“Very well. Spread the word that I sent the Cumans from the field, Sir Josef. I do not want my men dwelling on their betrayal. Let them know that I chose to fight alongside only those of good Hungarian blood. That will raise their spirits. As for the nomads, you will show them the price of their betrayal. They will understand it in those terms, I am sure.” He took a deep breath to calm his anger.

“Now I am weary of standing here listening to the plaintive voices of cowards. Give the order to march.”

TWENTY-NINE

Tsubodai watched the army of King Bela begin to swarm across the river, the bridges black with men and horses. Batu and Jebe sat their mounts and stared out with him, judging the quality of the men they would face. Their horses whickered softly to themselves, munching at the grass. On the plains, spring had come early and it showed green through the last patches of snow. The air was cold still, but the sky was pale blue and the world was bursting with new life.

“They are good enough horsemen,” Jebe said.

Batu shrugged, but Tsubodai chose to answer.

“Too many,” he said softly. “And that river has too many bridges. Which is why we are going to make them work for it.”

Batu looked up, aware as always that the two men shared an understanding from which he was excluded. It was infuriating and clearly deliberate. He looked away, knowing they could both read his anger all too easily.

All his life he had been forced to scramble for everything he had achieved. Then the khan had dragged him up, promoting him to command a tuman in his father’s name. Batu had been honored publicly, and instead of his habitual hatred for the world, he had been forced to a new struggle, almost as painful as the first. He had to prove he was able to lead, that he had the skills and discipline men like Tsubodai took for granted. In his desire to prove himself, no one could possibly have worked harder or done more. He was young; his energy was almost infinite compared to the old men.

Batu felt torn as he looked at the orlok. One small, weak part of him would have given anything to have Tsubodai clap him on the shoulder and approve, just approve of him as a man and leader. The rest of him hated that weakness with such a passion that it spilled out, making him an angry companion for quieter souls. No doubt his father had looked up to Tsubodai once. No doubt he had trusted him.

It was part of growing up to crush that sort of need in yourself, Batu knew very well. He would never gain Tsubodai’s trust. He would never have his approval. Instead, Batu would rise in the nation, so that when Tsubodai was withered and toothless, he would look back and see he had misjudged the young general under his care. He would know then that he had missed the only one who could take the legacy of Genghis and make it golden.

Batu sighed to himself. He was not a fool. Even the fantasy of an old Tsubodai realizing his great error was a boy’s dream. If he had learned anything in manhood, it was that it didn’t matter what other people thought of him—even the ones he respected. In the end, he would patch together a life, with its sorry errors and its triumphs, just as they had. He tried not to listen to the inner need that wanted them to hang on his every word. He was too young for that, even if they and he had been different men.

“Let them get about half their number across the Danube,” Tsubodai was saying to Jebe. “They have … what? Eighty thousand?”

“More, I think. If they’d hold still, I could be certain.”

“Twice as many horsemen as we have,” Tsubodai said sourly.

“What about the ones who rode away?” Batu asked.

Tsubodai shook his head, looking irritated. He too had wondered why tens of thousands of riders would suddenly break from King Bela’s army before the march. It smelled of trickery, and Tsubodai was not one who enjoyed being fooled.

“I don’t know. They could be a reserve, or part of some other plan. I don’t like the idea of so many soldiers out of sight as we pull back. I’ll send a couple of men out to look for them, have them cross farther downriver and scout around.”

“You think they are some sort of reserve?” Batu asked, pleased to be part of the conversation.

Tsubodai shrugged dismissively. “If they don’t cross the river, I don’t care what they are.”

Ahead of them, King Bela’s army trotted and marched across the wide stone bridges of the Danube. They came in clear units, the movements revealing much about their structure and offensive capability, which was why Tsubodai watched with such interest. The different groups linked immediately on the other side, establishing a safe bridgehead in case of attack. Tsubodai shook his head slightly at seeing their formations. King Bela had almost three times as many trained soldiers as he did, if you didn’t count the ragged conscripts Tsubodai had brought with him. For three tumans to achieve victory over such a host would take luck and skill and years of experience. The orlok smiled to himself. He had a wealth of those things. More important, he had spent almost a month scouting the land around Buda and Pest for the best spot to bring them to battle. It was certainly not on the banks of the Danube, a line of battle so vast and varied that he could not control it. There was only one response to overwhelming numbers: remove their ability to maneuver. The largest army in the world became just a few men at a time if they could be squeezed through a narrow pass or across a bridge.

The three generals watched with grim concentration as the army of Hungary formed up on their side of the river. It took an age and Tsubodai noted every detail, pleased that they showed no more discipline than any of the other armies he had encountered. The reports from Baidur and Ilugei were good. There would be no second army coming from the north. In the south, Guyuk and Mongke had razed a strip of land as wide as Hungary itself, throwing back anyone who looked as if they could be a threat. His flanks were secure, as he had planned and hoped they would be. He was ready to drive through the central plains, against its king. Tsubodai rubbed his eyes for a moment. In the future, his people would ride the grasslands of Hungary and never know he had once stood there, with their future in the balance. He hoped they would throw a drop of airag into the air for him when they drank. It was all a man could ask for, to be remembered occasionally, with all the other spirits who had bled into the land.

King Bela could be seen riding along the lines, exhorting his men. Tsubodai heard hundreds of trumpets sound from the massed ranks, followed by streaming banners raised above their heads on lance poles. It was an impressive sight, even to men who had seen the armies of the Chin emperor.

Batu watched them in frustration. Presumably Tsubodai would share his plans with him at some point, perhaps when he was expected to risk his life to break that vast host of men and horses. His pride prevented him from asking, but Tsubodai had revealed nothing during day after day of cautious maneuvering and scout reports. The tumans and conscripts waited patiently with Chulgetei, just two miles back from the river.

Already the Magyar scouts had spotted the generals leaning on their saddle horns and observing. Batu could see arms pointing at their position and men beginning to ride out toward them.

“Very well, I’ve seen enough,” Tsubodai said. He turned to Batu. “The tumans will fall back. Slow retreat. Keep … two miles between us. Our footmen will have to run alongside the horses. Pass the word that they can hang on stirrups, or ride the spare mounts if they begin to fall behind and think they can stay in the saddle. The king has foot soldiers. They will not be able to force a battle.”

“Fall back?” Batu said. He kept his face calm. “Are you going to tell me what you have planned, Orlok Bahadur?”

“Of course!” Tsubodai said with a grin. “But not today. Today, we retreat from a superior force. It will be good for the men to learn a little humility.”

Sorhatani stood on the walls of Karakorum, looking along their length as the sun rose. For as far as she could see, teams of Chin laborers and warriors were building them higher, adding courses of limestone slabs and lime cement, before slathering more lime over it all in layer after hardening layer. There was no shortage of willing labor and they started early and stopped only when it was too dark to see. Everyone with a stake in the city knew that they must expect Chagatai Khan to come. He would not be allowed to enter, and there was no doubt then what would follow. His tumans would begin an assault on the walls of their own nation’s capital.

Sorhatani sighed to herself in the morning breeze. Walls would not stop him. Ever since Genghis had faced his first city, the tumans had been perfecting catapults, and now they had the gritty black powder capable of extraordinary destruction. She did not know if Chagatai’s artisans had followed the same paths, but it was likely he knew every detail of the latest cannons and barrel throwers. To her left, a platform for a field gun was being constructed, a squat tower capable of taking the weight and force of such a powerful weapon as it recoiled.

When he came, Chagatai would not have it all his own way, she had made sure of that. The city would belch fire at him, and perhaps a tongue of righteous flame would end the threat before he broke the walls and entered the city.

Almost from habit, Sorhatani counted the days since the khan’s death. Twelve. She had closed the yam station in the city as soon as her own message had gone out to Guyuk, but the system was flawed. Another chain of way stations stretched west from Karakorum to Chagatai’s khanate, fifteen hundred miles or more. A rider from the city had to reach only one link in the chain and the resources of the precious yam could be used to send Chagatai word of the khan’s death. She thought over the distances again in her head. At the best speed, he would not hear for another six days. She had gone over the figures with Yao Shu as they began to fortify the city. Even if Chagatai set out immediately, if he ran to his horse and had his tumans standing by, he could not bring his tumans back for another month after that, more likely two. He would have to follow the yam route around the edge of the Taklamakan Desert.

At the best guess, Chagatai Khan would arrive in midsummer. Sorhatani shaded her eyes to look at the progress of the workers on the walls, their faces and hands gray with wet lime. By summer Karakorum would bristle with cannon, on walls wide enough to hold them.

Sorhatani reached down and crumbled a piece of chalky stone in her hands, rubbing it to dust and then slapping her palms together. There was a great deal still to do before then. She and Torogene were holding the empire together with little more than spit and confidence. Until Guyuk brought the tumans home and assumed his father’s titles, until the nation gathered to swear an oath to him as khan, Karakorum was vulnerable. They would have to hold the walls for two months, even three. Sorhatani dreaded the thought of seeing a red or black tent raised before Karakorum.

In a strange way, it was Ogedai’s triumph that the city had assumed such importance. Genghis might have called the nation to him, somewhere out of sight of the white walls. Sorhatani froze for a moment as she considered it. No, Chagatai did not have his father’s imagination, and truly Karakorum had become the symbol of the people’s ascendancy. Whoever would be khan had to control the city. She nodded to herself, ordering her thoughts. Chagatai would come. He had to.

She stepped lightly down steps set into the inside of the wall, noting the wide crest that would allow archers to gather and shoot down into an attacking force. At intervals, new wooden roofs sheltered spaces on the wall that would house quivers, water for the men, even fire-pots of iron and clay, filled with black powder. The city Guards were stockpiling food as fast as they could, riding out for hundreds of miles in all directions to commandeer the produce of farms. The markets and livestock pens had been stripped of their animals, the owners left with just Temuge’s tokens to be redeemed at a later date. The mood in the city was already one of fear, and none of them had dared to protest. Sorhatani knew there were refugees on the roads east, slow trails of families hoping to escape the destruction they saw coming. In her darker moments, she agreed with their conclusions. Yenking had held out against the great khan for a year, but its walls had been massive, the product of generations. Karakorum had never been designed to withstand an attack. That had not been Ogedai’s vision of a white city in the wilderness, with the river running by.

She saw Torogene standing with Yao Shu and Alkhun, all of them looking expectantly at her. Nothing went on in the city without passing through their hands. Her heart sank at the thought of another hundred problems and difficulties, yet there was a part that reveled in her new authority. This was how it felt! This was what her husband had known, to have others look to you, and only to you. She chuckled at the sudden image of Genghis hearing that his fledgling nation was ruled by two women. She remembered his words, that in the future his people would wear fine clothes and eat spiced meat and forget what they owed to him. She kept her expression serious as she reached Yao Shu and Torogene. She had not yet forgotten that fierce old devil with the yellow eyes, but there were other concerns and Karakorum was in peril. She did not think her right to the ancestral lands would last long once Chagatai became the khan of khans. Her sons would be killed as the new ruler made a clean sweep and put his own people in charge of the nation’s armies.

The future depended on stalling Chagatai long enough for Guyuk to come home. There was no other hope, no other plan. Sorhatani smiled at those who waited for her, seeing her own worries etched in their faces. The morning breeze lifted her hair, so that she smoothed it back with one hand.

“To work then,” she said cheerfully. “What do we have this morning?”

Kisruth cursed the sky father as he galloped, using one hand to feel the graze on his neck. He had never known the road thieves to be so bold before. He was still sweating with the shock of seeing a man step out into the road from behind a tree and grab at the satchel on his shoulders. Kisruth wrenched his neck back and forth, assessing the stiffness there. They had nearly had him. Well, he would tell old Gurban and let them see what happened then! No one threatened the yam riders.

He could see the ger that marked twenty-five miles of the run, and, as he always did, he tried to imagine one of the grand yam stations in Karakorum. He had heard tales from riders passing through, though he sometimes thought they exaggerated, knowing he hung on every word. Their own kitchen, just for the riders. Lamps at all hours and stables of polished oak, with row upon row of horses ready to race across the plains. One day he would see it and be honored among them, he told himself. It was a common dream as he rode back and forth between two stations so small and poor that they were barely more than a few gers and a corral. The city riders seemed to bring the glamour of Karakorum with them.

There was nothing like that at his home post. Gurban and a couple of crippled warriors managed it with their wives, and they seemed happy enough with so little. Kisruth had dreamed of taking important messages, and his heart still thumped at the words he had been given by an exhausted rider. “Kill horses and men if you have to, but reach Guyuk, the heir. His hands alone.” Kisruth did not know what he carried, but it could only be something important. He looked forward to handing it over formally to his brother and repeating the words to him.

He was irritated to see no one waiting as he came charging across the last stretch. No doubt Gurban was sleeping off the batch of airag his wife had brewed the week before. It was just typical of the old sot that the most important message of their lives should find him sleeping. Kisruth gave the bells a last flick with his hands as he dismounted, but the gers were peaceful apart from the line of smoke from one. Stiffly he strode across the open yard, yelling for his brother or any of them. Surely they could not all have gone fishing for the day? He had left them only three days before, taking a sheaf of minor messages down the line.

He kicked at the door of the ger and stood in the yard rather than go inside, his letter giving him confidence.

“What is it?” his brother said peevishly from inside. “Kisruth? Is that you?”

“Am I the one who has been shouting your name? Yes!” Kisruth snapped. “I have a letter from Karakorum, to go fast. And where do I find you?”

The door opened and his brother came out, rubbing his eyes. There were creases on his face from where he had been sleeping, and Kisruth struggled with his temper.

“Well? I’m here, aren’t I?” his brother said.

Kisruth shook his head. “You know what? I’ll take it on myself. Tell Gurban there is a family of thieves on the road east. They nearly had me off my horse.”

His brother’s eyes cleared at the news, as well they might. No one attacked the yam riders.

“I’ll tell him, don’t worry. Do you want me to ride on with that bag?” he said. “I’ll go now if it’s important.”

Kisruth had already made up his mind, and in truth, he was reluctant to see his part in the excitement end. It had not been hard to decide to go on.

“You go back to your sleep. I’ll take it to the next post.” He jerked back as his brother reached for his reins, wheeling the pony in the yard before his brother’s temper woke them all. Suddenly Kisruth just wanted to be gone.

“Tell Gurban about the thieves,” he called over his shoulder, kicking his mount into a gallop. It would be almost dark by the time he rode the next section, but they had good men there and they would be ready when they heard his saddle bells. His brother shouted incoherently behind him, but Kisruth was riding once again.

THIRTY

Day after day, the tumans of Tsubodai stayed just out of reach of the Hungarian riders. Batu had lost count of the Hungarian king’s attempts to bring them to battle. The foot soldiers on both sides slowed them down, but on the first day away from the Danube River, King Bela had sent twenty thousand horsemen out on the charge. Tsubodai had watched dispassionately as they closed on his rear lines until, with what Batu considered to be infuriating calmness, he ordered volleys of arrows, while the ragged conscripts grabbed saddle horns and let themselves be taken over a fast three miles, opening the gap once more. When the Magyar horsemen pressed too hard, they were met with swarms of dark arrows, shot with terrifying accuracy. The Mongol minghaans had a discipline their adversaries had never seen, able to take position in the teeth of a charge, shoot two volleys, and then turn to rejoin the main tumans.

The first day had been the hardest, with repeated lunges and attacks that had to be beaten back. Tsubodai had worked in a frenzy to keep the two armies separate as they marched, until Buda and Pest were lost to view. As the sun set that first night, he had smiled to see the huge walled camp Bela’s army built, almost a town in itself. The Magyar host lined sandbags to the height of a man in a vast square on the grasslands. They had carried the weight of them all the way from the Danube. In its way, it explained why they could not run the Mongols down. It confirmed Tsubodai’s impression of the king that only he and his most senior officers rested behind the security of the sandbag walls. The rest of his army camped in the open, as unregarded as any of his servants.

The Hungarian king might have expected to eat and sleep well in his command tent, but each night Tsubodai sent men with horns and Chin firecrackers to keep the Hungarian army awake. He wanted the king exhausted and nervous, while Tsubodai himself slept and snored, making his personal guards smile as they watched over his ger.

The following few days were less frantic. King Bela seemed to have accepted he could not make them turn and fight his host. The charges continued, but it was almost as if they were for show and dash, with knights pulling up with brandished swords and insults before triumphantly trotting back to their own lines.

The tumans rode on, retreating mile after slow mile. On broken ground, some of the horses went lame and were quickly killed, though there was never time to butcher them for meat. The foot soldiers running by their saddles were hardened, but even so a few of them picked up injuries. Tsubodai gave orders that anyone who fell behind was to be left with just a sword, but his tumans had worked and fought with the ragged conscripts for a long time. He turned a blind eye as they were heaved up behind warriors, or tied to a saddle on one of the spare mounts.

By the afternoon of the fifth day, they had covered the best part of two hundred miles, and Tsubodai had learned everything he needed to know about the enemy he faced. The Sajó River was in front of him, and he spent most of the morning giving orders about crossing the sole bridge. His tumans could not risk being trapped against the river, and it was no surprise that the Magyar riders began to press more closely over the morning. They knew the local land as well as anyone.

Tsubodai summoned Batu, Jebe, and Chulgetei to him as the sun passed the highest point in the sky.

“Jebe, I want your tuman to cross the Sajó River without delay,” he said.

The general frowned. “If I were the Hungarian king, I’d hit us now, with the river preventing us from maneuvers. He must know there is only one bridge.”

Tsubodai turned in the saddle, staring out over the thread of the river, just a few miles away. Already, Chulgetei’s tuman was being compressed on the banks. They could not stay there, up against the deep river.

“This king has driven us in triumph now for five days. His officers will be congratulating themselves and him. As far as he knows, we will run right to the mountains and be pushed back over them again. I think he will let us go, but if he does not, I will still have twenty thousand ready to show him his error. Go quickly.”

“Your will, Orlok,” Jebe said. He dipped his head and rode clear to pass on the order to his tuman.

Batu cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable in Tsubodai’s presence.

“Is it time to reveal your plans to lowly generals, Orlok?” he said. He smiled as he spoke, to take out the sting.

Tsubodai glanced at him. “The river is the key. We have run and run. They will not expect an attack, not now. They will press us when they see we are beginning to cross, but we will hold them with arrows. By nightfall I want them on this side and our tumans on the other. It is no more than this king would expect from such easily driven enemies.”

Tsubodai smiled to himself. “Once we are across the Sajó, I will need the last minghaan to hold that bridge. It is the only weak spot in my preparations, Batu. If that thousand is quickly overwhelmed, they will be on us and the choke point of the river bridge will have been wasted.”

Batu thought about the bridge, which he had seen on the first crossing, when the tumans came trotting toward Buda and Pest. It was a main road of stone, wide enough for a dozen horses to ride abreast. He could hold it for days against knights, but the Magyar archers would simply use the banks to send shafts in tens of thousands. Even with shields, whoever stood on that bridge would fall eventually. He sighed to himself.

“Is that your task for me, Orlok? Another suicidal stand that I should not survive? I just want to be sure I understand your orders.”

To his surprise, Tsubodai chuckled. “No, not you. I need you tomorrow before dawn. I will leave it up to you whom you send for the task. They cannot retreat under attack, Batu. Be sure they understand that. The Hungarian king must believe we intend to run clear, that we cannot face his host in the field. Holding that bridge will convince him.”

Batu tried to hide his relief as he nodded. In the distance, Jebe’s tuman was already on the move, riding as fast as they could through the narrow structure that spanned the river. A seasoned officer, Jebe allowed no delays, and Batu could see a growing stain of men and horses on the other side. He heard trumpets behind him and bit his lip as the Hungarian Magyars continued to close the distance.

“This will be bloody, Tsubodai,” he said quietly.

The orlok looked at him, judging his worth with cold eyes. “We will pay them back for our losses. You have my word. Now go and choose your men. Make sure they have torches to light the bridge at sunset. I don’t want any mistakes, Batu. We have a busy night ahead.”

Temuge paced the corridor outside the healer’s rooms. He was pale at the muffled cries he heard, but he could not go back in. The first cut into Khasar’s shoulder had released a white liquid that stank so terribly it had been all he could do to keep from vomiting. Khasar had remained silent then, but he had shuddered as the knife sliced deeper into his back, gouging him. The black paste was still thick on his tongue, and Temuge thought his brother was hallucinating when he began to call for Genghis. Temuge had left at that point, with his sleeve pressed over his mouth and nose.

The sunlight had darkened in the corridor as he paced, though the city was never quiet now, not even in the palace rooms. Servants trotted past in groups, bearing anything from food to building supplies. Temuge had to stand back when one group came with a huge beam of oak, for what purpose he did not know. His nephew’s woman, Sorhatani, had begun preparations for siege almost on the day Ogedai had fallen. Temuge sneered at the thought, wishing for a moment that Genghis could return to slap some sense back into her. The city could not be held, any fool could see that. The best they could hope for was to send an emissary to Chagatai to begin negotiations. The only living son of Genghis was not so powerful that words were useless, Temuge told himself. He had volunteered to begin negotiations, but Sorhatani had only smiled and thanked him for his suggestion before he was dismissed. Temuge seethed afresh at the thought. At the very moment when the nation needed his expertise, he had to deal with a woman who understood nothing. He resumed his pacing, wincing as Khasar cried out, worse than before.

The city needed a strong regent, not Ogedai’s widow, who was still so stunned with grief that she looked to Sorhatani for guidance. Temuge thought again of forcing the issue. How many times had he come close to ruling the nation? The spirits had been against him before, but now it felt as if the bones had been thrown into the air. The city was terrified, he could feel it. Surely this was a time when a strong man, a brother to Genghis himself, could seize the reins? He cursed under his breath at the memory of the senior officer, Alkhun. Temuge had tried to sound him out, to gauge his feelings about the two women running Karakorum. The man had known his purpose, Temuge was almost sure. Alkhun had shaken his head. Before Temuge could do more than broach the subject gently, the man had dismissed himself with extraordinary abruptness, almost rudeness. Temuge had been left in a corridor, staring after him.

His thoughts were interrupted as the healer came out, wiping blood and the white filth from his hands. Temuge looked up, but the Chin man shook his head in silence.

“I am sorry. The growths were too deep and there were too many. The general would not have lived much longer. He lost a great deal of blood. I could not hold him here.”

Temuge clenched his fists, suddenly angry. “What? What are you saying?” he demanded. “He’s dead?”

The healer looked at him sadly. “He knew there were many risks, my lord. I am sorry.”

Temuge shoved past him and went into the room, almost gagging at the stench of sickness there. He jammed his sleeve into his mouth once again as he saw Khasar staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy. The exposed chest was a mass of scars, white rope lines of a thousand battles, reaching down to his arms, which were thick with them, so that it barely looked like flesh. He saw again how thin Khasar had become, the bones showing clearly under tight skin. It was a relief that the healer had laid him faceup. Temuge had no wish to see those purple wounds again, not while the odor filled his lungs. He gagged as he approached his brother’s body, but he managed to reach out and close the eyes, pressing hard so that they remained shut.

“Who will look after me now?” Temuge muttered. “I am the last of us, brother. What did I ever do to deserve such a fate?” To his astonishment, he began to weep, the tears feeling hot against his cheeks.

“Get up, you fool,” he said to the body. “Just get up and tell me I am weak and pitiful for weeping. Get up, please.” He sensed the healer’s presence at the door and spun round.

“My lord, do you want—” the man began.

“Get out!” Temuge roared. “This is not your business!”

The healer vanished from the door, closing it softly behind him.

Temuge turned back to the figure lying on the bed. Somehow the smell had ceased to bother him.

“I am the last of us, Khasar. Bekter and Temujin and Kachiun, Temulun and now you. You are all gone now. I have no one left.” The realization brought fresh tears and he slumped into a seat. “I am alone in a city that waits to be destroyed,” he whispered.

For an instant, his eyes brightened with bitter rage. He had the right to inherit his brother’s line, not some bastard son who had been nothing but a trial to his father. If Temuge had commanded a loyal tuman, he knew Chagatai would not live to take Karakorum. Chagatai would burn all the books in Karakorum’s library, without understanding for a moment what treasures lay within. Temuge swallowed his grief and began to think and weigh his options. Sorhatani did not understand the stakes involved. Perhaps the city could be held if it had a man who understood its value, not a woman who had merely inherited her power through no talent of her own. Tsubodai would hear soon, and he despised Chagatai. The entire army would come east like a storm to defend the capital city. Temuge concentrated harder, weighing his decisions and choices. If the city survived, Guyuk would be grateful.

It felt as if his life had been preparing him for this point, this decision. His family was no more and without them he felt a strange freedom. With the last witnesses gone, his old failures were just ashes, forgotten.

There would be some who chafed under Sorhatani’s rule. Yao Shu was certainly one and Temuge thought the chancellor would know of others. It could be done before Chagatai arrived. Sometimes, power could change hands as quickly as a knife thrust. Temuge stood up and looked down at Khasar’s body for the last time.

“He will burn the books, brother. Why should I allow that? I was there in the beginning, when death was just a breath away. I promise I will not be afraid now, with your spirit watching me. I was born to power, brother. It is the way the world should be, not the way it has become. I am the last of us, Khasar. This is my time now.”

King Bela watched as the camp was set around him, beginning with his own tent. It was a magnificent affair of oiled struts and sturdy canvas against the wind. He could already smell the meal his servants were preparing. Standing at the center of it all, he felt a surging pride. His army had not needed the Cuman nomads to drive the Mongols back, day after day. Good Magyar steel and courage had been all that was required. It amused him to think he had herded the Mongol shepherds like one of their own flocks. He could regret that he had not driven them harder against the banks of the Sajó River, but they had not checked in their headlong retreat, barely pausing at the bridge before flowing across it. When he shaded his eyes against the setting sun, he could see the enemy tents, strange circular things that dotted the landscape across the river. They had none of the order and quiet efficiency he saw around him, and he relished the thought of the pursuit still to come. He had the blood of kings in his veins, and he felt his ancestors crying out to see the invader thrown back, broken and bloody on the mountains they had come from.

He turned as one of Von Thuringen’s knights came riding up to him. The Englishman was a rarity among their number, though Henry of Braybrooke was a renowned fighter and deserved his place.

“Sir Henry,” King Bela said in greeting.

The knight dismounted slowly and bowed. He spoke in French, both men fluent in that language.

“My lord, they are attempting to hold the bridge against us. Eight hundred, perhaps a thousand of them have sent their horses back to the others.”

“They would prefer it if we did not cross, eh, Sir Henry?” King Bela chuckled expansively. “They have felt our breath on their necks for days, and they would rather we left them to their retreat.”

“As you say, my lord. But it is the only bridge for a hundred miles or more. We must dislodge them tonight or in the morning.”

Bela thought for a moment. He was in a very good mood.

“When I was a boy, Sir Henry, I would collect limpets from the rocks near Lake Balaton. They would cling to the stones, but with my little knife, I would work them free for the pot! Do you follow me, Sir Henry?”

Bela laughed at his own wit, though the knight only frowned slightly, waiting for orders. The king sighed at such a stolid companion-in-arms. There was little humor in the ranks of knights, with their dour version of Christianity. A waft of roast pork reached them on the air, and King Bela clapped his hands together in anticipation, making his decision.

“Send archers, Sir Henry. Let them have a little sport, a touch of target play before sunset. Hit them hard and drive them back over the river. Is that clear enough for you?”

The knight bowed again. Sir Henry of Braybrooke had a boil on his leg that needed lancing and a sore foot that seemed to be rotting in its bandages, for all the unguents and poultices he tried. The meal he would enjoy would be a thin soup and stale bread, with perhaps a little sour wine to force it down his dry throat. He mounted carefully, stiff with his discomforts. He did not enjoy slaughter, though the godless Mongols deserved to be wiped from the face of the good earth. Still, he would follow the king’s order, honoring his vow of obedience to the knights.

Henry of Braybrooke passed on the king’s command to a regiment of archers, four thousand bowmen under a Hungarian prince he neither liked nor respected. He stayed just long enough to watch them begin their march to the bridge and then went to join the lines for soup and bread, his stomach growling.

Chagatai looked out into bright sunshine. In his right hand, he held a yellowed parchment that had traveled more than a thousand miles along the yam stations. It was stained and grubby from its journey, but the brief lines written there made his heart pound. The yam rider who had delivered it still held position with one knee bent, his presence forgotten the moment Chagatai had begun to read. In hastily scrawled Chin characters, the message was one he had both expected and almost dreaded for years. Ogedai had fallen at last.

It changed everything. Chagatai had become the last surviving son of Genghis Khan, the last in the direct line of the nation maker, the khan of khans. Chagatai could almost hear the old man’s voice as he thought through what lay ahead. It was a time to be ruthless, to snatch the power that had once been promised, that was his by right. Tears sprang to his eyes, partly in memory of his youth. He could be the man his father had wanted him to be at last. Unconsciously he crumpled the yellow papers.

Tsubodai would stand against him, or at least in favor of Guyuk. The orlok had never been in Chagatai’s camp. He would have to be quietly killed, there was no other way. Chagatai nodded to himself, the simple decision opening up other pathways into the days to come. He had stood in the palace of Karakorum with Ogedai and Tsubodai. He had heard his brother talk of Tsubodai’s loyalty, but Chagatai knew he could never trust the orlok. There was simply too much history between them, and he had seen the promise of death in Tsubodai’s hard eyes.

Karakorum was the key to the lock, he was certain. There was no history of direct descent of power, at least not in the tribes of the Mongol nation. The khan had always been chosen from those best suited to lead. It did not matter that Guyuk was Ogedai’s eldest son, or that Ogedai favored him, any more than it had mattered that Ogedai was not the eldest of the brothers. The nation knew no favorites. They would accept whoever held the city. They would follow whoever had the strength and will to take Karakorum. Chagatai smiled to himself. He had many sons to fill those rooms, sons who would make the line of Genghis stretch to the end of history. His imagination filled with a dazzling vision, an empire that would reach from Koryo in the east to the western nations, under just one strong hand. The Chin had never dreamed so far, but the land was vast and it tempted him to try to hold it all.

He heard footsteps behind him as his servant Suntai entered the room. For once, Chagatai had the news before his spymaster. He smiled to see the ugly face flushed, as if he had been running.

“It is time, Suntai,” Chagatai said, his eyes bright with tears. “The khan has fallen and I must gather my tumans.”

His servant glanced at the kneeling yam rider, and after a moment of thought, he copied the position with his head bowed.

“Your will, my lord khan.”

THIRTY-ONE

Guyuk leaned forward in the saddle, balancing a lance as he galloped along a forest path. Ahead of him, he could see the back of a Serbian horseman, risking life and limb at full speed through the woodland paths. Guyuk felt his right arm burn as the weight of the lance pulled at his muscles. He shifted his stance as he rode, rising on the stirrups so that he could soak up the impact in his thighs. The battle was over days before, but he and Mongke still pursued the fleeing forces with their tumans, riding hard and making sure there were so few left alive that they could never support the Hungarian king. Guyuk thought again of the numbers of ethnic Magyars he had found across the borders. Tsubodai had been right to send him south, where so many villages might have answered Bela’s call to war. They could no longer do so; his sweep across their lands had seen to that.

Guyuk cursed as he heard a distant horn. He was close enough to the Serb to see his terrified glances behind, but the general took his responsibilities seriously. He lifted the reins from where he had dropped them over the wooden saddle horn and pulled gently with his left hand. His pony steamed in the glade as he came to a halt and watched the terrified Serb rider vanish into the trees. Guyuk made an ironic salute with his lance, then jerked it into the air, catching it along its length and fitting it back into its sleeve by his leg. The horn sounded again, then a third time. He frowned, wondering what Mongke could have found that was so urgent.

As he rode back along the path, he caught glimpses of his men returning with him, coming out of the green gloom and calling to one another, boasting of their personal triumphs. Guyuk saw one of them waving a fistful of gold chains, and he smiled at the man’s expression, lifted by his simple joy.

When Tsubodai had given him his orders, Guyuk had worried it was some sort of punishment. It had been clear enough that Tsubodai was removing Batu’s closest friends. The drive across the south had not promised much in the way of glory. Yet if the recall was the first signal to rejoin Tsubodai, Guyuk knew he would look back on those weeks with intense affection. He and Mongke had worked well together, each man learning to trust the other. Certainly his respect for Mongke had grown over a short time. The man was tireless and competent, and if he did not have Batu’s flashes of brilliance, he was always where he was needed. Guyuk remembered his relief only a few days before, when Mongke had routed a force of Serbs that had ambushed two of his minghaans in the hills.

At the edge of the forest, there were rocky outcrops, and Guyuk picked his way past the broken ground as it merged with grassland. He could already see Mongke’s tuman forming up, as well as his own men coming in from all directions and taking their positions. Guyuk kicked his mount into a canter and rode across.

Even from a distance, Guyuk heard the jingle of bells that meant a yam rider had reached them. His pulse raced with excitement at getting news of any kind. It was too easy to feel isolated away from the main army, as if his battles and raids were the whole world. Guyuk forced himself to relax as he rode. Tsubodai would be calling them back for the final push to the west. Truly the sky father had blessed their enterprise, and he had never once regretted coming so far from the plains of home. Guyuk was young, but he could imagine the years ahead, when all those who had ridden in the great trek would share a special bond. He felt it already, a sense of shared danger, even of brotherhood. Whatever else Tsubodai had intended, the trek had forged bonds between the generals who had ridden with him.

As he rode up to Mongke, Guyuk saw that his friend was flushed and angry. Guyuk raised his eyebrows in unspoken question, and Mongke shrugged.

“He says he will speak only to you,” he said stiffly.

Guyuk looked in surprise at the young yam rider. He was travel-stained, though that was normal enough. Guyuk saw great patches of sweat on the rider’s silk tunic. He wore no armor, but carried a leather satchel on his back that he had to struggle to remove.

“My instructions are to give the message only into the hands of Guyuk, my lord. I meant no offense.” The last comment was directed at Mongke, who glowered at him.

“No doubt Orlok Tsubodai has his reasons,” Guyuk said, accepting the satchel and opening it.

The weary rider looked uncomfortable in the presence of such senior men, but he shook his head.

“My lord, I have not seen Orlok Tsubodai. This message came down the line from Karakorum.”

Guyuk froze in the process of pulling out a single folded parchment. The men watching saw him grow pale as he examined the seal. With a quick snap, he broke the wax and opened the message that had traveled almost five thousand miles to reach his hand.

He bit his lip as he read, his eyes traveling back to the beginning over and over as he tried to take it in. Mongke could not bear the strained silence.

“What is it, Guyuk?” he said.

Guyuk shook his head. “My father is dead,” he replied, dazed. “The khan is dead.”

Mongke sat still on his horse for only a moment, then dismounted and knelt on the grass with his head bowed. The men around him followed suit, word spreading among their number until both tumans were kneeling. Guyuk looked over their heads in confusion, still unable to take it in.

“Stand up, General,” he said. “I will not forget this, but I must return home now. I must go back to Karakorum.”

Mongke rose, showing no emotion. Before Guyuk could stop him, he pressed his forehead against Guyuk’s boot in the stirrup.

“Let me take the oath to you,” Mongke said. “Allow me that honor.”

Guyuk stared at the man looking up at him with such fierce pride in his eyes.

“Very well, General,” he said softly.

“The khan is dead. I offer you salt, milk, horses, gers, and blood,” Mongke replied. “I will follow you, my lord khan. I give you my word and my word is iron.”

Guyuk shuddered slightly as the words were echoed by the kneeling men around them, until they had been said by all. The silence held and Guyuk looked over them, beyond the horizon to a city only he could see.

“It is done, my lord,” Mongke said. “We are bound to you alone.” He mounted in one leap and began snapping orders to the closest minghaan officers.

Guyuk still held the yellow parchment as if it would burn him. He heard Mongke ordering the tumans north, to join Tsubodai.

“No, General. I must leave tonight,” Guyuk said. His eyes were glassy, his skin like wax in the sunlight. He barely noticed Mongke bring his horse alongside, or felt the grip as Mongke reached out to touch his shoulder.

“You will need the other tumans now, my friend,” Mongke said. “You will need all of them.”

Tsubodai crouched in the darkness. He could hear the river running close by. The air was filled with the odor of men and horses: damp cloth, sweat, spiced mutton, and manure, all mingling in the night air. He was in a grim mood, having watched a minghaan of warriors slowly cut to pieces as they tried to hold the river bridge on his orders. They had completed their task, so that darkness came without the main Magyar army crossing. King Bela had forced just a thousand heavy horse across in a bridgehead, establishing his position for the morning. They would not sleep, with Mongol campfires all around them. The sacrifice had been worthwhile, Tsubodai thought. King Bela was forced to wait for the morning before he could flood across the bridge and continue his dogged pursuit of the Mongol army.

Wearily, Tsubodai cracked his neck, loosening tired joints. He did not need to motivate his men with a speech or fresh orders. They too had watched the last stand of the minghaan. They had heard the cries of pain and seen the splashes as dying men tumbled into the waters. The Sajó River was running full and fast, and they drowned swiftly in their armor, unable to rise to the surface.

The moon was half full, casting its light over the landscape. The river shone like a silver rope, blurred into darkness as the tumans splashed through the shallow ford. This was the key to Tsubodai’s plan, the fording place he had scouted on the first crossing out of the mountains. Everything Bela had seen made him believe the Mongols were running. The way they had held the bridge showed its importance to them. Since then, Tsubodai had used the dark hours as the moon rose above the grasslands around the river. It was a gamble, a risk, but he was as tired of running as his men.

Only his ragged conscripts now held the land beyond the river. They sat around a thousand fires in the moonlight, moving from one to another and making it look as if a vast camp had been set. Instead, Tsubodai had led the tumans three miles to the north. On foot, they led their horses across the fording point, out of sight and sound of the enemy. He had left not a single tuman in reserve. If the plan failed now, the Hungarian king would storm across the river at dawn and the ragged levy would be annihilated.

Tsubodai sent whispered orders to hurry the pace. It took hours to get so many men across, especially as they tried to keep quiet. Again and again, he jerked his gaze up to the moon, watching its passage and estimating the time he had left before dawn. King Bela’s army was huge. Tsubodai would need the entire day to avenge his losses in full.

The tumans gathered on the other side of the river. The horses were snorting and whinnying to one another, their nostrils blocked by the grubby hands of warriors to muffle the sounds. The men whispered and laughed with each other in the darkness, relishing the shock that would ripple through the army chasing them. For five days they had run. Finally it was time to stop and hit back.

In the gloom, Tsubodai could see that Batu was grinning as he trotted up for orders. He kept his own face stern.

“Your tuman is to hit the vanguard of their camp, Batu, where their king rests. Catch them asleep and destroy them. If you can reach the sandbag walls, tear them down. Approach as quietly as you can, then let your arrows and swords shout for you.”

“Your will, Orlok,” Batu replied. For once, there was no mockery as he spoke the title.

“I will ride with the tumans of Jebe and Chulgetei, to strike against their rear at the same moment. They are certain of our position and they will not expect us tonight. Their walls are worse than useless, for they feel safe within them. I want them in panic, Batu. Everything depends on routing them quickly. Do not forget that they outnumber us still. If they are well led, they could rally and reform. We will be forced to fight to the last man, and the losses will be huge. Do not throw away my army, Batu. Do you understand?”

“I will treat them as if they were my own sons,” Batu said.

Tsubodai snorted. “Ride then. Dawn is close and you must be in position.”

Tsubodai watched as Batu vanished silently into the darkness. There were no signal horns or naccara drums, not with the enemy so close and unsuspecting. Batu’s tuman formed up without fuss, setting off at a trot toward the Hungarian camp. The Mongol carts and gers and wounded had remained behind with the conscripts, left to fend for themselves. The tumans were unencumbered, able to ride fast and strike hard, as they preferred.

Tsubodai nodded sharply to himself. He had farther to ride than Batu’s tuman, and time was short. He mounted quickly, feeling his heart beat stronger in his chest. It was rare for him to feel excitement, and he showed nothing in his face as he led the last two tumans into the west.

•   •   •

King Bela came awake, starting in his sleep at a crash of sound. He was covered in sweat and rubbed the last wisps of a nightmare from his eyes as he stood. In his blurred thoughts, he could hear the clash and screams of battle, and he blinked, becoming aware that the sounds were real. In sudden fear, he stuck his head outside the command tent. It was still dark, but he saw Conrad von Thuringen on his horse, already in full armor. The marshal of the Teutonic Knights did not see the king as he trotted past, shouting orders Bela could not make out over the tumult. Men were running in all directions, and out beyond the sandbags, he heard battle horns sound in the distance. Bela swallowed drily as he recognized a distant rumble that was growing louder and clearer with every passing moment.

He cursed and turned back to his tent, fumbling for clothes in the darkness. His servants were nowhere to be found, and he stumbled over a chair, hissing with pain as he rose. He pulled a pair of heavy trousers from the fallen chair back and yanked them on. It all took precious time. He grabbed the embroidered jacket of his rank, pulling it over his shoulders as he raced out into the night. His horse had been brought and he mounted, needing the height to see.

The first light of dawn had stolen upon them in those moments. The sky to the east was growing pale, and with a shock of horror, Bela could see his ranks boiling in utter chaos. The sandbag walls there had spilled across the grass, worse than useless. His own men were coming through the gap, driven back by the savage riders and arrows slaughtering them outside. He heard Von Thuringen bellow orders to his knights as they rode to shore up the defenses there. Desperate hope kindled in him.

The roar of drums began again and the king spun his charger on the spot. The Mongols were somehow behind him. How had they crossed the river? It was impossible, yet the drums rattled and grew.

Stunned, Bela rode through the camp, preferring to move rather than remain still, though his mind was a blank. His Magyars had breached their own camp boundaries in two places, pouring through them to what felt like safety. He could barely comprehend the losses they must have taken to be falling back in such a way.

As he watched, the holes widened and more and more crammed themselves behind the sandbags. Beyond them, the Mongols still tore into his bewildered men, sending them reeling with arrows and lances. In the growing light, there seemed no end to them, and Bela wondered if they had somehow hidden an army until then.

Bela struggled to remain calm as the chaos increased around him. He knew he needed to retake the perimeter, to restore the camp and marshal his men within the walls. From there, he would be able to assess the losses, perhaps even begin a counterattack. He bawled the order to the messengers, and they rode out through the milling horsemen, shouting the words to anyone who could hear: “Rebuild the walls. Hold the walls.” If it could be done, he might yet save the day from disaster. His officers would make order from the chaos. He would throw the tumans back.

The knights under Josef Landau heard him. They formed up and charged back across the camp in a solid mass. There were Mongols at the walls by then, and a hail of arrows buzzed through the camp. In such a crush, there was no need to aim. Bela could hardly believe the losses, but the knights struggled on like men possessed, knowing as he did that the walls were their only salvation. Von Thuringen led a hundred of his own armored men, the enormous marshal easy to mark with his beard and longsword.

The knights proved their worth to him then, Landau and Von Thuringen shattering the Mongols who had dared to enter the camp, driving them back toward the wide holes in the walls. They fought with righteous rage, and for once the Mongols did not have room to nip and dart past them. Bela watched with his heart in his mouth as the Teutonic Knights blocked one breach with their horses, holding shields against the arrows still pouring through. Landau was struck by something and Bela had a glimpse of his head lolling limp as his horse bolted away. For a moment, the knight struggled, his arms flailing, then he fell into the churned mud almost at Bela’s feet. There was blood coming from under his neck plates, though Bela could see no wound. Trapped and suffocating in his armor, Landau died slowly, his body buffeted by those running around and over him.

Unhorsed men yanked and sweated at the sandbags, rebuilding the walls as quickly as they could. The Mongols came again, using their horses to ride right up to the walls and then leaping over them, so that they landed tumbling. One by one, those intruders were killed, taken by the same regiment of archers who had assaulted the bridge the night before. Bela began to breathe more easily as the threat of imminent destruction receded. The walls were repaired, his enemies howling outside them. They had taken grievous losses, though nothing like his own. He thanked God he had built the camp large enough to shelter his men.

King Bela stared at the heaps of dead soldiers and horses piled around the edges. They were thick with shafts, some still twitching. The sun was high and he could not believe the time had passed so quickly since the first alarms.

From the back of his horse, he could see the Mongols were still pressing close to the walls. There was only one true gate and he sent archers to cover it against another attack. He saw Von Thuringen gather the knights there in a column, and Bela could only watch as they pulled down their visors and readied lances. At a bellow from Von Thuringen, the gate was pulled open. Almost six hundred kicked their chargers into a gallop and rode out into the storm. Bela thought he would not see them again.

He had the wits to send archers with full quivers to every wall. All around him, the snap of bows began, and he breathed faster as he heard guttural yells from outside. The Teutonic Knights were in their element, slicing through the Mongol riders, using weight and speed to cut them down as they roared and screamed outside the sandbag walls. Bela could hardly control his fear. Inside the camp, men and horses roiled in a crush, but a great part of his army had been slaughtered in their sleep. Outside, Bela heard the jeers and whoops of the Mongols suddenly choked off as Von Thuringen battered through them. He felt himself grow cold. He would not escape from this place. They had trapped him and he would die with the rest.

It seemed an age before Von Thuringen came back through the gate. The gleaming column of knights had been reduced to no more than eighty, perhaps a hundred. The men who returned were battered and bloody, many of them reeling in their saddles with arrows sticking out of their armor. The Magyar horsemen were in awe of the knights, and many of them dismounted to help them down from the saddle. Von Thuringen’s huge beard was stained with rusty blood, and he looked like some dark god, his blue eyes furious as they fell on the Hungarian king.

Bela needed guidance and he returned the gaze like a deer staring helplessly at a lion. Through the heaving mass of men, Conrad von Thuringen came riding, the marshal’s face as grim as his own.

Batu was panting as he rode up to Tsubodai. The orlok stood by his horse on a ridge of land that stretched across the battlefield, watching the battles he had ordered. Batu had expected the orlok to be furious at the way the attack had gone, but instead Tsubodai smiled to see him. Batu rubbed at a clot of mud sticking to his neck and returned the smile uncertainly.

“Those knights are impressive,” Batu said.

Tsubodai nodded. He had seen the bearded giant throw his men back. The Mongol warriors had been too close, unable to maneuver when the knights came charging out. Even so, the sudden attack had been unnerving for its discipline and ferocity. The knights had hacked their way through his men like tireless butchers, closing the gaps in their own ranks as arrows found them and sent them falling to the ground. Each one that fell took two or three warriors with him, grunting and kicking out until he was held and cut.

“There are not so many now,” Tsubodai replied, though the attack had shaken his certainties. He had not dismissed the threat of the knights, but perhaps he had underestimated their strength in the right time and place. That bearded maniac had found the moment, surprising his tuman just as they were howling for victory. Still, only a few knights made it back. When the volleys of arrows began to snap out from the walls, Tsubodai had given the order to retreat out of range. His own warriors had begun to return the shafts, but the deaths were unequal as Bela’s archers shot from behind a stable wall of sandbags. For an instant, Tsubodai had considered another charge to break the walls, but the cost would have been too high. He had them inside their own walls, weaker than any Chin fortress. He doubted they had enough water for so many crammed into the camp.

The orlok stared out across the plains with its heaps of bodies, some still crawling. The attacks had smashed the Hungarian army, shattering their overconfidence at last. He was pleased, but he bit his lip as he pondered how to finish the work.

“How long can they hold?” Batu asked suddenly, echoing his thoughts so closely that Tsubodai looked at him in surprise.

“A few days before their water runs out, no more,” he said. “But they will not wait until then. The question is how many men and horses, how many arrows and lances, they have left. And how many of those cursed knights.”

It was hard to make a good estimate. The grasslands were littered with the dead, but he could not know how many had survived to reach their king. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning up the image of the land as if he flew above it. His ragged conscripts were still across the river, no doubt staring balefully at the small contingent who had forced the bridge and held the other side. The king’s camp lay between Tsubodai and the river, trapped and held in one spot.

“Let me send a messenger to bring the foot soldiers back across the river,” Batu said, once again mirroring his thoughts.

Tsubodai ignored him. He did not yet know how many of his Mongol warriors had been killed or wounded that morning. If the king had saved even half his army, he would have enough left to force a battle on equal terms, a battle that Tsubodai could win only by throwing his tumans in hard. The precious army he had brought on the great trek would be reduced, battered against an enemy of equal strength and will. It would not do. He thought furiously, opening his eyes to stare at the land around the camp. Slowly he smiled, and this time Batu was not there before him.

“What is it, Orlok? Shall I send a messenger across the river ford?”

“Yes. Tell them to slaughter the king’s men across the river. We must retake that bridge, Batu. I do not want the king sending men to the river for water.”

Tsubodai tapped his boot on the ridge beneath him. “When that is done, I will pull my tumans farther back, another mile from this point. Thirst will make their decision for them.”

Batu could only look on in confusion as Tsubodai showed his teeth in what might have been a grin.

THIRTY-TWO

Temuge was sweating, though the air was cold in the courtyard of the palace. He could feel the hard length of the knife he had concealed under his robe. There had been no search of the men summoned there that morning, though he had made sure by hiding the weapon so that it chafed his groin and caused him to shift his weight.

In the distance, Temuge could hear hammering, the sound that filled his days. The fortification of Karakorum went on day and night, as it would do until the banners of Chagatai were seen on the horizon. If Sorhatani and Torogene held the city long enough for Guyuk to return, they would be praised above all women. Men would talk of the way they had girded Karakorum for war for generations to come. The name of Temuge, keeper of the khan’s libraries, would be forgotten.

He stared coldly at Sorhatani as she addressed the small crowd. Alkhun was there as the senior minghaan of the khan’s Guards. Temuge felt the man look strangely at him and ignored him. He breathed deeply of the cold air, thinking, planning, deciding. His brother Genghis had once walked into a khan’s ger and cut his throat. Genghis should not have survived it, but he had quieted the man’s tribe with words and threats. They had stopped to listen. Temuge burned at the thought that the men and women in the courtyard would stop and listen to him.

He fingered the hilt of the knife under his clothes. There was no destiny in life, nothing beyond what a man could take and hold for himself. Temuge had been witness to the bloody birth of a nation. Whether they understood it or not, they owed him their city, their lives, everything. If it had not been for Genghis, the men and women in that cold yard would still be grubby goatherds on the plains, with each tribe at the throat of the next. They were even living longer than the men and women he had known as a boy. Chin and Moslem healers had saved many from illnesses that had once been mortal.

Despite the surging anger, part of him was still terrified of what he planned. Again and again, Temuge let his hands fall open, telling himself the moment had passed: his moment in history. Then the memory of his brothers would surface, and he could feel them mocking his indecision. It was just a death, nothing more, certainly nothing to unman him in such a way. He felt sweat trickle down his neck and wiped at it, drawing the gaze of Yao Shu. Their eyes met and Temuge was reminded that he was not alone in his plotting. The chancellor had been more than open with him. The man hid a vicious hatred of Sorhatani that had led Temuge into revealing more of his thoughts and dreams than he had planned.

Sorhatani dismissed the officers of Karakorum to their day’s work and began to turn away. Torogene went with her, already discussing some detail.

“A moment, my lady,” Temuge said.

His mouth seemed to work without his volition, spitting out the words. Sorhatani was in a hurry and barely gestured for him to follow her as she stepped down and walked toward the cloistered hallway back into the palace rooms. It was that casual gesture that firmed his nerve with anger. To have such a woman treat him as a supplicant was enough to bring a flush to his features. He hurried to catch up with the women, taking strength from the presence of Yao Shu falling in with them. He glanced back at the open courtyard as they passed into shadow, frowning as he saw Alkhun was still there, staring after him.

Sorhatani had made a mistake in letting him come so close in the shadows. He reached out and took her arm. She shook off his grip.

“What do you want, Temuge?” she snapped. “I have a thousand things to do this morning.”

It was not a time for words, but he spoke to cover the moment as he reached for the knife under his deel robe.

“My brother Genghis would not want a woman to rule his lands,” he said.

She stiffened and he brought out the blade. Torogene gasped and took a step away, already panicking. Sorhatani’s eyes widened in shock. Temuge grabbed her with his left hand and drew back his arm to drive the dagger into her chest.

He felt his arm gripped with such strength that he stumbled and cried out. Yao Shu held him and the man’s eyes were cold with disdain. Temuge yanked at his arm, but he could not free himself. Panic spread through his chest, making his heart flutter.

“No,” he said. Spittle had gathered in two white specks at the corner of his mouth. He could not understand what was happening.

“You were right after all, Yao Shu,” Sorhatani said. She did not look at Temuge, as if he had ceased to matter at all. “I’m sorry to have doubted you. I just never thought he would truly be so stupid.”

Yao Shu tightened his grip and the dagger fell with a clatter on the stone floor.

“He has always been a weak man,” he replied. He shook Temuge suddenly, making him cry out in fear and astonishment. “What do you want done with him?”

Sorhatani hesitated and Temuge struggled to find his wits.

“I am the last brother of Genghis,” he said. “And what are you? Who are you to sit in judgment of me? A Chin monk and two women. You have no right to judge me.”

“He is no threat,” Yao Shu went on, as if Temuge had not spoken. “You could banish him from the khanate, send him far away like any wanderer.”

“Yes, send him far away,” Torogene said. She was shaking, Temuge saw.

Temuge felt Sorhatani’s gaze on him and he took a long, slow breath, knowing his life hung in her hands.

“No, Torogene,” she said at last. “Such a thing should be punished. He would not have shown mercy to us.”

She waited while Temuge swore and struggled, allowing Torogene the decision. Torogene shook her head and walked away, her eyes brimming.

“Give him over to Alkhun,” Sorhatani said.

Temuge shouted for help, suddenly desperate as he writhed against the grip that kept him helpless as a child.

“I was there when we found you in the forests, monk!” he spat. “It was I who brought you back to Genghis. How can you let my nephew’s whore rule over you?”

“Tell Alkhun to make it quick,” Sorhatani said. “I can do that much for him.”

Yao Shu nodded and she walked away, leaving the pair alone. Temuge crumpled as he heard footsteps approach and saw Alkhun come out of the sunlight into the shadowed cloister.

“You heard it?” Yao Shu said.

The minghaan’s eyes were furious as he took his own grip on Temuge’s shoulders, feeling the thin bones of an old man through the cloth.

“I heard,” he said. He had a long knife in his hand.

“Damn you both,” Temuge said. “Damn you both to hell.”

Temuge began to weep as he was dragged back into the sunshine.

By the second day after the night attack, Bela’s men had repaired the sandbag walls with broken carts and saddles from dead horses. His archers were on permanent alert, but they were already dry and gasping. There was barely enough water for a single swallow in the morning and evening for each man. The horses were suffering and Bela was desperate. He rested his chin on the rough canvas of a bag, staring out over the Mongol army that had camped nearby. They of course had access to the river and as much water as they could drink.

As he gazed out across the grassland, Bela struggled with despair. He no longer considered the reports from the north to be exaggerated. The Mongol general had far fewer men, but they had routed the superior force in a display of maneuver and tactics that made him burn. For the rest of that appalling first day, Bela had expected an all-out assault on the camp, but it had not come. He felt trapped there, crushed in among so many men and horses that they could hardly move. He could not understand why they had not come, unless they took some perverse pleasure in seeing a king die of thirst. They were not even threatening the camp and had moved back far beyond arrow range. Bela could just make out their movements in the distance. It gave a false sense of security to see them so far away. He knew from reports and his own bitter experience that they could move at incredible speed if they wanted.

Von Thuringen left a conversation with his knights to approach. The man had shed his armored breastplate, revealing scarred arms and a quilted jerkin, stained and filthy. Bela could smell the sweat and blood on him still. The marshal’s face was stern and Bela could hardly meet his eyes as Von Thuringen bowed stiffly.

“One of my men thinks he’s found a way out of this,” Von Thuringen said.

King Bela blinked. He had been praying for salvation, but the answer to prayers seemed unlikely in the huge bearded man before him, still matted with someone else’s blood.

“What is it?” Bela said, standing up and squaring his shoulders under the knight’s scrutiny.

“Easier to show you, Your Majesty,” Von Thuringen replied.

Without another word, he turned and pushed his way through the mass of horses and men. Bela could only follow, his irritation growing.

It was not a long journey, though the king was buffeted among the men and barely avoided being knocked down as a horse reared. He followed Von Thuringen to another section of wall and looked in the direction the marshal pointed.

“See there, three of my men?” Von Thuringen said flatly.

King Bela peered over the wall and saw three knights who had removed their armor, yet still wore the tabards of yellow and black that marked their order. They were standing in full view of the sandbag walls, but Bela saw how the land dipped before rising to the Mongol camp. There was a ridge there that ran west. Hope leapt in him as he considered the possibilities.

“I couldn’t risk horses in daylight, but in darkness, every man here could ride out below that ridge. With a bit of luck and if they keep their heads down, the Mongols will find an empty camp tomorrow morning.”

Bela bit his lip, suddenly terrified of leaving the fragile safety of the camp. “There is no other way?” he asked.

Von Thuringen drew his brows together, so that his eyebrows met. “Not without a supply of water. Not without a much larger camp and materials for the walls we need. We’re crammed so tight in here, we’d be worse than useless if they attacked. Be thankful they haven’t yet realized our weakness, Your Majesty. God has shown us the way, but it is your order to give.”

“Can we not defeat them in battle, Von Thuringen? Surely there is room to form up on the field?”

The marshal of the Teutonic Knights took a breath to control his anger. He was not the one who supposedly knew the lands around the Sajó River. His men could never have predicted a ford just a couple of miles downstream. The blame for the appalling losses was at the feet of the king, not his knights. It was all Von Thuringen could do to remain civil.

“Your Majesty, my knights would follow you to death. The rest, well, they are frightened men. Take this chance and let us get away from this damned camp. I will find another place where we can take revenge on the goatherds. Forget the battle, Your Majesty. A campaign is not lost because of a single bad day.”

King Bela stood, working a ring on his hand round and round. Von Thuringen waited impatiently, but eventually the king nodded.

“Very well. As soon as it’s dark enough, we go.”

Von Thuringen turned away, already issuing the orders to the men around him. He would organize the retreat, hoping that no Mongol scout wandered too close to the ridge that night.

•   •   •

As soon as the sun set, Von Thuringen gave the order to leave the camp. The final hours had been spent wrapping cloth around hooves to silence them, though the ground was soft enough. The Teutonic Knights supervised the first men who crept out in darkness and began to walk their mounts beneath the ridge, their hearts pounding at the thought of a shout from the enemy. It did not come and they moved quickly. The knights were the last out of the camp, leaving it abandoned in the moonlight.

Von Thuringen could see the Mongol campfires in the distance, and he smiled wearily at the thought of their finding the camp empty in the morning. He had spoken the truth to the king. The losses had been grievous, but there would be other days. Even if he accomplished nothing more than finding a good field for battle, it would offer better odds than dying of thirst behind sandbags.

As the night wore on, Von Thuringen lost track of the mass of men ahead of him. The first miles were an agony of suspense, but once the camp was far behind, the lines stretched out into a long trail of men over many miles as the faster ones outpaced the injured and slow. Even his knights felt it, a feverish desire to put some real distance between them and the Mongol army.

The marshal of the Teutonic Knights ached from the battering he had taken. Von Thuringen knew his flesh would be a colorful mass of bruises under his armor from arrow strikes. There was already blood in his urine. As he rode in the darkness, he considered what he had seen and did not enjoy the conclusions. There was another reason to preserve the Magyar army to fight again. If the reports from the north were true, they were the last army between Hungary and France that had a chance of stopping the Mongol invasion. The very thought appalled him. He had never thought to see such a threat in his lifetime. The nobles of Russia should have torn the enemy to pieces, yet they had failed and seen their cities burn.

King Louis of France would have to be told, Von Thuringen thought sourly. More important, the struggle for power between the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor would have to be put aside. None of them were safe until the true enemy had been destroyed. Von Thuringen shook his head as he urged his charger to a trot again. Somewhere ahead, the king of Hungary rode with his personal guard. Von Thuringen could have wished for a better leader at such a time, but that was the fortune he had been given. He would not fail after a single lost battle. He had suffered through defeats before and always returned to send the souls of his enemies screaming back to hell.

The first light of dawn was showing, and Von Thuringen could only guess how far he had come during the night. He was mortally tired and his throat was dry, the supply of water long gone. He knew he should look for a river as soon as there was enough light, to restore some strength to the horses and men. He reached down and patted the neck of his charger at the thought, murmuring words of comfort. If God was with them, the Mongols would not realize they had gone for a morning or longer. He smiled at the thought of them waiting patiently for thirst to drive the Magyars into their arms. It would be a long wait.

The tasks he faced rattled through his head as the light began to turn from silvery gray to gold. The priority was to find a river and drink their fill. The thought of fresh water made him work his lips, clearing them of thick spit.

As the light spread across the land, Von Thuringen saw a dark line on his right hand. At first he thought it was trees, or some outcropping of rock. Then, in a moment, the shadowy forms resolved and he froze, pulling on the reins.

Mongol warriors on horseback lined the path, with bows held ready. Von Thuringen tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. His gaze swept up and down the lines, seeing the thin trail of men ahead of him. By God, there was not even a herald to blow a warning horn! Only a few of his knights rode nearby, and they too reined in, looking back at him in grim realization.

The world held still for a long time, and in silent prayer, Von Thuringen made his peace, his final penitence. He kissed the ring on his finger with its holy relic for the last time. As he spurred his charger forward and reached for his sword, the arrows began to fly, the first ones keening through the air like screaming children. The Mongols fell upon the thin and broken line of escaping soldiers, and the butchery began in earnest.

Baidur and Ilugei returned to Hungary to find Tsubodai resting with his tumans. The mood of triumph was visible in every face they saw, and they were greeted with drums and horns. The tumans with Tsubodai knew the part Baidur had played in their own victory, and he was cheered as he entered the camp around the Danube.

The cities of Buda and Pest had been sacked over days, then looted carefully of anything that they needed or desired. Baidur trotted through streets of half-burnt houses, seeing stones that had been hot enough to shatter into rubble over the open road. Though King Bela had escaped, the army of Hungary had been slaughtered, almost too many to count. Tsubodai’s tallymen had collected sacks of ears, and some talked of sixty thousand dead or more. The scouts were already out roaming farther west, but for a season, the tumans could pause in the great trek, growing strong and fat on rich meat and stolen wine.

Tsubodai sent riders to Guyuk and Mongke to bring them in. Their flanking rides were ended and he chose to gather them all in one place, ready to push on to the sea.

Batu had seen the riders go out, and so he was surprised when one of his men brought him news of tumans coming from the south. It was too early for Tsubodai’s orders to have reached Guyuk, but he called to Baidur and they rode out of camp.

They were among the first to recognize the banners of Guyuk’s tuman. Batu laughed at the sight and dug in his heels, sending his pony galloping across the open grassland. There were many stories to tell and he anticipated enough drunken evenings to recount them all. As he and Baidur drew closer, neither man noticed the dark expressions on the faces of the returning warriors at first. There was no mood of jubilation in the tumans of Guyuk and Mongke. Guyuk in particular looked as grim as Batu had ever seen him.

“What is it, cousin?” Batu said, his smile fading.

Guyuk turned his head and Batu saw his eyes were red-rimmed and sore-looking.

“The khan is dead,” Guyuk said.

Batu shook his head. “Your father? How? He was still young.”

Guyuk looked at him from under lowered brows, forcing the words out. “His heart. I must see Tsubodai now.”

Batu and Baidur fell in at his side. Baidur had paled and he was lost in thought as they rode. He knew his father better than anyone, and he was suddenly afraid the men around him had become his enemies.

THIRTY-THREE

Batu stayed with Guyuk, Mongke, and Baidur as they entered the river city of Buda and made their way through the streets to the palace Tsubodai was using for his base. It was left to their senior minghaan officers to find lodging and food for the men in the ransacked city. The four princes rode to the royal palace and dismounted at the outer gate. They passed the guards without a challenge. The orlok’s officers took one look and chose discretion rather than the letter of their orders.

For once, Guyuk led the small group, with Batu striding at his right shoulder. They found Tsubodai in an empty ballroom, where a huge dining table had been dragged in and piled with maps and papers. The orlok was deep in conversation with Jebe, Chulgetei, and Ilugei. The other men were nodding as Tsubodai adjusted coins to show the position of tumans on the landscape. Batu took in the scene at a glance and smiled tightly to himself. It was a meeting of young and old, and for the first time, Batu was confident he could predict the outcome.

Tsubodai looked up as the four princes crossed the hall, their steps echoing in the space. He frowned at the sight of their stern expressions and stood back from the table.

“I did not summon you here,” he said. He was looking at Batu, but his gaze snapped over in surprise as Guyuk answered.

“My father is dead, Orlok.”

Tsubodai closed his eyes for a moment, his face stiff. He nodded to himself.

“Please sit down,” he said. His authority was so deeply ingrained that all four moved to the chairs around the table, though Batu held back, wanting to keep the impetus they had brought with them. Tsubodai spoke again before anyone else.

“Was it his heart?” he said.

Guyuk took in a breath. “So you knew then? Yes, it was his heart.”

“He told me, when he told his brother Chagatai,” Tsubodai replied. His eyes fell on Baidur as Guyuk turned in the chair.

“I knew nothing,” Baidur said coldly.

Guyuk turned back, but Tsubodai let his eyes remain on Baidur until the young man was shifting uncomfortably.

Tsubodai had a hundred things he wanted to say, but he controlled himself with an effort of will.

“What are your plans?” he asked Guyuk. The more detached part of him was interested to see how Guyuk would respond. Whatever remnant there was left of his youth had been suddenly strangled. Tsubodai looked at the young prince, understanding the quiet reserve he now saw. There was new weight on Guyuk’s shoulders, whether he wanted it or not.

“I am my father’s heir,” Guyuk said. “I must return to Karakorum.”

Once more Tsubodai looked to Baidur. The orlok grimaced, but the words had to be said.

“Are you aware of the threat from your uncle? He has a claim to the khanate.”

Neither man looked directly at Baidur as he flushed.

Guyuk cocked his head slightly in thought, and Tsubodai was pleased to see him weigh his response. There was no place for the foolish young man he had been, not any longer.

“The yam rider reached me a month ago. I have had time to consider it,” Guyuk said. “I will require an oath of allegiance from the tumans here.”

“That will have to wait,” Tsubodai said. “When we are finished here, you will summon the nation as your father did.”

Baidur shifted again and was ignored. His was an impossible position, but he was growing desperate to speak.

“I can let you have four tumans, leaving me only three,” Tsubodai said. “You must return in force to secure the khanate. Chagatai cannot put more than two, perhaps three, in the field.” He stared coldly at Baidur. “It is my recommendation that you have Baidur remain with me, rather than force him to choose between cousin and father.” He dipped his head to Baidur. “My apologies, General.”

Baidur opened his mouth, but he could not find the words. It was Batu who spoke next, for the first time. Tsubodai’s eyes and jaw tightened instantly at his voice, betraying an inner tension.

“You know Chagatai Khan better than any of us, except for Baidur. How do you think he will react when he hears the news?”

Tsubodai did not look at Batu as he replied, keeping his gaze locked on Guyuk. Every word seemed to be dragged out of him.

“If he is rash, he will take his tumans to Karakorum.”

“If he is rash … I see,” Batu replied, enjoying the discomfort he saw. “And what will follow, when Guyuk Khan returns home?”

“Chagatai will either negotiate, or he will fight. No one can know his mind.” Tsubodai clasped his hands on the table and leaned closer to Guyuk. “Believe me: Chagatai Khan is not the threat you believe.”

It looked as if he might go on, but then Tsubodai clamped his jaw and waited. The decision was not simply a military one. Batu could hardly control the quirking of his lips at seeing Tsubodai at a loss.

Guyuk let the men at the table sweat for a time before he shook his head.

“If you can offer me no more than that as assurance, Orlok, I must take the tumans home. All of them.” He glanced at Jebe and Chulgetei, but the older men were not part of the decision. Tsubodai had ultimate authority over the army, but this was not a military problem.

Tsubodai let out a long breath. “General, I have new maps that show lands that are not even legends to us. The city of Vienna is but a hundred miles farther west. The homeland of the Templar knights is beyond it. Italy is to the south. Already I have scouts in the mountains there, planning the next stage. This has been my life’s achievement.” He stopped himself rather than beg, as Guyuk gazed stonily at him.

“I will need all the tumans, Orlok Tsubodai. All.”

“You do not need the ragged conscripts. Leave me but those and two tumans and I will go on.”

Slowly, Guyuk reached out his hand and gripped Tsubodai’s shoulder. The gesture was one he would not have dreamed of making a month before.

“How could I leave you behind, Tsubodai? The general of Genghis Khan, at the time I need him most? Come home with me. You know I cannot allow you to stay. You will come back another year, when there is peace.”

Tsubodai stared at Baidur and his pain was visible to all. Baidur looked away rather than see. When the orlok’s gaze swept over Batu, his eyes blazed.

“I am an old man,” Tsubodai said. “And I saw the beginning of it all, when Genghis himself was young. I will not come back here again. I have spoken to prisoners. There is nothing between us and the ocean, nothing. We have seen their knights, Guyuk, do you understand? They cannot stop us. If we go on, the land is ours to take, sea to sea, forever. Sea to sea, General. Ours for ten thousand years. Can you imagine such a thing?”

“It is not important,” Guyuk said softly. “The homeland is where we began. I cannot lose all that for lands here.” He brought his hand back and his voice was steady.

“I will be khan, Orlok Tsubodai. I need you with me.”

Tsubodai slumped slowly in his chair, the energy draining from his face. Even Batu looked uncomfortable at the changes they had wrought in him.

“Very well. I will make them ready to ride home.”

•   •   •

Chagatai stood looking out at the river as the sun came up. The room was bare of furniture, the palace itself empty, beyond a few servants who would clean the rooms. He did not know if he would ever come back there again, and he felt a pang of loss at the thought. He heard footsteps approaching and turned to see his servant Suntai enter the room. The man’s scarred face was welcome, while Chagatai’s heart soared with visions.

“It is time, my lord khan,” Suntai said. His gaze fell to the crumpled parchment in Chagatai’s hand, read and reread a thousand times since it had come just days before.

“It is time,” Chagatai echoed. He took a last look at the sun rising, lighting the backs of a flight of geese rising from the still waters. In such a mood, he stared straight at the ball of gold on the horizon, daring it to burn him.

“I can be in Karakorum months ahead of him,” Chagatai said. “I will take the oath of our people as khan, but there will be war when he returns. Unless I take the example of my beloved brother Ogedai. What do you think, Suntai? Would Guyuk accept my khanate here in exchange for his life? Come, give me your counsel.”

“He may, my lord. After all, you did.”

Chagatai smiled, at peace with the world for the first time in years. “Perhaps I would be storing up trouble for the future, or for my son Baidur. I must think of his life now. By the spirits, if Guyuk would just die in his sleep, my path would be clear! Instead, I have sent him a hostage to my goodwill.”

Suntai knew his master well and he smiled as he came to stand behind him. “Guyuk may believe so, my lord, even Orlok Tsubodai, but will such a hostage truly stay your hand?”

Chagatai shrugged. “I have other sons. The prize is too great to turn aside for just one. Baidur will have to fight his own way out. After all, Suntai, I gave him my best warriors for his tuman. They have no equal in the nation. If he falls, I will grieve for him, but his fate is in his own hands, as always.”

Chagatai had not noticed Suntai’s soft boots in place of his usual sandals. He did not hear the final step. He felt a sting at his neck and choked in surprise, reaching up to his throat. To his astonishment, there was a terrible wrongness there. As he pulled his hand away, he saw it was covered in blood. He tried to speak, but his voice was lost to him and only creaked through the line that striped his skin.

“It is said that the kirpan dagger is so very sharp that little pain attends a death,” Suntai said. “I have never had the opportunity to ask. Its name translates as ‘hand of mercy’ for that reason.”

The servant leaned closer as he saw Chagatai’s lips move, though a low gargling was the only sound he could make. Suntai stood well back as his master sank to one knee, still clutching his throat.

“The wound is mortal, my lord. Try to be calm. Death is coming swiftly.”

Chagatai’s head sank slowly to his chest. His right hand came away bloody and reached for the sword on his hip, but he did not have the strength to draw it beyond the first gleaming line of steel.

“I was told to pass on a message to you, my lord, if there was a chance to do so. I have memorized the words. Can you still hear?”

Suntai watched as Chagatai fell forward in a clatter. Someone shouted nearby and Suntai frowned at the thought of what must come.

“The message is from Ogedai Khan, my lord, to be given at the moment of your death: ‘This is not vengeance, Chagatai. It is for my son. I am no longer the man who let you live. By my hand striking far, you will not be khan.’ ” Suntai sighed. “I have never been truly your servant, my lord, but you were a fine master. Go with God.”

Chagatai’s hands fell limp and his guards came storming into the room, drawing their blades as they saw Suntai kneeling and whispering into the ear of their master. He stood as they rushed toward him, his face peaceful as the swords swung.

On a cold, clear morning, Tsubodai mounted his horse and looked back. There were no clouds and the sky was a perfect blue. Seven tumans were waiting in formation, the best warriors of his nation. Behind them, the baggage and carts stretched for miles. He had taken generals, some of them almost boys, and he had shown them their strengths. Despite his flaws, Guyuk would be a better khan because of what he had learned on the great trek. Baidur would be more of a man than his father before him. Mongke would make his father’s soul proud.

Tsubodai sighed. He knew he would never see such an army again. Old age had crept up on him and he was tired. For a time, he had thought he could ride forever with the young men, the lure of the sea bringing him farther from home than he could once have dreamed. When Guyuk had called a halt, it was like a whisper of death in his ears, an ending. He stared into the distance, imagining cities with spires of gold. He knew their names, but he would never see them: Vienna, Paris, Rome.

It was done. He knew he would take arms if Chagatai challenged for Ogedai’s khanate. Perhaps he would see battle one last time. With the princes, he would take the field in glory and show Chagatai why Tsubodai Bahadur had been the general of Genghis Khan.

The thought lifted him for an instant, enough to raise his hand and drop it. At his back, the Mongol tumans began the journey of five thousand miles that would take them home at last.

EPILOGUE

Xuan looked out of the windows in a long cloister as he walked. Each one revealed a view of Hangzhou, with the river leading out into the bay. He had been moved often since coming into Sung lands, as if they could not think what to do with him. On rare occasions, he was even allowed to sail on the river, and he saw his wives and children twice a year, in strained meetings, with Sung officials watching on all sides.

The cloister ran along the spine of yet another official building. Xuan amused himself by timing his steps so that his left foot hit the stone at the center of each pool of sunlight. He did not expect great news from the summons. Over the years, he had realized the Sung officials delighted in demonstrating their power over him. Too many times to count, his presence had been demanded in some private office, only to find the official had no connection with the court. On two occasions, the men involved had brought their mistresses or children to observe as they fussed with permissions and the allocation of his small income. The meeting itself was irrelevant. They had just wanted to parade the Chin emperor, the Son of Heaven himself, for their wide-eyed dependents.

Xuan was surprised when the small group of officials did not stop at the usual branching corridors. The apartments of more important men lay beyond, and Xuan controlled the first stirring of excitement as they went farther and farther still. More than one door was open, as dedicated scholars and bureaucrats labored inside, peering out at the footsteps they heard. Xuan took a grip on his hopes. They had been dashed too many times to expect his letters to have been answered at last, though he still wrote every day.

Despite his forced calm, he felt his heart beat faster as the bowing servants brought him to the door of the man who administered the examinations for almost all the posts in Hangzhou. Sung Kim had taken the name of the royal house as his own, though Xuan suspected he had been born a commoner. As one who controlled the funds Xuan was given to maintain his small household, Sung Kim had received many of his letters over the years. Not a single one had been answered.

The servants announced him and then stood back with their heads bowed. Xuan walked into the room, pleasantly surprised to see how it opened up before him. The administrator lived in luxury, amidst sculpture and art of better than average taste. Xuan smiled to himself at the thought of complimenting Sung Kim. In such a way, he could force the odious little man to make him a present of whatever he admired, but it was just a spiteful thought. His upbringing would not allow him to be rude, despite his circumstances.

While other servants trotted away to announce his arrival, Xuan wandered from one painting to another, taking care not to linger too long on each. Time was something he had in abundance, and he knew Sung Kim would make him wait.

To his intense surprise, Sung Kim himself came out of the inner rooms almost immediately. Xuan inclined his head and accepted an equally brief bow from the other man. He endured the polite observances with his usual restraint, showing no sign of his mounting impatience.

At last he was guided into the inner rooms and tea was brought for him. Xuan settled himself comfortably, waiting.

“I have extraordinary news, Son of Heaven,” Sung Kim began. He was a very old man, with white hair and wrinkled skin, but his own excitement was visible. Xuan raised an eyebrow as if his heart did not beat harder with every moment. It was all he could do to remain silent.

“The Mongol khan is dead, Son of Heaven,” Sung Kim went on.

Xuan smiled, then chuckled, confounding the older man. “Is that all?” he said bitterly.

“I thought … I must offer my apologies, Son of Heaven. I thought the news would bring you great joy. Does it not signal the end of your time of exile?” Sung Kim shook his head in confusion and tried again. “Your enemy is dead, Your Majesty. The khan has fallen.”

“I meant no offense, Sung Kim. I have outlived two Mongol khans and that is indeed welcome news.”

“Then … I do not understand. Does it not fill your heart with happiness?”

Xuan sipped the tea, which was excellent.

“You do not know them as I do,” he said. “They will not mourn the khan. Instead, they will raise one of his sons and they will look for new enemies. One day, Sung Kim, they will come here, to this city. Perhaps I will still be a prisoner here when that time comes. Perhaps I will stare down from these very corridors as they bring their armies to the city walls.”

“Please, Son of Heaven. You are the guest of the emperor, never a prisoner. You must not say such things.”

Xuan grimaced and set his cup down gently.

“A guest can walk away when he pleases. A guest can ride without guards. Let us be honest with each other, Sung Kim.”

“I am sorry, Your Majesty. I had hoped to bring you joy, not sadness.”

“Be assured, you have done both today. Now, unless you wish to discuss my written requests, I will return to my rooms.”

The administrator bowed his head. “I cannot grant your desire to see your soldiers, Son of Heaven. Such things are far beyond my small powers.”

Xuan rose from his seat. “Very well, but when the new khan comes, they will be needed, strong and fit. You will need every man then, I think.”

It was Sung Kim’s turn to smile. The city of Hangzhou was ancient and powerful. It lay far from the border with the old Chin lands. The idea of an army ever coming close enough to cause concern was amusing.

HISTORICAL NOTE

The third son of Genghis was Great Khan for just twelve years, from A.D. 1229 to 1241. At a time when the Mongols were sweeping west into Europe, Ogedai’s death would be one of the crucial turning points of history. Western Europe could not have stood against them. The medieval castles there were no more daunting than walled Chin cities, and in the field, the Mongol style of fast-striking tactical warfare would have been practically unstoppable. It is no exaggeration to say that the future of the West changed when Ogedai’s heart failed.

We know Ogedai was still young and died only fourteen years after his father. We do not know why he built Karakorum—the son of a khan who not only despised cities, but who had spent his entire life demonstrating how weak a defense they actually were. Yet Ogedai built a city as the throne of empire. Contemporary descriptions of it do survive—for example, the words of a Christian friar, William of Rubruk. The silver tree was historical fact, as was its having shamanist temples, Islamic mosques, and at least one Nestorian Christian church.

It is hard to explain why Ogedai would build such a thing at all. One explanation that fits the facts is that he was a little like Cecil Rhodes, a man whose heart pain began when he was as young as sixteen. Before a heart attack finally killed Rhodes at forty-eight, he had built an empire for himself in Africa: a man driven to leave a mark, always knowing that he had little time to do it. Ogedai may well have had the same sense of urgency.

The second question is why he might build a city so influenced by those of the Chin—cities he had often seen burn. There, the influence of Yao Shu can be seen. Though Yao Shu was a real adviser to Ogedai, the character I have rendered is in fact an amalgam of two Chinese Buddhists from the period. I have not yet finished his tale. Worried by the khan’s heavy drinking, Yao Shu showed Ogedai how wine corroded an iron bottle. It is also true that Ogedai agreed to halve the number of wine cups he drank each day, only to have cups made that were twice the size. Buddhist advisers brought a sense of Chinese civilization to the Mongol court, subtly influencing each of the khans. As a result, cities would one day open their gates to Kublai as they never would have to his grandfather.

The Three Games of Men (Naadam) in Mongolia are wrestling, archery, and horse racing. The Naadam festival is indeed much older than the time of Genghis, though in previous centuries it was also a chance for tribes to horse-trade, mix bloodlines, gamble, and be told the future in divinations. The modern Naadam festival has women taking part in archery and the races, though not wrestling, which is still the men’s sole preserve. The description of the archery wall is accurate. Shots are taken from around a hundred paces, and archers compete in groups of ten, the smallest unit of Genghis’s army. Each archer has four arrows, and rather than judge individual shots, they must hit a certain number of targets to succeed. It is interesting that the archery tradition is one of teams, bearing in mind the martial nature of the sport and the vital role it played in the armies of Genghis Khan.

The horse races of the festival, which take place over three days, are all endurance races. In comparison to the West, endurance was the quality that made the khan’s armies mobile, and again it is interesting to see how that has remained the preeminent quality of equine greatness, rather than a burst of speed from a horse bred and built like a greyhound.

I have taken a small liberty with history in including a footrace. There’s no record of it, but it would have been a possibility. I have no doubt other events have come and gone before the current form, just as the modern Olympics used to include a tug-of-war competition from 1900 to 1920, won twice by Britain.

It is sometimes believed that Genghis left a will. If such a document ever existed, it has not survived. If it was an oral will, we do not know if it was given at the point of death or long before. Some versions of history have Genghis dying almost instantly, while others have him lingering for days after a fall or a wound, where he could easily have arranged his own legacy. Either way, it is generally accepted that it was Genghis Khan’s desire to have Chagatai inherit a vast khanate, while Tolui received the Mongol homeland. As the official heir, Ogedai inherited the northern Chin territories and whatever else he could win for himself. I have put that distribution in Ogedai’s hands, in part because it would have been his final choice, no matter what his father intended. If Ogedai had executed Chagatai then, the bloodlines of that part of the world would have been very different, down to the present day.

Instead, Chagatai Khan died just a few months after Ogedai in 1242. The exact manner of his death is unknown, though the incredibly fortuitous timing allowed me to write and indeed suspect that he was killed.

The earliest written formula for gunpowder is Chinese, from around 1044. It was certainly used in siege warfare during the period of Ogedai’s khanate. Handheld cannon of the sort I have described have been found dating back to Kublai Khan’s period. One of the earliest recorded uses was by the Mongols in the Middle East in 1260, but they certainly went back further than that.

They were the cutting edge of military technology for the period, effectively a hugely powerful hand weapon that fired stones or even a metal ball. Iron vessels filled with gunpowder and lit with a fuse would have made effective shrapnel grenades. We do know the Mongols encountered them first against the Chin and Sung—and were quick to adopt such terrifying weapons. In fact, it was the vast territory covered by Mongol armies that led to the proliferation of such weapons across the landmass.

That said, the formula for Chinese gunpowder was poor in saltpeter, so lacked some of the explosive punch we associate with the material. A rush of flame would have been more common, with batches of the mixture varying enormously among makers, regions, and periods.

The extraordinary incident that led to the death of Tolui is from The Secret History of the Mongols. On his only campaign in northern China, Ogedai fell ill and “lost [the use of] mouth and tongue”—a massive stroke, or perhaps grand mal epilepsy.

Mongol shamans and soothsayers made divinations, assuming that the spirits of the Chin were attacking the khan. They asked to be shown the correct sacrifice, and in response, Ogedai spasmed and suffered violent cramps. Using that response, they asked if a kinsman was needed. Ogedai then came round and drank water, asking to be told what had happened.

Prince Tolui did not have to be asked. The man who was father to Kublai and Mongke, both of whom would be khans, willingly gave his life to save his brother.

On the subject of slaughtering horses, I took the opportunity to speak to slaughtermen who had killed many hundreds of elderly horses over the years. In the preparation of kosher or halal meat, the animal needs to remain alive for the heart to pump out the blood. They begin by cutting the throat. One man I spoke to wanted a much faster kill, so he preferred an initial thrust to the heart, then drew the blade across the throat. Between 6 and 10 percent of a horse’s body weight will be blood. It’s a rough estimate, but in a Mongolian pony, that would be around forty pints of blood.

As the Secret History records, Tolui took poison rather than die by the blade, but I changed his ending. The bloody sacrifice of animals was part of the attempt to save Ogedai, and the two events seemed to fit together. His son Mongke was certainly present, though no exchange is recorded between them.

A quick note on the subject of distances: By Ogedai’s time, a network of way stations had been set up wherever Mongol influence extended. Set twenty-five miles apart on major roads, they were well furnished. With regular changes of horses, an urgent message could be taken a hundred miles in a day, if necessary by the same man. The riders wore belts of bells, so the way stations could hear them coming and have water, food, and a fresh mount waiting. A thousand miles in ten days was not only possible, but commonplace. Such lines of communication made the armies of the khans modern in a sense that no other force of the century could manage.

The shaman Mohrol is fictional, though of course the khan would have had diviners and shamans. In Mongolia it remains the case that an extra finger will mean a child is “chosen” to be a shaman. They do not hunt or fish and are supported by the tribes to be magic- and medicine-workers as well as keepers of history and tradition. They are men of power still.

The ancient Buddhas of Bamiyan in Afghanistan did exist. One was around 114 feet high, the other 165 feet. They were dynamited by the Islamic Taliban in 2001. There are still legends of a third, “sleeping Buddha” in the hills there.

Tsubodai’s campaign against the West lasted from around 1232 to 1241. Over that time, he encountered Russians, Bulgars, and Hungarian Magyars, took Buda and Pest, attacked Poland and modern-day Serbia, and sent scouts as far as northern Italy. In just one winter, over a period of two months, his tumans took twelve walled Russian cities. They had learned the use of catapults, ballistae, even a form of wall-smashing trebuchet in their wars against northern China. Russia had nothing capable of stopping the war machine of the Mongols.

It is true that Tsubodai preferred to campaign in winter and used the frozen rivers as a network of roads through the cities. Like Genghis before him, he and his generals were ruthless with fallen enemies, slaughtering vast populations. His one worry seems to have been the wide battlefront making it easy to flank or encircle his tumans. Time and again, he sent tumans out in sweeps into Poland, Hungary, or Bulgaria to clear the way of possible enemies.

The legendary French Knights Templar said at the time that there was no army between Tsubodai and France that could stop him. Yet even the death of Ogedai might not have halted Tsubodai had he not had the princes of the nation with him. Batu, Jochi’s son, was there, as was Guyuk, Ogedai’s son. Ogedai’s grandson Kaidu was also present. It was he who raided into Poland with Baidur and fought the extraordinary battle of Liegnitz, preventing the Polish armies from flanking the main attack against Hungary. I have not used Kaidu as a character here, for fear of the “Russian novel problem,” where every page brings new characters until the reader loses track. I did include Mongke in the campaign—he was there for most of it, including Kiev. Kublai was not present as one of the princes. He remained in Karakorum, studying Buddhism and establishing the Chinese influence that would dominate his adult life.

Jebe too was absent for that campaign, though I have kept him as a minor character. The Secret History does not tell his ending, unfortunately. As with Kachiun and Khasar, a once great leader simply slipped from the pages of history and was lost. Early death was common in those days, of course, and they almost certainly met their end through disease or injury, a death so ordinary as to be ignored by chroniclers.

Temuge did make a final, rash attempt to become khan after the death of Ogedai. It was unsuccessful and he was executed.

Interestingly, Sorhatani was given her husband’s rights and titles on his death. In that one decision, she instantly became the most powerful woman in the khanate—and in the world at that time. Three of her four sons would become khan through her influence and training. She supported Ogedai as khan and was consulted by him as the empire grew and became established. The one time she refused his wishes was when he offered to marry her to his son, Guyuk. She turned the offer down, preferring to concentrate her considerable energies on her sons. History confirms her wisdom in that matter.

When Tsubodai’s tumans entered Hungary over the Carpathian Mountains, he faced the armies of the Hungarian king Bela IV. That monarch had accepted 200,000 Cuman refugees from Russia. (The Cumans were a Turkic people similar to the Mongols in many ways.) In exchange for their conversion to Christianity, they were given a brief sanctuary. Their leader Köten was baptized and his daughter married King Bela’s son to seal the agreement. In exchange, King Bela was able to field an army of nomadic horsemen in addition to his own forces. He also expected help from the Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II, who was king of what is now Germany, Italy, Sicily, Cyprus, and Jerusalem, or perhaps Pope Gregory IX. However, they were locked in their own struggle for power, with the Pope excommunicating Frederick II and even declaring him the Antichrist. As a result, the king of Hungary was left to resist the Mongol invasion almost without support. He did have forces from Archduke Frederick of Austria, but they withdrew after the death of Köten in a riot. The Cumans also left.

It is true that King Bela sent bloody swords throughout his kingdom to raise the people. There is a record of Batu’s missive to the king, demanding that the Russian Cumans and their leader Köten be handed over. Batu’s message was stark and simple: “Word has come to me that you have taken the Cumans, our servants, under your protection. Cease harboring them, or you will make of me an enemy because of them. They, who have no houses and dwell in tents, will find it easy to escape. But you who dwell in houses within towns—how can you escape me?”

It is interesting to note that the demand was sent in Batu’s name. As a senior prince and son to Jochi, the firstborn of Genghis, he was in nominal command of the Golden Horde, as they were known. Yet it was Tsubodai who led them strategically and tactically. It was a complex relationship and it came to a head when news of Ogedai’s death finally reached them.

Budapest is around four and a half thousand miles west of Karakorum in the same landmass. Tsubodai’s extraordinary campaign took the Mongol tumans right across Kazakhstan, into Russia to Moscow and Kiev, and on into Romania, Hungary, Poland, Lithuania, Eastern Prussia, and Croatia. They were knocking on the door of Austria when Ogedai died. It was in fact the French king Louis IX who fixed a confusing name for the Mongols in European minds. As he prepared his armies to march, he told his wife that his soldiers would send the Tartars to hell, or the Tartars would send them to heaven. He deliberately punned on the Latin word for hell, Tartarus, and the erroneous name “Tartar” stuck for centuries as a result.

I have omitted a detailed description of the battle of Liegnitz, which took place as the climax of Baidur’s sweep through Poland. It is the nature of such a sweep that there are many battles, against varied opponents, but there is a limit to how many can be squeezed into a novel, even one about the Mongols. In history, Liegnitz is one of the few really well-known Mongol battles—omitting it is the equivalent of writing about Nelson without mentioning the Nile. For the sake of the plot flow, however, I think it was the right decision. At Liegnitz, Baidur used the feigned retreat, but he added the innovation of tar barrels that sent white smoke across the battlefield. This simple device prevented one half of a Polish army seeing what was happening to the other half. It could easily have been the climax of this book, but the other well-known battle is Sajó River and that was Tsubodai’s triumph.

Tsubodai’s final recorded battle combined not only a night attack and flanking maneuver, not only the masterful use of terrain in the way he made the river work for him, but also the now ancient trick of leaving a path for the enemy to escape, only to fall on him as he does. Tsubodai led three tumans across a ford to the south of the encamped Hungarian armies, sending Batu against the left flank at dawn, while the rest galloped farther to hit the Hungarian rear. King Bela was forced to take refuge in his night camp, while the Mongols caused chaos with firecrackers, burning tar in barrels, and shooting random arrows. They had gone from the prey to the hunter and made the most of it.

In the midst of the chaos, King Bela’s men saw a ridge of ground running west that lay out of sight of the Mongols. He tested the escape route by sending out a small number, watching as they rode to safety. As the day wore on, the king tried to send his entire army from the camp. In their panic, they lost formation and were strung out over miles. It was at that point that Tsubodai’s men attacked the column. He had scouted the ground. He knew the ridge and had deliberately left the route open to trap them. Depending on the source, the Mongol tumans slaughtered somewhere between forty thousand and sixty-five thousand of the Hungarian army, ending it as an entity for a generation or more. King Bela escaped the slaughter and fled to Austria. When the Mongols left, he went on to rebuild Hungary from ruins. He is still honored as one of Hungary’s great kings, despite his disastrous encounter with Tsubodai.

In many ways, it was a fitting end to Tsubodai’s military career, though of course he did not see it like that. Hungary was in ruins when the news came of Ogedai’s death and everything changed.

The brilliant tactical maneuvers of Liegnitz and the Sajó River were rendered void by the Mongol withdrawal. They are rarely taught outside military schools, in part because they did not lead on to conquest. Politics intruded on Tsubodai’s ambitions. If it had not, all history would have changed. There are not many moments in history when the death of a single man changed the entire world. Ogedai’s death was one such moment. If he had lived, there would have been no Elizabethan age, no British Empire, no Renaissance, perhaps no Industrial Revolution. In such circumstances, this book could very well have been written in Mongolian or Chinese.

BOOKS BY CONN IGGULDEN

EMPEROR: THE GATES of ROME

In the decadent city of Rome, two boys dream of glory in the mightiest empire the world has ever known. As Marcus proves his might during a bloody campaign in Greece, Gaius faces the deadly infighting of the Roman Senate. Now a bitter conflict that sets Roman against Roman will put their friendship to the ultimate test.

EMPEROR: THE DEATH OF KINGS

Julius Caesar’s soldiers are after a band of pirates who kidnapped Caesar for ransom. As Caesar exacts his revenge and builds a legend far from Rome, his friend Gaius Brutus is fighting battles of another sort. Once Brutus and Caesar were as close as brothers. Now, they will be united again to fight a cataclysmic battle for Rome itself.

EMPEROR: THE FIELD OF SWORDS

The time has come for Caesar to enter the political battleground of Rome. Strengthened by the love of an older woman, and by the sword of his loyal friend Marcus, Caesar forges his legend. Meanwhile, his political adversaries in Rome grow ever more powerful, leaving Caesar to face the greatest threat to him yet—a man who wants Rome for himself.

EMPEROR: THE GODS OF WAR

The year is 53 B.C. Fresh from victory in Gaul, Julius Caesar leads battle-hardened legions across the Rubicon river. The armies of Rome will face each other at last in civil war, and Julius Caesar will approach his final destiny—a destiny that will be decided not by legions but by his friend Brutus and an Egyptian queen named Cleopatra.

GENGHIS: BIRTH OF AN EMPIRE

Genghis Khan was born Temujin, the son of a khan, raised in a clan of hunters migrating across the rugged steppe. Shaped by abandonment and betrayal, he is driven by a singular fury: to survive in the face of death, to kill before being killed, and to conquer enemies who could come without warning from beyond the horizon.

GENGHIS: LORDS OF THE BOW

For centuries, primitive tribes have warred with one another. Now, under Genghis Khan—a man who lives for battle and blood—they have united as one nation, overcoming barriers, deceptions, and superior firepower only to face the ultimate test of all: the great, slumbering walled empire of the Chin.

GENGHIS: BONES OF THE HILLS

Stalked by enemies seen and unseen, Genghis Khan leads a force of horsemen beyond their known world. His brothers, sons, and commanders have made emperors bow, slaughtering vast armies of fighting men. But as Genghis enters a strange new land of towering mountains and arid desert, he stirs an enemy greater than any he has met before.

KHAN: EMPIRE OF SILVER

The Great Khan is dead. His vast empire hangs in the balance, an empire forged with raw courage, guile, unswerving dedication to his people, and the force of his own indomitable will. Now the very qualities that united the fierce Mongol tribes threaten to tear them apart, as the heirs of Genghis maneuver for dominance.

Available wherever books are sold | www.Connlggulden.com

Conqueror: A Novel of Kublai Khan is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2011 by Conn Iggulden

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Delacorte Press, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

DELACORTE PRESS is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Originally published in hardcover in the United Kingdom by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd., London.

Map copyright © 2011 by John Gilkes

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Iggulden, Conn.

Conqueror: a novel of Kublai Khan/Conn Iggulden.

p. cm.

eISBN: 978-0-345-53233-6

1. Kublai Khan, 1216–1294—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6109.G47C66 2012

823′.92—dc23      2011029727

www.bantamdell.com

v3.1

Contents

Master - Table of Contents

Conqueror

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Part I

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Part II

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Part III

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Historical Note

Glossary of Terms

Index of Characters

Acknowledgments

Other Books by This Author

To Clive Room

ONE

A STORM GROWLED OVER KARAKORUM CITY, THE STREETS and avenues running in streams as the rain hammered down in the darkness. Outside the thick walls, thousands of sheep huddled together in their enclosures. The oil in their fleeces protected them from the rain, but they had not been led to pasture and hunger made them bleat and yammer to each other. At intervals, one or more of them would rear up mindlessly on its fellows, forming a hillock of kicking legs and wild eyes before they fell back into the squirming mass.

The khan’s palace was lit with lamps that spat and crackled on the outer walls and gates. Inside, the sound of rain was a low roar that rose and fell in intensity, pouring as solid sheets over the cloisters. Servants gazed out into the yards and gardens, lost in the mute fascination that rain can hold. They stood in groups, reeking of wet wool and silk, their duties abandoned for a time while the storm passed.

For Guyuk, the sound of the rain merely added to his irritation, much as a man humming would have interrupted his thoughts. He poured wine carefully for his guest and stayed away from the open window where the stone sill was already dark with wetness. The man who had come at his request looked nervously around at the audience room. Guyuk supposed its size would create awe in anyone more used to the low gers of the plains. He remembered his own first nights in the silent palace, oppressed by the thought that such a weight of stone and tile would surely fall and crush him. He could chuckle now at such things, but he saw his guest’s eyes flicker up to the great ceiling more than once. Guyuk smiled. His father, Ogedai, had dreamed a great man’s dreams when he made Karakorum.

As Guyuk put down the stone jug of wine and returned to his guest, the thought tightened his mouth into a thin line. His father had not had to court the princes of the nation, to bribe, beg, and threaten merely to be given the title that was his by right.

“Try this, Ochir,” Guyuk said, handing his cousin one of two cups. “It is smoother than airag.”

He was trying to be friendly to a man he barely knew. Yet Ochir was one of a hundred nephews and grandsons to the khan, men whose support Guyuk had to have. Ochir’s father, Kachiun, had been a name, a general still revered in memory.

Ochir did him the courtesy of drinking without hesitating, emptying the cup in two large swallows and belching.

“It’s like water,” Ochir said, but he held out the cup again.

Guyuk’s smile became strained. One of his companions rose silently and brought the jug over, refilling both their cups. Guyuk settled down on a long couch across from Ochir, trying hard to relax and be pleasant.

“I’m sure you have an idea why I asked for you this evening, Ochir,” he said. “You are from a good family, with influence. I was there at your father’s funeral in the mountains.”

Ochir leaned forward where he sat, his interest showing.

“He would have been sorry not to see the lands you went to,” Ochir said. “I did not … know him well. He had many sons. But I know he wanted to be with Tsubodai on the Great Trek west. His death was a terrible loss.”

“Of course! He was a man of honor,” Guyuk agreed easily. He wanted to have Ochir on his side and empty compliments hurt no one. He took a deep breath. “It is in part because of your father that I asked you to come to me. That branch of the families follow your lead, do they not, Ochir?”

Ochir looked away, out of the window, where the rain still drummed on the sills as if it would never stop. He was dressed in a simple deel robe over a tunic and leggings. His boots were well worn and without ornament. Even his hat was unsuited to the opulence of the palace. Stained with oil from his hair, its twin could have been found on any herdsman.

With care, Ochir placed his cup on the stone floor. His face had a strength that truly reminded Guyuk of his late father.

“I do know what you want, Guyuk. I told your mother’s men the same thing, when they came to me with gifts. When there is a gathering, I will cast my vote with the others. Not before. I will not be rushed or made to give my promise. I have tried to make that clear to anyone who asks me.”

“Then you will not take an oath to the khan’s own son?” Guyuk said. His voice had roughened. Red wine flushed his cheeks and Ochir hesitated at the sign. Around him, Guyuk’s companions stirred like dogs made nervous at a threat.

“I did not say that,” Ochir replied carefully. He felt a growing discomfort in such company and decided then to get away as soon as he could. When Guyuk did not reply, he continued to explain.

“Your mother has ruled well as regent. No one would deny she has kept the nation together, where another might have seen it fly into fragments.”

“A woman should not rule the nation of Genghis,” Guyuk replied curtly.

“Perhaps. Though she has done so, and well. The mountains have not fallen.” Ochir smiled at his own words. “I agree there must be a khan in time, but he must be one who binds the loyalties of all. There must be no struggle for power, Guyuk, such as there was between your father and his brother. The nation is too young to survive a war of princes. When there is one man clearly favored, I will cast my vote with him.”

Guyuk almost rose from his seat, barely controlling himself. To be lectured as if he understood nothing, as if he had not spent two years waiting in frustration!

Ochir was watching him and he lowered his brows at what he saw. Once again, he stole a glance at the other men in the room. Four of them. He was unarmed, made so after a careful search at the outer door. Ochir was a serious young man and he did not feel at ease among Guyuk’s companions. There was something in the way they looked at him, as a tiger might look on a tethered goat.

Guyuk stood up slowly, stepping over to where the wine jug rested on the floor. He raised it, feeling its weight.

“You sit in my father’s city, in his home, Ochir,” he said. “I am the firstborn son of Ogedai Khan. I am grandson to the great khan, yet you withhold your oath, as if we were bargaining for a good mare.”

He held out the jug, but Ochir put his hand over the cup, shaking his head. The younger man was visibly nervous at having Guyuk stand over him, but he spoke firmly, refusing to be intimidated.

“My father served yours loyally, Guyuk. I too am a grandson of Genghis, though I will not be khan. Yet there are others. Baidur in the west …”

“Who rules his own lands and has no claim here,” Guyuk snapped.

Ochir hesitated, then went on. “If you had been named in your father’s will, it would have been easier, my friend. Half the princes in the nation would have given their oath by now.”

“It was an old will,” Guyuk said. His voice had deepened subtly and his pupils had become large, as if he saw only darkness. He breathed faster.

“Then there is Batu,” Ochir added, his voice growing strained, “the eldest of the lines, or even Mongke, the oldest son of Tolui. There are others with a claim, Guyuk. You cannot expect—”

Guyuk raised the stone jug, his knuckles white on the heavy handle. Ochir looked up at him in sudden fear.

“I expect loyalty!” Guyuk shouted. He brought the jug down across Ochir’s face with huge force, snapping his head sideways. Blood poured from a line of torn flesh above Ochir’s eyes as he raised his hands to fend off further blows. Guyuk stepped onto the low couch, so that he straddled the man. He brought the jug down again. With the second blow, the stone sides cracked and Ochir cried out for help.

“Guyuk!” one of the companions called in horror.

They were all on their feet, but they did not dare to intervene. The two men on the couch struggled. Ochir’s hand had found Guyuk’s throat. His fingers were slippery with blood and Ochir could not keep his grip as the jug came down again and again, suddenly shattering so that Guyuk held an oval of the handle, jagged and rough. He was panting wildly, exhilarated. With his free hand, he wiped blood from his cheek.

Ochir’s face was a red mash and only one of his eyes would open. His hands came up once again, but without strength. Guyuk batted them away easily, laughing.

“I am the khan’s son,” Guyuk said. “Say you will support me. Say it.”

Ochir could not speak. His throat was closed with blood and he choked violently, his body spasming. A gargling sound came from his broken lips.

“No?” Guyuk said. “You will not give me even that? That small thing? Then I am finished with you, Ochir.” He shoved the jagged handle down as his companions watched, appalled. The noise died away and Guyuk stood up, releasing his grip on the shards of stone. He looked down at himself in disgust, suddenly aware that he was covered in blood, from spatters in his hair to a great slick down his deel robe.

His eyes focused, coming back from afar. He saw the open mouths of his companions, three of them standing like fools. Only one was thoughtful, as if he had witnessed an argument rather than a killing. Guyuk’s gaze was drawn to him. Gansukh was a tall young warrior with a claim to being the best archer in Guyuk’s command. He spoke first, his voice and expression calm.

“My lord, he will be missed. Let me take him away from here while it is still dark. If I leave him in an alley of the city, his family will think he was attacked by some thief.”

“Better still they do not find him at all,” Guyuk said. He rubbed at spots of blood on his face, but without irritation. His anger had vanished and he felt completely at peace.

“As you say, my lord. There are new sewage pits being dug in the south quarter …”

Guyuk raised his hand to stop him.

“I do not need to know. Make him vanish, Gansukh, and you will have my gratitude.” He looked at the other men. “Well? Can Gansukh manage on his own? One of you must send my servants away. When you are asked, you will say Ochir left us earlier.” He smiled through the smeared blood. “Tell them he promised me his vote in the gathering, that he gave his solemn oath. Perhaps the fool can benefit me in death as he would not in life.”

His companions began to move and Guyuk walked away from them, heading to a bathing room he could reach without crossing a main corridor. For a year or more, he had not washed without servants, but the blood was itching his skin and he wanted to be clean. The troubles that had enraged him earlier that evening seemed to have fallen away and he walked with a light step. The water would be cold, but he was a man who had bathed in freezing rivers from a young age. It tightened the skin and invigorated him, reminding him he was alive.

GUYUK STOOD NAKED IN AN IRON BATH OF CHIN DESIGN, with writhing dragons around the rim. He did not hear the door open as he upended a wooden bucket and poured water over his head. The cold made him gasp and shudder, his flesh in gooseflesh and his penis shriveling. As he opened his eyes, he jumped at seeing his mother standing in the room. He glanced at the pile of clothes he had thrown down. Already the blood on them had mingled with the water, so that the wooden floor ran with red-tinged lines.

Guyuk put the bucket down carefully. Torogene was a large woman and she seemed to fill the small room.

“If you wish to see me, mother, I will be clean and dressed in a few moments.” He saw her gaze fall to the swirl of bloody water on the floor and he looked away, picking up the bucket and refilling it from the pink water in the bath. The palace had its own drains, specially constructed in fire-hardened tile by Chin experts. When he removed the stopper, the incriminating water would vanish under the city, mingling with the night soil and filth from the kitchens until no one would ever know. A canal ran by Karakorum and Guyuk supposed the water would empty into that, or into some pit where it could soak. He didn’t know or care about such details.

“What have you done?” Torogene said. Her face was pale as she stopped and picked up his tunic, sodden and twisted.

“What I had to,” Guyuk replied. He was still shivering and in no mood to be questioned. “It does not concern you. I will have the clothes burned.” Guyuk raised the bucket again, then tired of her scrutiny. He let it fall back and stepped out of the bath.

“I called for fresh clothes, mother. They should have been brought to the audience room by now. Unless you are going to stand and stare at me all day, perhaps you could fetch them.”

Torogene didn’t move.

“You are my son, Guyuk. I have worked to protect you, to gather allies for you. In a night, how much of my labor have you undone? Do you think I don’t know Ochir was invited here? That he has not been seen leaving? Are you a fool, Guyuk?”

“You have been spying on me, then,” Guyuk replied. He tried to stand tall and unconcerned, but the shivering grew worse.

“It is my business to know what happens in Karakorum. To know every deal and argument, every mistake, such as the one you made tonight.”

Guyuk gave up the pretense, exasperated at her lofty tone of disapproval.

“Ochir would never have supported me, mother. He is no loss to us. His disappearance may even be a gain, in time.”

“You think so?” she demanded. “You think you have made my work easier? Did I raise a fool, then? His families, his friends, will know he came to you unarmed and that he disappeared.”

“They have no body, mother. They will assume—”

“They will assume the truth, Guyuk! That you are a man who cannot be trusted. That alone among the nation, your offer of guest rights cannot make a man safe. That you are a wild dog capable of killing a man who has drunk tea with you in your own home.”

Overcome with anger, she left the room. Guyuk barely had time to consider what she had said before she was back, thrusting dry clothes at him.

“For more than two years,” she went on, “I have spent every day courting those who might support you. The traditionalists who might be approached on the grounds that you are the eldest son of the khan and you should rule the nation. I have bribed men with lands, horses, gold, and slaves, Guyuk. I have threatened to reveal their secrets unless I receive their votes at a gathering. I have done all this because I honor your father and everything he built. His line should inherit, not Sorhatani’s children or Batu or any of the other princes.”

Guyuk dressed quickly, pulling the deel robe roughly over a tunic and tying a belt around his waist.

“Do you want me to thank you?” he said. “Your plans and schemes have not made me khan yet, mother. Perhaps if they had, I would not have acted on my own. Did you think I would wait forever?”

“I didn’t think you would kill a good man in your father’s house. You have not helped me tonight, my son. I am so close. I do not know yet what damage you have done, but if this gets out …”

“It will not.”

“If it does, you will have strengthened the claims of every other man in line. They will say that you have no more right to this palace, this city, than Batu.”

Guyuk clenched his fists in frustration.

“It is always him. I hear his name every day. I wish he had been here tonight. I would have removed a stone in my path then.”

“He would never come to you unarmed, Guyuk. Whatever you said or did to him on the trip home has made it harder for me to bring you your inheritance.”

“I did nothing. And it is not my inheritance!” Guyuk snapped. “How much easier would all this have been if my father had named me in his will. There is the source of it all! Instead, he left me to scrabble around with all the others, like a pack of dogs fighting over one piece of meat. If you had not assumed the regency, I would be out there in the gers, looking at my father’s own city in envy. Yet still you honor him. I am the khan’s firstborn son, mother! Yet I must bargain and bribe to gain what is mine by right. If he was half the man you seem to think, he should have considered that before his death. He had enough time to include me in his plans.”

Torogene saw the pain in her son’s face and relented, her anger vanishing. She took him into an embrace, moving to ease his distress without thought.

“He loved you, my son. But he was obsessed with his city. He lived with death on his shoulder for a long time. Struggling against it exhausted him. I do not doubt he wished to do more for you.”

Guyuk rested his head on her shoulder, thinking sharp and unpleasant thoughts. He needed his mother still. The nation had learned to revere her over the years of her regency.

“I am sorry I lost my temper tonight,” he murmured. He forced a breath like a sob and she gripped him tighter. “I just want it all too much. I cannot bear it, mother. Every day, I see them looking at me, wondering when we will call the gathering. I see them smiling at the thought of my defeat.”

Torogene stroked his damp hair, smoothing it with her hand.

“Shh. You are not the same as them,” she said. “You have never been an ordinary man, Guyuk. Like your father, you dream of greater things. I know it. I have sworn to make you khan and it is closer than you know. You already have Sorhatani’s son, Mongke. You were so clever to take his oath in the field. His brothers will not disobey their mother. That is the heart of our position. Then in the west Baidur has received my envoys. I am confident he will declare for you in time. Do you understand now how close we are? When Baidur and Batu name their true price, we will call the nation.”

She felt him stiffen as she mentioned the name he had grown to hate. “Be calm, Guyuk. Batu is just one man and he has not left the lands he was granted. In time, the princes who look to him will see he is content as a Russian lord, that he has no ambitions for Karakorum. Then they will come to ask you to lead them. I promise it, my son. No other man will be khan while I live. Only you.”

He pulled away and looked down into her face. She saw his eyes were red.

“How much longer, mother? I cannot wait forever.”

“I have sent messengers to Batu’s camp, once again. I have promised him you will recognize his lands and titles, for his lifetime and the generations to come.”

Guyuk’s face twisted into a snarl.

“I do not recognize them! My father’s will is not written in heaven! Should I leave a man like Batu to roam free on my borders? To eat rich foods and ride white mares in peace? Should I leave his Golden Horde warriors to grow fat and make children of their own while I fight wars without them? No, mother. Either he is under my hand, or I will see him destroyed.”

Torogene slapped him across the face. The blow was heavy and it rocked his head to one side. As a bloom of red grew on his cheek, he looked at her in stunned shock.

“This is why I told you not to court the princes on your own, Guyuk. I told you to trust me. Listen. And hear with your heart and head, not just your ears. Once you are khan, you will have all the power, all the armies. Your word will be law. On that day, the promises I have made for you will be dust, if you choose to ignore them. Do you understand now?” Though they were alone, her hissing voice fell so she could not be overheard. “I would promise Batu immortality if I thought it would bring him to a gathering. For two years, he has sent excuses to Karakorum. He dares not refuse me outright, but he sends me tales of injuries or sickness, saying he cannot travel. All the time, he watches to see what will come out of the white city. He is a clever man, Guyuk, never forget it. Sorhatani’s sons do not have half his ambition.”

“You are bargaining with a snake, then, mother. Be careful he does not bite you.”

Torogene smiled. “There is a price for all things, my son, for all men. I have merely to find his.”

“I could have advised you,” Guyuk said peevishly. “I know Batu well. You were not there when we rode into the west.”

Torogene tutted under her breath. “You do not need to know everything, Guyuk, only that if Batu agrees, he will come to a gathering in the summer. If he accepts the offer, we will have enough of the princes behind us to make you khan. Do you see now why you should not have acted on your own? Do you see what you put in danger? What is the life of one family head compared to this?”

“I’m sorry,” Guyuk replied, lowering his head. “You have not kept me informed and I was angry. You should have included me in your plans. Now that I know more, I can help you.”

Torogene regarded her son, with all his weaknesses and flaws. Still, she loved him more than the city around them, more than her own life.

“Have faith in your mother,” she said. “You will be khan. Promise me there will be no more bloodstained clothing to burn. No more mistakes.”

“I promise,” Guyuk replied, his mind already on the changes he would make when he was khan. His mother knew him too well for him to be comfortable around her. He would find her some small house far from the city to live out her last days. He smiled at the thought and she took heart from it, seeing again the young boy he had once been.

TWO

BATU WHISTLED AS HE TROTTED ACROSS A GREEN FIELD toward the small ger in the crook of hills. As he rode, he kept his eyes moving, looking for watchers or scouts. He had not announced his visit to the homeland of the Mongol people and he could name a few who would have been very interested in his presence there. Sorhatani had inherited the birthplace of Genghis Khan from her husband years before. She had brought tumans back to the open plains, tens of thousands of families who wanted nothing more than to live as they always had, in the shadow of mountains, on the open land.

There was nothing to excite suspicion around Tsubodai’s ger. The old man had retired without any of the trappings of power, rejecting all the honors Torogene had tried to press on him. Batu was pleased just to find him, though the retired orlok did not move around as much as some. He had brought no great herd that had to find new grass every few months. As Batu drew closer, he could see just a few dozen sheep and goats, untethered and untroubled as they cropped the grass. Tsubodai had chosen a good spot by a streambed, on what looked like an ancient floodplain, made smooth and flat by the passage of millennia. The sun was shining and Batu found himself admiring the man yet again. Tsubodai had commanded the greatest army of the nation, more than a hundred thousand warriors who had fought their way to the northern hills of Italy. If the khan had not died and brought them home, Batu thought they would have made an empire from sea to sea. He grimaced at the memories, ashamed that he had enjoyed the old man’s failure once. That was when Batu had thought his generation could put aside the petty politics and bickering that marred the world he knew.

Batu kept up his slow approach, knowing it would not be a good idea to surprise Tsubodai. They were not exactly friends, though his respect had only grown in the years since the Great Trek. Even so, Batu needed the advice of one who was no longer part of games of power, one whose word he could trust.

Still at a distance, Batu heard a dog barking. His heart sank as an enormous hound came out from behind the ger and paused, raising its head. Batu didn’t like dogs at the best of times and he could see this one was huge and black. He yelled “Nokhoi Khor!” for someone to hold the beast, but there was no sign of Tsubodai or his wife. The dog sniffed the air, turning its head back and forth. It was looking at him over the field, then it growled and broke into a run, skimming through the grass. Its face flopped as it charged, so that he could see white teeth and eyes. As it approached, his hand dropped to his bow, but he did not take it up. His chances of a friendly welcome would dwindle somewhat if he shot Tsubodai’s dog.

His pony skittered to one side and Batu shouted madly at the hound, trying different words of command. The enormous animal kept coming and he was forced to dig his heels in and canter around in a great circle, with the dog following him. He could see white froth on its mouth as it gnashed and howled at him, no longer silent as it saw him escaping.

Out of the corner of his eye, Batu saw a woman come out of the ger. She seemed amused at his predicament and bent double as she laughed. All he could do was ride in circles, avoiding the snapping jaws.

“Nokhoi Khor!” he called again to her and she stood up, looking at him with her head cocked to one side. After a while she shrugged and put her hand to her mouth to whistle two sharp blasts. The dog dropped to the grass at the sound, his dark eyes still focused on the horseman who had dared to enter his territory.

“Stay,” Batu said to the animal, giving it a wide berth. He had never seen a dog the size of that one and he wondered where Tsubodai had found it. It watched him all the way in and Batu was very aware of it as he dismounted slowly, with no sudden movements.

“I am looking for Orlok Tsubodai,” Batu said.

He could hear a low growl at his back and it was hard not to glance over his shoulder. A smile twitched at the woman’s mouth as she regarded him.

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to see you, nameless one,” she replied cheerfully.

Batu flushed. “He knows me well. I was with him in the west. My name is Batu, son to Jochi.”

A shadow passed over her face at that name, as if she had heard it many times. She looked deeply into his eyes, searching for something.

“I wouldn’t touch a weapon if I were you. The dog will rip your throat out.”

“I’m not here for revenge,” Batu said. “I made my peace a long time ago.”

“I’m glad one of you has,” she said.

Her eyes flickered behind him and Batu turned, convinced the hound was creeping up on him. Instead, he saw Tsubodai leading a horse on foot, coming out of a straggling stand of trees not far away. Batu was surprised by the feeling of relief that swept over him. Once, he had hated the man, but then in those days he had hated many. In time, he had learned to respect him. Batu did not examine his own feelings in too much detail, but in many ways he thought of Tsubodai as a father. It was not something he had ever said. Simply to see Tsubodai alive and apparently well was a ray of light in his current mood. Nothing seemed as hard if you had Tsubodai on your side. If that was true, of course. Batu was still not at all certain how he would be received.

Those thoughts passed quickly through his mind as Tsubodai came closer. The old man whistled to his dog and Batu watched as the savage animal rose and ran to him, suddenly puppyish in its enthusiasm, so that it wagged its entire body rather than just its stump of a tail. Tsubodai walked with one hand loosely wrapped in a rein and the other reaching out to ruffle the dog’s great head. He was not smiling as he looked from Batu to his wife.

“Have you offered him tea?”

“Not yet,” his wife said. “I thought I’d leave it up to you.”

“Good. Be on your way then, Batu. I have nothing to say to you.”

Batu waited, but as far as Tsubodai was concerned, the conversation was clearly at an end. Tsubodai walked past him, clicking his tongue to keep the dog close.

“I came a very long way to see you, Orlok,” Batu said.

“I’ve left titles like that behind me,” Tsubodai shot over his shoulder. “I am retired.”

“I’m not here to ask you to lead, old man, just to ask for your advice.”

Tsubodai paused in the action of ducking down through his ger door. “Goodbye,” he said without looking up.

Batu watched in frustration as Tsubodai vanished into the gloomy interior, taking his dog with him. Batu turned helplessly to face Tsubodai’s wife, still standing there with the same wry smile. Her childbearing years were surely behind her, but she looked vaguely maternal as her gaze swept over the disappointed young man.

“I don’t like to see a visitor turned away with nothing,” she said. “Will you take salt tea?”

Batu heard a grunt of irritation from inside the ger. The walls were thin enough for Tsubodai to hear every word.

“It would be an honor,” Batu replied.

He was still there as the evening came in. Tsubodai didn’t seem too troubled by his presence. The old man had contented himself with a silent glare, repairing a bow while Batu sat making polite conversation for some hours. He had learned the name of Tsubodai’s wife, at least. Ariuna was a pleasant woman and once she relaxed, she was fascinated by the news he brought. Even Tsubodai snorted when Batu talked of the lands he had been given in Ogedai’s will. At a stroke of an ink brush, Ogedai had awarded him a vast fiefdom in Russia. Knowing Tsubodai was listening closely, Batu told Ariuna that part of it had once been his father’s, after leaving Genghis behind him. He had felt Tsubodai’s gaze on him then, knowing the old man’s memories would still be sharp. Batu had not looked up and, after a time, Tsubodai went back to his pots of boiling water, horn, and glue.

As the sun set, Tsubodai rose, stretching his back with a groan.

“I have to check the animals,” he said to his wife.

Batu looked at his feet, and it was not until Ariuna said “Go after him, then!” that he stood up with a grin and went out. Women were sometimes vital when it came to men talking.

He found Tsubodai with the dog, which turned and bared its teeth at him until Tsubodai checked it with a word. Together, he and Batu tested the ties holding a small corral together, before going on to feel the womb of a goat very close to giving birth. The silence between them was comfortable, much better than when he had sat in Tsubodai’s home as an unwanted guest. Outside, the old man seemed to relax a little and he gestured for Batu to examine the goat. Batu nodded as he pressed his fingers around the unborn shape.

“Not long now” was his verdict. “She seems happy enough.”

“She is,” Tsubodai said, straightening up. “And so am I. Life is hard, Batu, but it can at least be simple. It is simple here.”

Age had made him thinner than Batu remembered, but there was still a presence to him. No one would ever mistake Tsubodai for a herder, no matter where they found him. His eyes had seen empires rise and fall. They had seen Genghis as a young man.

Batu did not reply. After a time, Tsubodai sighed and rested his hands on the wooden bar of the corral.

“So tell me what has brought you so many miles. I warn you, I know nothing of the politics in Karakorum. I have no net of spies any longer, if that’s what you’re hoping.”

“It’s not. I just want the advice of someone I can trust.”

As Ariuna had earlier, Tsubodai searched his eyes with his own and subsided, tension drifting out of him.

“Ask, boy. I don’t know if you will like my answer.”

Batu took a deep breath.

“You know Guyuk as well as anyone.” Tsubodai said nothing, so he went on. “Did you know the new khan has not yet been chosen?”

The old man nodded. “I’m not in a desert. I heard that much, at least.”

“It has to be Guyuk, or Mongke, or Baidur … or me. We are the only four in reach, and Mongke pledged his word years ago, when he heard Ogedai had died. He will support Guyuk.”

Tsubodai scratched the side of his jaw. “It’s done, then. Throw in with Mongke and Guyuk. Baidur will follow along, once he knows you are together. Guyuk will be khan and I will be left alone.”

“Is that what you would do?” Batu asked seriously.

Tsubodai laughed, an unpleasant, bitter sound.

“Me? No. But I am not you and all my choices have already been made, good and bad.”

“Then why would you have me support him? In my place, what would you do?”

Tsubodai didn’t answer immediately. He stared out over the darkening fields, his gaze roaming over the stream and the distant hills. Batu waited.

“I am not in your place,” Tsubodai said at last. “I do not know what drives you. If you want to get the best bargain, then hold on as long as you can and judge the moment when his gifts are likely to become threats. Secure your own lands and perhaps you will survive long enough to enjoy them.”

“And what if I care nothing for the best bargain?” Batu said, offended. “What if I think Guyuk should not lead the nation?”

“Then I cannot help you. If you stand in his way, you will be destroyed, without a doubt.” The old man seemed on the verge of saying something else, but he shut his mouth firmly.

“What is it? You speak in riddles, old man. You tell me you would not follow him, but that I will be destroyed if I don’t. What sort of a choice is that?”

“A simple one,” Tsubodai said with a smile. He turned to Batu properly for the first time. “You have not come to me for answers. You know everything you need to know. Are you troubled by those who share Guyuk’s bed? Is it that? Do his companions fill you with anger, or is it envy?” Tsubodai laughed.

“He could take dead goats to his bed, for all I care,” Batu said with an expression of distaste. “What matters is that he is a small man, a man without dreams of any kind. He has only cunning, where the nation needs intelligence. You cannot tell me he would make a good khan.”

“He would be a terrible khan,” Tsubodai replied. “Under Guyuk, we will see the nation wither away, or broken apart. But if you will not stand against him, who will? Anyway, it is too late. You are already on your way to a gathering. You will give your oath to Guyuk and he will be khan.”

Batu blinked in surprise. His warriors waited for him in a valley more than a day’s ride away. Tsubodai could not have known, unless he was lying about having no sources of information any longer. Perhaps there were a few old men who still came to share tea and news with the orlok after all.

“You know a few things, for a man who claims to be nothing more than a simple herder.”

“People talk. Like you. Always talking, as if there is nothing better to do. Did you want me to say that you are making the right choice? Perhaps you are. Now leave me in peace.”

Batu stifled his irritation.

“I came to ask you what Genghis would have done. You knew him.”

Tsubodai grinned at that, showing his teeth. Two were missing at the side of his mouth, so that his cheek was sunken there. It was easy to see the shape of his skull, the skin stretched over the bone.

“Your grandfather was a man without compromise. Do you understand what that means? There are many who say ‘I believe this,’ but would they hold true to those beliefs if their children were threatened? No. But Genghis would. If you told him you would kill his children, he would tell you to go ahead, but realize that the cost would be infinite, that he would tear down cities and nations and the price would never be paid. He did not lie and his enemies knew it. His word was iron. So you tell me if he would support a man like Guyuk as khan.”

“No,” Batu muttered.

“Not in a thousand years, boy. Guyuk is a follower, not a leader. There was a time when even you had him trotting around in your wake. That is not a weakness in a carpenter or a man who makes tiles for a roof. The world cannot be full of lead dogs, or the pack would pull itself apart.” He rubbed his dog behind the ears and the animal grunted and slobbered at him. “Wouldn’t it, Temujin?” he said to the hound. “They can’t all be like you, can they?” The dog settled onto its stomach with a grunt, its front legs outstretched.

“You named your dog after Genghis?” Batu asked in disbelief.

Tsubodai chuckled. “Why not? It pleased me to do so.” The old man looked up again. “A man like Guyuk cannot change. He cannot simply decide one day that he will lead and be good at it. It is not in his nature.”

Batu rested his hands on the wooden spar. The sun had begun to set while they talked, shadows thickening and merging all around them.

“But if I resist him, I will be destroyed,” he said softly.

Tsubodai shrugged in the darkness. “Perhaps. Nothing is certain. It did not stop your father taking his men out of the nation. There was no middle path with him. He was another in the same mold.”

Batu glanced at the old man, but he could barely see his features in the gloom.

“That did not work out too well.”

“You are too young to understand,” Tsubodai replied.

“Try,” Batu said. He could feel the old man’s gaze on him.

“People are always afraid, boy. Perhaps you must live a long time just to see it. I sometimes think I’ve lived too long. We will all die. My wife will die. I will, you, Guyuk, everyone you have ever met. Others will walk over our graves and never know we laughed or loved, or hated each other. Do you think they will care if we did? No, they will have their own blind, short lives to live.”

“I don’t understand,” Batu said in frustration.

“No, because you’re too young,” Tsubodai said with a shrug. Batu heard the old man sigh to himself. “There’s a good chance there are bones in this valley, men and women who once thought they were important. Do we think of them? Do we share their fears and dreams? Of course not. They are nothing to the living and we don’t even know their names. I used to think I would like to be remembered, to have people say my name in a thousand years, but I won’t care if they do, because I’ll be dust and spirit. Maybe just dust, but I’m still hoping for spirit as well. When you’re older, you will realize the only thing that matters, the only thing, is that you had courage and honor. Lose those things and you won’t die any quicker, but you’ll be less than the dirt on our boots. You’ll still be dust, but you’ll have wasted your short time in the light. Your father failed, yes, but he was strong and he tried to do right by his people. He didn’t waste his life. That’s all you can ask.” The effort of speaking seemed to have tired the old man. He cleared his throat and spat carelessly on the ground. “You don’t get long in the world. These mountains will still be here after me, or you.”

Batu was silent for a long time before he spoke again.

“I never knew him, my father. I never even met him.”

“I am sorry I ever did,” Tsubodai replied. “That’s how I understand about honor, boy. It’s only when you lose it that you realize how valuable it is, but it’s too late then.”

“You are a man of honor, if I understand anything at all.”

“I was once, perhaps, but I should have refused that order from your grandfather. To kill his own son? It was madness, but I was young and I was in awe of him. I should have ridden away and never sought out Jochi in the Russian plains. You wouldn’t understand. Have you killed a man?”

“You know I have!”

“Not in battle; up close, slow, where you can look into his eyes.”

Batu nodded slowly. Tsubodai grunted, barely able to see the movement.

“Were you right to do it? To take all the years he would live?”

“I thought so at the time,” Batu replied uncomfortably.

“You’re still too young. I thought once that I could make my mistake a good thing. That my guilt could be the force that made me better than other men. I thought in my strong years that I would learn from it, but no matter what I did, it was always there. I could not take it back, Batu. I could not undo my sin. Do you know that word? The Christians talk of a black stain on the soul. It is fitting.”

“They also say you can remove it by confessing.”

“No, that’s not true. What sort of a man would I be if I could just wipe out my errors with talking? A man has to live with his mistakes and go on. That is his punishment, perhaps.” He chuckled then, recalling an old memory. “You know, your grandfather just forgot his bad days, as if they had never happened. I used to envy him for that. I still do, sometimes.” He saw Batu looking at him and sighed. “Just keep your word, boy, that’s all I have for you.”

Tsubodai shivered as a breeze rushed past them.

“If that’s you, Genghis, I’m not interested,” he muttered, so low that Batu could barely hear the words. “The boy can look after himself.”

The old man pulled his old deel robe closer around him. “It’s too late now to ride back to your men,” Tsubodai said a little louder. “You have guest rights here and I’ll send you on your way in the morning after breakfast. Coming?”

He didn’t wait for Batu to answer. The moon was showing over the horizon and Batu watched the old man walk back to the ger. He was pleased he had come and he thought he knew what he had to do.

THE YAM STATION WAS A SURPRISING BUILDING TO SEE IN the middle of nowhere. Three hundred miles north of Karakorum, it had a single purpose: to work as a link in messenger chains that stretched as far as the lands of the Chin, west into Russia and as far south as Kabul. Supplies and equipment came along the same route, on slower carts, so that it could thrive. Where there was once a single ger with a few spare mounts, there was now a building of gray stone, roofed in red tile. Gers still surrounded it, presumably for the families of the riders and the few maimed soldiers who had retired there. Batu wondered idly if one day it would become a village in the wilderness. Yam riders could not move with the seasons as their ancestors had.

He had avoided the way stations on his journey from his new lands. Just the sight of his tuman would have sent a rider galloping down the line. No one traveled faster than the yam riders over rough ground and news of his movements would have been in Karakorum days ahead of him. Even for this message, he had left his warriors in a forest of pine and birch, too far away to be discovered. He had ridden ahead with just two of his scouts until they came to a ridge where he could tether his horse and send them on without him.

Batu lay on his stomach in the sunshine, watching their progress toward the yam station. There was smoke coming from its chimney and in the distance he could see the tiny figures of horses cropping at the grass. When he saw his scouts enter the building, he turned over on his back and stared up at the blue sky.

There had been a time when he wanted to be khan. If he had been offered it in those days, he would have grasped the thorn without hesitating. Life had been simpler then, riding west with Tsubodai. The death of Ogedai had done more than halt the Great Trek into the western nations. The khan had gone out of his way to raise Batu from poverty, forcing him through promotions until he gave orders to ten thousand picked men. It should not have been a surprise that Ogedai had included him in his will, but it had been. Batu had not expected anything. When he had ridden to his new lands, he had found traces of a Mongol camp, with gers falling in on themselves and rough wooden buildings. He had searched them all, and in one he came across a rotting saddle stamped with the mark of his father’s tuman. Ogedai had given him the lands his father had chosen when he ran from Genghis. Batu had held the saddle then and wept for a man he had never known. He knew something had changed in him from that point. As he looked up into the perfect blue, he searched himself for the itch of desire, of ambition, but there was nothing. He would not be khan. His only purpose was to be sure the best of them took command of the nation. He worked his hand into the earth he lay on and tore out a handful of grass and dirt. In the peace of a warm day, he crumbled it into dust and let the breeze carry it away.

Above him, a distant hawk wheeled and then hovered, perhaps interested in the man who lay supine on the grass of the plains. Batu raised a hand to it, knowing the bird could see every detail even from such a height.

The sun had moved in the sky by the time his scouts returned. Well trained, they gave no sign that they saw him as they reached the ridge, not until they were out of sight of anyone watching from the yam station. They walked their ponies past him and Batu followed, checking behind occasionally. He did not need to ask them if the message had gone. The yam stations were famous for their efficiency. A rider would already be galloping to the next one, some twenty-five miles toward Karakorum. Torogene would hold his sealed letter in her hands in just three days.

Batu was thoughtful as he trotted across the rich green grass. He knew Guyuk would lose face when the gathering fell apart. Batu’s other message would reach Baidur around the same time and if he acted on the promise of support, many things would change. Baidur would be a better khan than Guyuk, Batu was certain. For an instant, Batu felt a whisper of the old voice, telling him that he would also be a good khan, the firstborn of Genghis’s firstborn. It would be fitting, as if the nation had been wrenched back on the right path after too long. He shook his head, crushing the voice in him. His father had wanted to find his own path, far from khans and herds. Speaking to Tsubodai had given Batu a sense of vast reaches of time, a glimpse of decades, even centuries, through the old man’s eyes. He struggled to hold on to it.

Batu tried to think of all the possible futures, then gave it up. No man could plan for everything. He wondered if his pony rode over the bones of long-dead men and shivered slightly at the thought, despite the warmth of the sun.

THREE

KARAKORUM HAD NOT SEEN SUCH A GATHERING FOR MANY years. As far as the eye could see, the land was covered in gers and horses, the families of the nation come to see the oath-taking for the new khan. Baidur had brought two tumans of warriors from the west, twenty thousand men who made a camp by the Orkhon River and kept their boundaries secure. The camp of Sorhatani’s four sons was close by, with another thirty thousand families. The green plains were hidden by them, and gers perched high into the hills as latecomers searched for good ground.

There was no quiet to be had in such a host. Great herds of bleating sheep, goats, camels, and yaks drifted around the city, moving out each morning to open land where they could graze and drink their fill. The riverbanks had been churned into brown mud over the previous weeks and the routines established. Already there had been fights and even murders. It was impossible to gather so many in one place and not have someone draw his sword. Still, the days passed in relative peace and they waited patiently, understanding that the world was large. Some of the nation’s senior men were coming home from as far as Koryo, east of the Chin territory. Others had ridden from new settlements in Persia, drawn by the summons from Karakorum. First to last, the quiriltai would take almost three months to form. Until the day of the oath-taking, the nation was content to live on the food that flowed out of the city to feed them.

Torogene could hardly remember when she had last slept. She had stolen a few hours the day before, or perhaps the one before that. Her thoughts were slow and her body ached in all its joints. She knew she would have to sleep soon or become useless. At times, she thought only her excitement kept her going. Years of work had gone into the gathering and yet there were still a thousand things to do. Simply feeding the nation from the vast stores took an army of servants. Grain and dried meat were allocated to each prince or family leader, more than four hundred of them.

She wiped a hand across her brow, looking fondly at Guyuk as he stared out of the open window. The walls of the city were higher than they had once been, but he could see the sea of gers stretching away into the blurred distance.

“There are so many,” he murmured to himself.

Torogene nodded. “We wait for just a few now. Chulgetei has yet to arrive, though I think he had the furthest to travel. Batu cannot be far off. Perhaps a dozen smaller names are still making their way here, my son. I have scouts out to urge them on.”

“There were times when I thought it was never going to happen,” he said. “I should not have doubted you.”

Torogene smiled, affection and indulgence lighting her face.

“Well, you learned a little patience. It’s a good quality for a khan.” Torogene felt a wave of dizziness and realized she had not eaten that day. She sent servants running to find something to break her fast.

“Baidur is the key,” Guyuk said. “I am sure it was his presence that changed Batu’s mind for him. Will you tell me now what you promised my dear cousins?”

Torogene thought for a moment, but then she nodded.

“When you are khan, you will have to know it all,” she said. “I offered Baidur ten thousand bars of silver.”

Guyuk turned to her, his eyes wide. Such a sum represented the entire output of all the mines they knew about, possibly for years.

“Did you leave me with anything?” he demanded.

Torogene shrugged. “What does it matter? The silver will continue to come out of the earth. It does no good sitting in locked rooms beneath the palace.”

“But ten thousand bars! I did not know there was so much in the world.”

“Be polite when he gives you his oath then, Guyuk,” she replied with a tired smile. “He is a richer man than you are.”

“And Batu? If the treasure rooms are empty, what did he want to buy his precious oath?”

Torogene saw the sneer on her son’s face and she frowned.

“You will have to have dignity when you meet him as well. Let him see nothing in your eyes, my son. A khan does not show small men they mean anything to him.”

She sighed as he continued to stare at her, waiting.

“We exchanged letters by yam riders. He could not refuse when I told him Baidur had pledged to give his oath to you. I did not have to offer him anything, I think. I did so only to save his pride.”

“He has too much pride, but it does not matter. I will see him broken in front of all the nation.”

Torogene raised her eyes to the ceiling, suddenly frustrated. How many times would she have to explain to her son before he began to understand?

“If you do that, you will have a subject and an enemy.” She reached out and took him by the shoulder as he began to turn away. “You must understand this, unless you think I ruled Karakorum by good luck alone. When you are khan, you must court the men of power. If you break one but leave him alive, he will hate you to the end of his days. If you steal his pride from him, he will not miss a chance to take revenge when he can.”

“Genghis cared nothing for this sort of politics,” Guyuk replied.

“Your father did. He understood far better than Genghis how to rule a nation. Genghis could only win an empire. He could never have been the safe hand it needed once it was formed. I have been that hand, Guyuk. Do not dismiss so easily what I tell you.”

Her son looked at her in surprise. Torogene had ruled the nation for more than five years, ever since the death of his father. For two of those, she had been almost on her own with Sorhatani, the army in distant lands. He had not given much thought to her struggle.

“I am listening,” he said. “I assume you promised again that I would respect the territory Batu was given, or was it to offer him the position of orlok in the army?”

“I offered both, but he refused the second. I knew then that he would not be khan. He does not burn with ambition, my son, which is why he is no threat to us. I do not know whether it is from weakness or cowardice, but it does not matter. When you have his oath, you can send him back with costly gifts. We will not hear from him again.”

“He is the only one I fear,” Guyuk said, almost to himself. It was a moment of rare honesty and his mother gripped his shoulder.

“He is the direct line of Genghis, firstborn to firstborn. You are right to fear him, but no longer, do you understand? When the last of them come in, you will summon the princes and generals to your tent on the plain, Batu among them. You will take their oath and for the following week you will visit each camp and let them all kneel to you. There are half a million people who will see you then. Too many to bring into the city. That is what I have given you, my son. That is what you have earned with your patience.”

SORHATANI LET HERSELF DOWN CAREFULLY FROM THE SADDLE behind her eldest son. Mongke stretched down his arm to help her and she smiled up at him. It was good to see Karakorum again. Her home in the Altai mountains was far from the seat of power, but that did not mean she had not followed every twist and turn as Torogene and Guyuk bargained for power. When she looked at Mongke, she could wish he had not given his oath so early, but that river had run its course. Her eldest son had seen his father, Tolui, keep his word, even at the point of death. Mongke could not be an oath-breaker after that; it was not in him. She watched as he dismounted with dignity, seeing again the traditional Mongol warrior in everything he did. Mongke looked the part, with his wide face and heavy shoulders. He dressed in simple armor and he was already known as a man who had no patience for Chin things. There would be no rich foods in the gers that night, Sorhatani thought ruefully. Her son made a fetish of simplicity, seeing a nobility in it that she could not understand. The irony was that there were many in the nation who would have followed such a son, especially the older generals. Some of them whispered that Guyuk was not a man amongst men, that he acted the woman in his father’s palace. Still more spoke with distaste of the way Guyuk continued his father’s practice of surrounding himself with perfumed Chin scholars and their incomprehensible scribblings. If Mongke had lifted a hand, he could have had half the nation under his banners before Guyuk even knew he was threatened. Yet her son’s word was iron and his oath had been given years before. He would not even discuss the issue with his mother any longer.

Sorhatani turned at a joyous shout and held out her arms as her other sons came riding toward her. Kublai reached her first and she laughed as he jumped down from his pony and embraced her, swinging her around. It was strange to see her boys as grown men, though Hulegu and Arik-Boke were still young warriors.

She caught a delicate scent of apples from Kublai as he put her down and stood back to let her hug his brothers. It was yet another sign of Chin influence on him and the contrast with Mongke could not have been greater. Kublai was taller and wiry of build, though his shoulders had broadened over the previous few months. He wore his hair in the Chin style, with a long queue down his back and the rest scraped tight to his scalp. It flicked back and forth as he moved, like the tail of an angry cat. He wore a simple deel robe at least, but no one looking at Kublai and Mongke would pair them as brothers.

Sorhatani stood back, pride swelling in her at the sight of the four young men, each beloved in different ways. She saw how Kublai nodded to Mongke and that her eldest barely acknowledged the gesture. Mongke did not approve of Kublai’s manners, though that was probably true for all brothers close in age. In turn, Kublai resented Mongke’s assumption that, as eldest, he had authority over the other three. She sighed to herself, her good mood evaporating in the sun.

“There is a ger ready for you, mother,” Mongke said, raising an arm to guide her to it.

Sorhatani grinned at him. “Later, Mongke. I’ve come a long way to see this oath-taking, but I’m not tired yet. Tell me how things are in the camps.”

Mongke paused before speaking, weighing his words. As he did so, Kublai replied.

“Baidur is here, all stiffness and careful formality. The gossip is that he will give his oath to Guyuk. Most of the princes are close-mouthed about their intentions, but the feeling is that Guyuk and Torogene have done enough. When Batu and the others get here, I think we will have a new khan.”

Mongke glared at his brother for speaking first, but Kublai seemed oblivious.

“And you, Kublai,” his mother said. “You will give your oath to him?”

Kublai pursed his mouth in distaste.

“As you have ordered, mother. Not because I feel it is right, but because I do not wish to stand alone against him. I will follow your wishes.”

“You must,” Sorhatani said shortly, all lightness gone from her tone. “A khan will not forget those who stood with him—or against him. He has your brother. If Batu and Baidur kneel to him, I will give my own oath as well, for your father’s lands. You must not be a lone voice. That would be … dangerous. If what you say is true, I suspect there will be no serious challenger. The nation will unite in its choice.”

“What a shame Mongke swore to follow him on the Great Trek,” Kublai said, glancing at his brother. “That was the first stone of a landslide.” He saw Mongke glowering at him. “Come, brother. You can’t be pleased with your man! You jumped early, as soon as you heard the old khan was dead. We all understand it. Be honest, though: Is he the one you would choose, if you were free?”

“He is the khan’s son,” Mongke said. He looked away stiffly, as if the matter was finished.

“A khan who did not even name his son as heir in his will,” Kublai said instantly. “That says a great deal, don’t you think? I swear, Mongke, you are the one who brought us all here today. You gave your oath rashly, before any of us knew anything. Guyuk began this race a step ahead because of you. I hope you are satisfied. However Guyuk acts as khan, it will be your responsibility.”

Mongke struggled with his dignity, trying to decide if it was beneath him to argue the point. As always, Kublai could needle him into it.

“Perhaps if you had ever commanded in battle, little brother, you would know the importance of authority and rank. Guyuk is Ogedai’s firstborn son. He is the heir to the khanate. I do not need one of your Chin documents to tell me that.”

It was a sore point between them and Mongke could not resist the barbs. While he had fought alongside Tsubodai, Batu, Guyuk, and the rest, Kublai had been learning diplomacy and languages in the city. They were very different men and Mongke scorned the skills of his brother.

“And was his father also the firstborn, that important position?” Kublai responded. “No, Mongke, he was third in line. You will give an oath for something the rest of us do not even recognize. Why, because you are firstborn in this family? Do you think that makes you a father to the rest of us?”

Mongke flushed. “If I must be, yes. You were not there when our father gave his life.”

They were facing each other by then, both growing in anger.

“And did our father tell you to lead our little family, Mongke? Did he say to you: ‘Take your brothers in hand, my son’? You have not mentioned this before.”

“He gave his other wives to me,” Mongke replied stiffly. “I think it is clear …”

“It is not clear, you fool,” Kublai snapped. “Nothing is as simple as you are.”

Mongke might have struck him then. His hand twitched to the sword at his waist and Kublai tensed, his eyes bright with challenge. They had fought a thousand times as boys, but the years had changed both of them. If it came to blows yet again, there was a chance it would mean more than bruises.

“Stop it, now,” Sorhatani said. “Would you brawl in front of the eyes of the nation? You would shame your father, your name? Stand back! Both of you.”

There was a moment of stillness, then Mongke leapt in, raising his right arm to knock Kublai down. Kublai measured his distance and kicked his brother in the groin as hard as he could. There was no armor there and Mongke collapsed without a sound, hitting the ground hard. It had been a solid hit and silence fell around them. As Sorhatani turned to him in fury, Kublai’s eyes widened. Mongke grunted and began to rise. The pain must have been extraordinary, but his brother’s rage was roaring through him. His legs twitched in agony as he lurched to his feet. Kublai swallowed nervously as Mongke staggered a step toward him, his hand dropping to his sword hilt.

Sorhatani stepped between them, placing her bare hands on Mongke’s armored chest. For an instant, he almost shoved her aside. His large left hand rose to her collar and gathered the cloth, but he could not fling her away from him even in his pain. Panting, Mongke glared over her head at Kublai, his eyes bloodshot and watering.

“I said stop,” Sorhatani said softly. “Will you knock me down to get at your brother? Do you not listen to your mother any longer?”

Mongke’s eyes began to clear and he looked down at her and then back at Kublai, who stood ready to be attacked. Mongke’s mouth curled in disdain as he recognized the Chin fighting stance taught to the boys by the khan’s old chancellor. His hand fell from her collar as Sorhatani put her hand to his cheek, demanding his attention.

“You will not fight, Mongke. You are all my sons. What sort of an example will this set to Hulegu and Arik-Boke? See how they watch you now.”

Mongke’s hard gaze slid over to his brothers, standing with their mouths open. He grunted again and stood back, mastering himself.

“Guyuk will be khan,” Mongke said. His voice was hoarse, but it carried. “His father ruled well and his mother has kept the nation together. No one else can say the same. You are the fool, Kublai, at least if you think someone else should rule.”

Kublai chose not to reply. His brother was like a mad bull in his strength. He did not want to set him off again. Instead, he shrugged and walked away. As soon as he had gone, Mongke slumped, almost falling. He tried to stand straight, but the pain spread in waves from his groin into his stomach, making him want to vomit. Only the presence of his mother stopped him cupping himself like a child.

“Sometimes I despair,” Sorhatani said sadly. “Do you think I will live forever? There will be a time when your brothers are all you have left, Mongke. They will be the only men you can trust without reservation.”

“He acts and dresses like a Chin whore,” Mongke spat. “How can I trust a man like that?”

“Kublai is your brother, your own blood. Your father is in him, Mongke, just as he is in you.”

“He goads me whenever he can. I am not a fool, mother, just because I do not know the twenty-seven steps of his pointless Chin rituals.”

“Of course you’re not a fool! You know each other well enough to hurt deeply when you are angry, that is all. You and he will eat together tonight and share a cup of airag. For your mother, you will be friends again.”

Mongke winced, but he did not reply, so she went on.

“Because it hurts me to think of my sons so angry with each other. I will think I have failed as a mother. Make it up with him, Mongke, if you care about me at all.”

“Of course I do,” he replied. He knew very well that she was manipulating him, but he gave way even so. “All right, but you can tell him—”

“No threats or bluster, Mongke. If you love me, you will make peace with him. In a few days or weeks, you will have the khan you want. Kublai can only bow to that necessity. Be dignified in your victory.”

Mongke’s expression eased as he thought it through. He could be magnanimous.

“He blames me for Guyuk’s rise,” he muttered.

“And other men will honor you. When Guyuk is khan, no doubt he will reward you as the first to come to his banners. Think of that the next time you and Kublai bicker like a couple of boys.”

Mongke smiled, shuddering slightly as the pain in his groin settled to a sick ache.

“All right, mother. You will have your way, as always.”

“Good. Perhaps you should show me where my ger is. I find I am tired after all.”

THE YAM RIDER WAS HEAVY WITH DUST. AS HE FOLLOWED A servant through the corridors of the palace, he could feel the weight of it in every crack and seam of his clothes, even his skin. He stumbled slightly as they turned a corner, his strength vanishing in weariness. He had ridden hard all day and his lower back was aching. He wondered if he would be allowed to wash himself in one of the palace bathing rooms. For a few steps, he indulged himself in the fantasy of hot water and servant girls rubbing him dry, but it would remain a fantasy. The riders from the yam lines were given entry wherever they went. If they said they had a personal message for the khan himself, they would be let through to him even in the middle of a battle. Yet the rider was certain he would be washing in the river that evening, before settling down to a spartan camp and a small fire of his own making. Yam riders carried no tents or simple gers, or any weight that might slow them. He would lie on his back under the stars and pull his arms inside the wide sleeves of his deel robe. In twenty years or so, the older riders had told him, his joints would be sore on wet days. Privately he thought it would not happen to him. He was young and supremely fit, his life stretching ahead of him. In the course of his travels, he had seen enough of trade among the people to know which items they craved. In just a few years, he thought he would have saved enough to buy a load on one of the trading caravans to Bukhara. There would be no sore joints for him. He would make his fortune. He shivered slightly as he walked, glancing up at the arching ceiling over his head. He did not dream of owning a palace. Perhaps a house in the city would be to his taste, with a wife to cook for him, a few children, and a stable of good horses to train his sons for the yam. It was not a bad life.

The servant drew to a halt in front of shining copper doors. Two Day Guards from the old khan’s regiment stood there impassively in their armor of red and black, like colored insects.

“Yam message for the regent,” the servant announced.

One of the Guards broke his perfect stillness, turning his head to stare at the dusty young rider, still reeking of horses and old sweat. They searched him roughly, removing his tinderbox and a small knife. When they tried to take the package of papers, he jerked it away with a muttered curse. The message within was not for their eyes.

“I want the rest back when I come out,” he said.

The Guard only looked at him, tucking the items away as the servant knocked on the door and opened it, letting a flood of light out into the gloomy corridor.

Inside, there were rooms within rooms. The yam rider had been to the palace before, but never so deep within it. He noted that each outer room had its attendants, one of whom rose at his entry and took him on to the next. It was not long before he saw a stout woman surrounded by advisers and scribes busy writing her words. She looked up as he entered. He bowed deeply, leaving his latest guide behind to approach. To his surprise, he saw two men in the group that he recognized, yam riders like himself. They met his eyes and nodded briefly to him.

Another servant of some kind held out his hand for the package of papers.

“This is for the regent’s own hand,” the rider said, repeating his instruction.

The servant pursed his mouth as if he tasted something bitter, but he stood back. No one impeded a yam rider.

Torogene had resumed her conversation, but she stopped at his words and accepted the bundle from him. It was a slim package, folded in leather. She undid the ties quickly and pulled out a single folded sheet. The rider watched as her eyes darted back and forth as she read. He could have left immediately, but he was curious. It was the curse of his trade that he carried interesting news, but almost never learned what it was.

To his dismay, he saw Torogene’s face drain of color. She looked up, suddenly irritated to see the young man standing there expectantly, as if she might share the news with him.

“That is enough for today,” she said to the group. “Leave me, all of you. Send my son to me. Wake him if you have to.” She tapped the fingers of one hand on the other and crumpled the paper he had brought to her.

FOUR

THE MOON WAS OUT, THE NIGHT CLOUDLESS, SO THAT ITS light fell on the vast host before Karakorum. There was already a buzz of interest in the gers; rumors flying, voices calling and whispering like a breeze. The city gates opened in the dark, a troop of riders coming out fast down the western road. They held torches, so that they moved in a pool of light through a flickering landscape, catching glimpses of staring faces and grubby gers by the thousand as they navigated their way through. Guyuk rode at the center in ornate armor, a shining figure with a wolf’s-head sword on his hip. More surprising to those who glimpsed them was the sight of Torogene riding at his side. She rode like a man, stiff-backed, with her long hair bound into a thick tail. The torch-lit eye of gold covered a mile at a canter before Torogene signaled to the Guards. They swung left off the main road, plunging across the grassy plain between the gers. To ride at night was always dangerous and flocks scattered in panic as they cantered through them. More than a few bleating animals were crushed beneath hooves or sent tumbling. Voices shouted in alarm and torches sprang up all over the hills around them, pinpoints of light as more and more of the nation rolled out of their beds with swords in hand.

Guyuk whistled sharply, gesturing to a shadowy enclave marked with the banners of Sorhatani and her sons. Three of his Night Guards yanked their mounts around and rode in a new direction. The rest went on, following the paths through the gers of the people, which jinked and turned to prevent exactly the sort of maneuver they attempted. There were no straight roads on the plain of gers. Guyuk strained his eyes for the banners he wanted. He knew the layout of the gathered nation, but in the darkness it was hard to find his way.

The riders swore as they came to an open area that no one recognized, but at the same moment, one of the Guards shouted, pointing. They wheeled around and drew to a sharp halt at the ger camp of Baidur. His banners fluttered in the night wind above their heads, lit by torches. As Guyuk helped his mother to dismount, he saw how many men had gathered to see what was happening. Row upon row waited with weapons drawn. Guyuk recalled that Baidur’s father, Chagatai, had attempted a coup in Karakorum years before, on just such a night. Of all men, Baidur would be suspicious of betrayal.

Guyuk saw the man he had once called friend, made distant by the tides of the nation and his own father’s murder. Baidur stood as if he expected to be attacked, his sword drawn and raised to his shoulder. His yellow eyes were cold in the torchlight and Guyuk showed him empty palms, though he would not unbuckle the wolf’s-head sword he wore, not for any man. Baidur was khan of a vast region to the west and Guyuk swallowed bitterness as he realized he had to speak first, as supplicant. It did not matter that he was the one marked to be the gur-khan, over all the lesser khanates. On that night, he was merely an heir.

“I come with empty hands, Baidur. I still remember our friendship, when we were little more than boys with swords.”

“I thought all the dealing was done,” Baidur replied, his voice harsh. “Why have you come to disturb my sleep, to set my people in disarray?”

Guyuk blinked, revising his opinion of the man he faced. He almost turned to his mother for guidance, but he knew it would have made him look weak. He had last seen Baidur riding home with his tuman, stiff with the knowledge that his father was considered a traitor. There had been a time when Baidur could have been khan in Karakorum, if the sky father had willed a change in fortune for his family. Instead, he had inherited and lived quietly in the western khanate. Guyuk hardly thought of him as a threat, but authority had changed Baidur. He spoke as a man used to seeing others leap to do his bidding, as if there could be no possible alternative. Guyuk wondered if he too had that air. In the gloom, he grimaced to himself as doubt struck him.

“I have asked that Mongke join us … my lord.” Guyuk bit his lip. He saw Baidur had noticed the hesitation, but they stood before Karakorum! It was almost painful to give the man his titles when Guyuk had none of his own. He sensed his mother shift her weight at his side and remembered her words. He was not yet khan. Until then, he would be humble.

Instead of answering, Baidur also reacted to the movement. He bowed deeply to Torogene.

“My apologies, my lady. I did not expect you to be part of a group riding at night. You are all welcome in my home. The tea is cold, but I will have new leaves boiled.”

Guyuk seethed to himself. The greeting to his mother merely highlighted his own lack of status. He wondered if Baidur had ignored him deliberately, or whether it was genuine respect for the most senior woman in the nation. He followed his mother to Baidur’s ger and watched impatiently as she ducked her head to walk in. Baidur’s soldiers were staring at him. No, not at him, but at the sword on his hip. Guyuk bristled at their attempt to intimidate him. As if he would be foolish enough to draw a blade with his own mother in the ger.

To his astonishment, one of Baidur’s guards stepped close to him and bowed deeply. Guyuk’s men pressed around him at the threat, but he waved them back.

“What is it?” he asked, a trace of his irritation still showing.

“My lord, I wondered if I could touch the sword you wear, just the hilt. It would be something to tell my children one day.”

Guyuk suddenly understood the fixed gaze of Baidur’s warriors and he smiled patronizingly. The wolf’s-head sword had been carried by his father, Ogedai, and also by Genghis. He had seen other men gaze on it before with reverent awe. However, he did not want to be pawed by common warriors. The very idea made him shudder.

“I have much to discuss with your master—” he began.

To his anger, the warrior reached out, gazing in a trance at the hilt as if it were one of the Christian relics. Guyuk took a step back. He imagined cutting the hand off to show the man his impertinence, but he was very aware of the staring faces around him, most of them loyal to Baidur rather than himself.

“Another time,” he snapped, ducking into Baidur’s ger before the warrior could press him further.

In the ger, Baidur and Torogene were seated close together. It had been some time since Guyuk had seen the inside of one of the felt and wicker homes. He felt cramped and saw with fresh senses how small it was, how it reeked of damp wool blankets and mutton. A battered old kettle hissed in the middle of the space, tended by a servant girl who fussed with cups and made them clink together in her nervousness. There was little space for the trappings of wealth and power in a ger. It was easier to live simply rather than be tripping over some expensive Chin pot at every turn. Guyuk struggled with himself for a moment. It felt like an intrusion to sit on Baidur’s other side, but if he took a place next to his mother, he would be forever subordinate in the conversation. With ill will, he lowered himself onto the bed by her.

“It changes nothing,” Torogene was saying in a low voice. “The entire nation has come to Karakorum—every man and woman of power, except for one. We have enough for an oath-taking.”

“If you go on, it is a risk,” Baidur replied. “I know Batu well, Torogene. You dare not leave him outside the nation.”

His face was thoughtful, troubled. Guyuk watched the older man closely, but he saw no sign of delight or treachery.

They all heard the sound of approaching horses and Baidur stood. He glanced at the kettle coming to the boil.

“Stay here. Serve them salt tea, Erden.”

Baidur left them alone, though Guyuk was not so naive as to believe they could not be overheard. He kept his silence, taking a bowl of tea from the girl. She presented it in the aspect of a slave, her head down between her outstretched arms. Guyuk almost reached for it before he realized it was held out for his mother. He clenched his jaw as he waited for his own. Status, once again. Well, that would all change soon enough. He would not let Batu ruin his chance to become khan, no matter what the rest of them planned.

Baidur entered with Mongke, and Guyuk rose to his feet to greet them. Torogene stayed where she was, sipping her tea. The ger was already crowded, but Mongke’s presence made it stifling. He had a huge breadth of shoulder and had somehow found the time to dress in his armor. Guyuk wondered if the man slept in it. Nothing would surprise him on such a night.

Mongke greeted Torogene first and then Guyuk, bowing deeply and properly, as an oath-sworn man to his master. The gesture would not be wasted on Baidur, and Guyuk felt his spirits lift in response. He opened his mouth to speak and to his irritation his mother began while he was still drawing breath.

“Batu will not be coming to this gathering, Mongke,” she said. “I have had word from him.”

“What reason did he give?” Baidur said across Mongke’s stunned silence.

“Does it matter? He claims a hunting wound that means he cannot travel. It changes nothing.”

“It changes everything,” Mongke said. His voice was slow and deliberate. Guyuk found himself leaning forward to catch every word. “It means this gathering is at an end. What else can we do? Batu is not some minor family head. He is a powerful voice in the nation, though he does not use his influence. If Guyuk is made khan without him, it could lead to civil war in the future. None of us wants that. I will go back to my tumans, my families. I will tell them it will not be this year.” Mongke turned to Guyuk. “My oath is yours, my lord, I have not forgotten. But you will need more time to bring Batu back to the fold before we go on.”

“I do not need more time!” Guyuk snapped. “You have all promised an oath to me. Well, I call it now. Honor your word and I will deal with Batu later. One man cannot be allowed to cause chaos in the nation, no matter his bloodline or his name.”

Seeing he was on the point of ordering them to obey him, Torogene spoke quickly before he could offend either of the powerful men in the ger.

“We have all worked hard so that the oaths would be unchallenged, to make one man khan without dissent. That is no longer possible, but I have to agree with Guyuk. The nation is ready for a new khan. It has been almost five years since the death of my husband. How much new land has been taken in those years? None. The nation waits and all the time our enemies grow strong again. We have already lost too much, in influence and power. Let the oath-taking go ahead, with just one name missing from the roll. Once there is a khan, Batu can be summoned to give his oath alone, ordered by the one true authority of the nation.”

Mongke nodded slowly, but Baidur looked away, scratching a dark sweat stain at his armpit. No one else in the ger knew that he had received a private message on the yam. If he revealed that Batu had promised to support him as khan, it would mean a death sentence for his old friend, he was almost certain. Unless Baidur threw himself into the struggle. For just that night, Guyuk, Torogene, and Mongke were all at his mercy, surrounded by his warriors. He could take it all, just as Batu clearly hoped he would.

Baidur clenched his fists for an instant, then let his hands fall loose. His father, Chagatai, would not have hesitated, he thought. The blood of Genghis ran in them all, but Baidur had seen too much of the pain and blood brought by ruthless ambition. He shook his head, coming to a decision.

“Very well. Call the oath-taking at the new moon, four days from now. The nation must have a khan and I will honor my promises.”

The tension in the cramped ger was almost painful as Guyuk turned to Mongke. The big man nodded, bowing his head.

Guyuk could not resist smiling in relief. Apart from those in the ger and Batu himself, there was no one else who might challenge him. After so many years of waiting, he was in reach of his father’s titles at last. His mother’s voice barely registered with him, some weak promise that Batu could be brought to the city when the nation had spoken. He wondered if they truly believed he would welcome Batu as a friend after all this. Perhaps his mother expected him to act the great lord, to show mercy to those who had tried and failed to ruin him.

The tension vanished in laughter and Baidur brought out a skin of airag and a set of cups. Mongke clapped him on the back in congratulation and Guyuk chuckled, giddy at the sudden change in his fortunes. Batu had almost destroyed years of work, but whatever he had intended, it had failed. Guyuk raised a toast with the others, enjoying the bite of the cold spirit in his throat. There would be a reckoning with Batu. That was one oath he could swear with certainty in the silence of his thoughts.

BY THE FIRST LIGHT OF DAWN, THE NATION WAS READY. They had spent many weeks preparing for the oath-taking, from gathering vast quantities of food and drink to mending, patching, and polishing every item of clothing and armor they possessed. The warriors were arrayed in perfect squares, standing in silence as the gates of Karakorum opened. There was no sign of the rush and panic from four days before. Guyuk rode out at the head of a column, sitting his mount with dignity. He wore a deel robe of gray and dark blue, deliberately choosing simplicity over anything gaudy or foreign.

There had been so few gatherings since the first one called by Genghis that there were hardly any traditions to follow. A great pavilion had been erected in front of the city, and as the sun cleared the eastern hills, Guyuk dismounted there and passed his reins to a servant. He walked to his place and stood in front of the silk tent as the first group approached him. Unless his bladder filled to bursting, he would not enter the pavilion that day, nor would he sit, no matter how hot the sun became. The nation had to see him become khan.

Baidur and Mongke were conspicuous in that first group, as well as Sorhatani, Kublai, and her other sons. The first four hundred contained the heads of all the major families, for once deprived of their retainers, servants, and slaves. Most of them were dressed in colorful silks, or the plainest armor, depending on their sense of occasion. Even the banners of rank were denied to them. They would approach Guyuk in simple humility, to bend the knee and give their oaths.

Even within that group there was a hierarchy. Torogene came first, then Sorhatani. The two women had ruled the nation alone, keeping it intact through the death of Ogedai Khan. Guyuk saw only satisfaction in his mother’s face as she knelt to him. He barely let her touch the ground before he raised her up and embraced her.

He was not so quick with Sorhatani. Though her oath sealed her loyalty, he had never been comfortable with the woman who controlled the homeland. In time, he thought he would grant her titles to Mongke, as his father should have done. She had survived, so she had luck, but women were too fickle, too likely to make some grievous error. Mongke would never jump without thinking, Guyuk was certain. He watched in pleasure as Mongke came next and repeated the oath he had given in a far land, the first stone falling that brought them all to that spot.

Kublai followed and Guyuk was struck by the keen intelligence in the younger man’s eyes as he knelt and spoke the words of gers, horses, salt, and blood. He too would need some position of authority in time. Guyuk began to revel in such decisions, able at last to think as a khan, rather than just dream.

The day wore on, a parade of faces until he could hardly distinguish between them. Thousands came to the pavilion: heads of families, rulers of lands thousands of miles apart. Some of them already showed signs of intermarriage, so that the eldest children of Chulgetei had the features of Koryo. Guyuk formed an idea of ordering them to breed true, keeping the Mongol stock pure before it was swallowed in the flood of subject races. The mere thought of exercising such power was like airag in his blood, making his heart pound. After this day, his word would be law for a million people—and millions more under their rule. The nation had grown beyond anything Genghis might once have imagined.

As evening came, Guyuk toured the great camps. There was no single moment when he became khan to universal acclamation. Instead, he rode from place to place, allowing thousands of his people to kneel and chant their oaths. He had warriors ready to strike down anyone who refused, but nothing came of his worries as the light began to fade and torches were lit. He took food and returned to the palace to change clothes and relieve his bowels and aching bladder. Before dawn, he was out again, traveling to the very least of those he would rule: the tanner families and a host of workers from many nations. They cried out in awe at their only chance to see the face of the khan, straining in the dawn light for a single glimpse they would remember forever.

As the sun rose again, Guyuk felt suffused in its light, lifted by it and made mellow. He was khan and the nation was already settling down to the days of feasting that would follow. Even the thought of Batu in his Russian fiefdom had become a distant irritant. This was Guyuk’s day. The nation was his at last. He thought of the celebrations that would follow with growing excitement. The palace would be the center of it: a new generation of youth, tall and beautiful, blowing away the ashes of the past.

FIVE

TOROGENE LOWERED HERSELF ONTO THE BENCH IN THE garden pavilion, feeling her husband’s spirit all around her. The summer had lasted a long time, so that the city sweltered. For months, the rare heat had built to storms, then been released into a day or two of sweet coolness before it dried out and the process began again. The air itself was heavy at such times, thick with the promise of rain. Dogs lay panting on the street corners and each dawn found a body or two to be cleared away, or a woman weeping. Torogene already missed the powers she had known. Before Guyuk was khan, she could have sent the Day Guards to beat a confession from a dozen witnesses, or to evict a family of thieves, dumping them all on the roads outside the city. Overnight, they were no longer hers to command and she could only petition her son alongside a thousand others.

As she sat among the drifts of leaves, Torogene searched for some feeling of peace, but could not find it, even in Sorhatani’s company.

“You cannot tell me you are happy to be leaving the city,” Sorhatani said.

Torogene patted the bench beside her, but her friend did not want to sit down.

“No young khan should have his mother watching every move, every mistake. The old must apparently make way for the new.” Torogene spoke the words reluctantly, echoing Guyuk’s pompous speech to her just that morning. “I have a fine palace, built for me by Ogedai. I will be comfortable in my retirement. And I am old. I can hardly believe how weary I feel on some days.”

“He’s getting rid of you,” Sorhatani said. She picked up a slender branch from the path. It must have fallen just that morning or the Chin gardeners would already have cleared it away. It flexed in her hands like a whip. “A son should honor what you achieved, keeping the nation together when it threatened to fly apart. Where was he then?”

“Even so, he is khan. I worked years for it. Should I complain now that I have my desire? What sort of a fool would I be then?”

“A mother,” Sorhatani said. “We are all fools with our sons. We wipe them and suckle them and all we expect is for them to be grateful to the end of their days.”

She chuckled, her mood turning in an instant. Torogene smiled with her, though in truth she had been hurt by her son’s commands.

“He has not threatened to send you away, Sorhatani,” she said.

“No, because he still lavishes his attention on Mongke. Orlok of the armies. It is more than my son even wanted. I swear we never planned for that, never.”

“I know. Guyuk took my advice once, at least. Mongke has the bloodline from Genghis and the tumans will follow him. My son trusts him completely, Sorhatani. That is important.”

Sorhatani kept her silence. It was true Mongke had risen in Guyuk’s first season as khan, just as she had predicted. Kublai, though, would never lead armies under Guyuk. Something in the two men brought out the worst in each. Twice she had sent Kublai away on some errand before he ruined himself in Guyuk’s presence. They angered each other like two cats and neither she nor Kublai could explain it satisfactorily. There were times when she wished Guyuk would send her back to the homeland, away from the heat and smells and crowds of the city, away from the politics that ruined every peaceful day. Even in that, she had her suspicions. She did not think Guyuk valued her as an adviser and one memory of his father still troubled her. Years before, Ogedai had asked her to marry his son. The idea could still make her shudder. Ogedai had been too good a man to force her, but Guyuk would have no qualms of that sort. As things stood, the original homeland of Genghis would pass to Mongke on her death, or perhaps one of her other sons if she wrote a will and it was honored. She could only hope that Guyuk was content to rule the separate khanates. Yet he did not seem to have that sort of vision. In fact, he struck her as exactly the sort of greedy fool who would try to take it all for himself. It was heartbreaking to see such a handsome young man with so many shadows inside him. Power brought out the best in some men, but Guyuk showed no sign of such growth.

It was one more thing she could not discuss with Torogene. The woman still mourned a husband and had set her son to rule the nation. It was not Sorhatani’s place to lay his weaknesses in front of her. Just a week before, Guyuk had refused to see a delegation of princes from Koryo, preferring instead to go hunting with his companions. Sorhatani frowned unconsciously as she recalled the tense meeting with the Koryon men. She had tried to ease the insult of his absence with words and gifts, but she could see their anger in the silent looks between them. When Guyuk had returned days later, he had sent his chancellor, Yao Shu, to hear their requests. She could have done that herself if Guyuk allowed her any authority.

The memory brought angry color to her cheeks. For once, she had ignored his blustering servants, forcing her way into his presence. She had hoped she could make him see that his life could not be one long feast or endless hunting with his friends. A khan had to rule day by day, to make the decisions they could not make without him.

There had been no contrition in Guyuk when she told him. Instead, he had laughed at her, sending her away in a manner calculated to insult. That too she would not mention to Torogene, not just as the woman was leaving, her life’s work done. Sorhatani realized she would miss her friend, but there had always been subjects she dared not raise.

If Sorhatani hadn’t had Kublai, she thought she would have gone mad, surrounded by a nest of fools and lies and alliances. At least her son would listen. He drank up new information, possessing an insight that could still astonish her. Kublai seemed to know everything that went on in the city, until she suspected him of having a ring of spies as accomplished as her own. Yet even Kublai had been troubled in recent days. Guyuk was planning something and orders flowed between the palace and his tumans. His warriors were exercising on the plains each day, practicing with cannon until the whole city stank of gunpowder. Sorhatani had a man willing to read the messages on the yam, but they were often sealed. He would open them if she demanded it, but it would mean his life and she would not throw him away lightly. The very fact that something was secret should have told her much, but she felt as if she wandered through fog. Kublai might have learned something, she thought, or at least be better able to guess. She resolved to speak to him that evening.

She and Torogene looked up as they heard the footsteps of Guyuk’s Day Guards. Torogene rose with a sigh, looking into the distance as if she could carry the memory of the city with her. As the Guards stood impassively, she and Sorhatani embraced. Carts, horses, and servants waited to take her to the distant palace on the Orkhon River. Summer itself was passing and Sorhatani did not think her friend would be allowed to return. Guyuk had not been able to hide his pleasure at the orders, for all he couched them in fine words and compliments.

“I will visit you,” Sorhatani said, struggling with emotion. She could not promise to keep Torogene informed, not with men listening who would report every word said between them. Torogene smiled, though her eyes were shining with tears. She had raised her son to be khan and her reward was exile, no matter what Guyuk called it. Lies and alliances, it was all the city seemed to breed from its arid stones. Sorhatani watched Torogene walk away with the men, a frail, stooped figure against their youth and strength. Sorhatani was suddenly afraid that one of her own protectors had been removed. For all his hunts and debauchery, Guyuk was intent on consolidating his power. She could not find peace when she thought of the future. She could not even return to the homeland, unless Guyuk gave his permission. It was as if she slept with a hungry tiger in the same room, never knowing when it might leap and tear her apart.

In the distance, she heard the crack of cannons firing and she started slightly. Mongke would be out there on the field, supervising his men as they practiced the skills of war. Sorhatani sent a silent prayer for her sons to be safe under this new khan.

GUYUK STRODE THROUGH THE EMPTY CORRIDORS. HE KNEW he was terrifying the palace servants with his order that they stay out of his sight. Days before, he had stumbled over one young woman too slow to get out of his way. He had snapped the command without thinking. They were too used to stately progress: the pace of older men and particularly his father. He had intended to let his new orders stand for just a few days until they had learned to jump when he appeared. Instead, he had found it gave him great amusement to see men and women scurrying away at every turn, convinced their lives were at stake if he so much as glimpsed them.

He increased his pace, grinning as servants darted into side rooms far ahead, word passing quickly that the khan was on the prowl. Without pausing, he pushed open the copper doors and entered his audience room.

Sorhatani was there, as well as Yao Shu, his father’s old chancellor. A dozen others waited their turn and tried not to show that they had been in that room for half a day before the khan bothered to show himself. Guyuk ignored them all and walked across the stone floor to a gilded chair, set with stones of lapis lazuli so that it glittered in the light from the windows. At least the air was freshened by a breeze from outside. He had become accustomed to Chin habits of bathing and the stink of unwashed flesh could make him retch in close rooms.

Sorhatani studied every detail of the entrance he had made, controlling her expression carefully. She could have spoken first, but she and Yao Shu had agreed on an order in the hours of waiting. Again, she felt the sting of insult, as if she had no other work than to wait on Guyuk while he played games with servants. None of that could be allowed to show. She had to remember his word was law, that he could take her lands or her life at the first sign of anger in her face. Perhaps it was better that Yao Shu should open the proceedings. The old man had perfected his court manner and it was rare that she could see the emotions beneath it.

“My lord khan,” Yao Shu began, approaching Guyuk and bowing deeply. He held a sheaf of parchments and Guyuk eyed them with distaste. “There are a great number of things that only the khan can decide.” Guyuk looked as if he might respond, but Yao Shu went straight on before he could speak. “The governor of eastern Koryo requests a tuman be sent to repel the sea thieves who are raiding his coast. This is the third time he has sent emissaries to Karakorum.” Yao Shu paused for breath, but Guyuk only settled himself more comfortably in the seat.

“Go on, Yao Shu, what else?” Guyuk asked pleasantly.

“We have tumans in the Chin territories, my lord. Shall I send word on the yam that they can go to his aid?”

Guyuk waved a hand. “Very well, send two. What else?”

Yao Shu blinked to find Guyuk in this odd mood. He went on quickly, determined to take advantage while he could.

“The … um, Xi Xia governor claims that taxes have been set too high for his region. There has been a plague in the countryside there and he has lost perhaps half of those who work the fields. He asks for a year without taxes to rebuild.”

“No, he is my vassal.”

“My lord, if we could make a gesture, he would be a stronger ally in the future.”

“And have every small man crying at my doors as a result. I have said no, Chancellor. Move on to the next.”

Yao Shu nodded, shuffling his papers quickly.

“I have more than eighty requests for marriage here, my lord.”

“Put them aside. I will read them in my chambers. Are there any of special note?”

“No, my lord,” Yao Shu replied.

“Then go on.”

Yao Shu was growing flustered, Sorhatani could see. In the past, Guyuk had been lazy, barely able to mask his impatience while his councillors talked. Making decisions at this speed was so unlike him that she could only wonder at what he was trying to demonstrate to them. Distaste for Guyuk made her stomach clench. His father would not have ignored word of a plague in his lands so easily, as if the thousands of dead did not matter at all, as if it could not spread. She listened to Yao Shu talk of the need for shipbuilding and the sneering tone as Guyuk refused to spend the funds needed. Yet they had a coast in Chin lands and there were nations outside it that rode the waves with skills the Mongols could hardly imagine.

Yao Shu covered dozens of topics and received quick answers each time. Sorhatani groaned to herself at some of them, but at least it was better than the stagnation of previous days. The world would not stand still while Guyuk hunted with his pretty birds. The light changed outside and Guyuk had food and drink brought for himself, though he ignored the needs of those others present. At last, after hours, Yao Shu stepped back and she was free to speak.

As Sorhatani came forward, she saw Guyuk suppress a yawn.

“I think that is enough for the day,” he said. “You will be first tomorrow, Sorhatani.”

“My lord,” she said, aghast as a ripple of discontent spread through the crowded room. There were others there that he could not afford to ignore, important men who had traveled far to see him. She steeled herself to go on. “My lord, the day is still young. Can you at least say whether Batu has replied to his summons? Is he coming to Karakorum, lord, to take the oath?”

Guyuk paused in the act of leaving to turn back to her.

“That is not the business of my councillors, Sorhatani,” he said in a reproving tone. “I have that in hand.” His smile was unpleasant and Sorhatani wondered for the first time if he had sent the order to Batu at all.

“Go on with your work,” Guyuk called over his shoulder as he reached the doors. “The nation does not sleep.”

AT DAWN THE FOLLOWING MORNING, SORHATANI WAS WOKEN by her servants. She still had her suite of rooms in the palace, given to her when she aided Torogene through the crisis years that followed Ogedai’s death. Guyuk had not yet had the nerve to take those from her, though she thought it would come in time as he consolidated his power. She sat up straight in bed as her chamberlain knocked at the door, his head bowed low so that he would not catch a glimpse of his mistress. No one in the nation slept naked, but Sorhatani had fallen into the Chin habit of wearing just the lightest of silk robes to bed and there had been embarrassing scenes before her servants learned her ways.

She knew something was wrong as soon as she saw the man standing there rather than one of the young women who helped her to bathe and dress each morning.

“What is it?” she said sleepily.

“Your son Kublai, mistress. He says he must speak with you. I told him to come back when you are dressed, but he would not leave.”

Sorhatani stifled a smile at the man’s poorly concealed irritation. Kublai could have that effect on people. Only the presence of her personal guards could have prevented him from storming in.

She pulled on a heavier robe, tying it around her waist as she padded out into a room lit by the soft gray of dawn. Sorhatani shivered as she saw Kublai there, robed in dark blue silk. He looked up as she entered and glanced out of the window at the rising sun.

“At last, mother!” he said, though he smiled to see her tousled and still sleepy. “The khan is taking the tumans away from the city.”

He gestured to the window and Sorhatani followed him, staring out over the plains. Her rooms were high enough to see far and she could make out the dark masses of horsemen riding in formation. She thought of the way cloud shadows slipped across the land in summer, but her mouth tightened and her thoughts cleared suddenly.

“Did Guyuk tell you he was taking them out?” Kublai asked.

His mother shook her head, though it hurt to admit she had not been taken into his confidence.

“That is … odd,” Kublai said, his voice soft.

Sorhatani met his eyes and, with a gesture, sent her servants away to make fresh tea. Together, they watched them leave and Kublai relaxed subtly when they were alone.

“If he is making some display of power, or even just training them, I think you would have been told,” Kublai went on. “He knows half the city will be tumbling out of warm beds to watch them go. There is no way to move the army in secret. Guyuk knows that.”

“Tell me then, what is he doing?”

“The word is he will head west to test the new men, to bind them to him in the mountains with hard marches and endurance. The market traders have all heard the same thing, which makes me suspicious. It feels like a story someone has planted, a good one.”

Sorhatani held back her impatience as her son thought through all the possibilities before fixing on one. She knew him well enough to be sure of his judgment.

“Batu,” he said at last. “It has to be him. A quick strike to remove the one man who has not taken the oath to the khan.”

Sorhatani closed her eyes for a moment. They were still alone, but there were always ears to hear and she stepped very close to her son, dropping her voice to just a breath.

“I could warn him,” she whispered.

Kublai drew back from her, searching her eyes.

“You would risk all our lives,” he said, dropping his head to hers as if he comforted his mother. Even a secret watcher could not have been sure they spoke together as he muttered into her hair, breathing its scent.

“Shall I do nothing and see your cousin killed?” she replied.

“If it is the khan’s will, what choice do you have?”

“I cannot stand by and watch without giving him a chance to run. The yam riders can outpace the army.”

Kublai shook his head. “That would be dangerous. The riders would remember carrying the message. If Batu escapes, Guyuk would hunt back down the chain until he reached you. I cannot allow you to do that, mother.”

“I can have some servant take the message to the stables in the city.”

“Who would you trust when the khan comes in fury, looking for the source? Servants can be bought or broken until they talk.” He paused for a time, his eyes far away. “It could be done, by a rider willing to use yam horses who is yet not one of them. Nothing else would have the speed to warn Batu in time. If you are sure that is what you want to do.”

“He should have been khan, Kublai,” she said.

He gripped her arms, almost painfully. “Mother, you must not say that, even to me. The palace is no longer a safe place.”

“Exactly, Kublai. There are spies everywhere now. Just a year ago, I did not have to watch my words in case some perfumed courtier ran to his master to whisper in his ear. The khan sent Torogene away. I will not last long now, with his eye on me. Let me thwart him in this, my son. Make it happen.”

“I will take the message,” he said. “Then there will be no papers, no record.”

He had expected her to argue, but she understood there was no one else and nodded, stepping back from him. Her eyes were full of pride as she raised her voice to a normal level.

“Very well, Kublai. Go out to the plain and watch them go. Tell me everything when you come back this evening. I want to hear it all.” A listener would have heard nothing to alarm him, though both of them knew he would not return.

“Mongke will be with the khan,” he said. “How I envy him.”

“He is the khan’s orlok, his most loyal follower,” she replied. The warning did not have to be spoken. Mongke could never know they had moved to save Batu. The older brother could not be trusted with such a secret.

SIX

GUYUK KNEW HE CUT A FINE FIGURE ON HIS HORSE, A WHITE stallion from the khanate herd he had inherited. Despite the nightly feasts of wine and rich foods, his youth kept him slim, burning off his excesses. He had not brought the vast panoply of carts and materials his army required for a long campaign, keeping the myth of an exercise in the mountains as long as he could. Even so, each of his warriors had two or three spare mounts. Between them, Guyuk had supplies and comforts enough to make the trip a pleasure rather than a chore.

It was easy to imagine his grandfather riding the same lands, with scouts ahead and an army behind him. Guyuk had his own memories of the Great Trek into the west with Tsubodai and it was almost nostalgic to be with an army once again. It was true that they set off mid-morning rather than at dawn, as it took time for Guyuk’s head to cease pounding and his stomach to settle. He rode with bloodshot eyes, but the exertion cleared his head and he was soon hungry again. He touched his waist as he rode, dreading the first feeling of thickness there. Surely riding two thousand miles would keep him trim and strengthen the muscles in his stomach.

Guyuk’s mood grew bitter as he dragged his gaze back to the plains ahead of him. He had to be discreet, though at times he thought all his generals knew his secrets. Yet he held back from complete honesty, for all he desired it. Mongke was not far behind him in the tumans, and in that serious, unsmiling face, Guyuk saw all the others who would condemn him for his appetites. He thought again of Mongke’s mother, the smiling vixen who had twisted his father to her will. Guyuk wanted her gone, but he could hardly banish the mother of such a senior man. His mind worked as he rode, sinking into fantasies in which he would whisper his needs to some trusted warrior and Sorhatani would simply vanish. There were those who would not question the khan’s word, though it cost them their own lives. It was a heady power, but he was still wary of it. He guarded his tongue as best he could, until the strain became impossible.

Guyuk jerked from his reverie as he heard battle horns sound on his left. He looked up to see two tumans charging with lances, as they had already done a dozen times that morning. They rode hard for two or three miles, then allowed their mounts to graze as the others caught up. It was the public face of his maneuvers and he could not complain that he found the crashing and shouting irritating. Whenever they stopped, thousands of warriors would set up targets and practice shots at full gallop, loosing and collecting thousands of shafts. They were impressive and at first he had thrilled to see such power under his command. It had begun to pall for him after the first week, though he idled time away imagining Batu strapped to a target.

Even the thought of that brought a flush to Guyuk’s cheeks. He had built a network of spies to dwarf anything his father had ever controlled. In the city, a thousand conversations were reported along a chain of men, collected at the end of each day by his spymaster, then brought to Guyuk. Even in the tumans, men who were foolish enough to criticize their khan found themselves dragged before him to answer for their foolish words. Yet there had been no criticism of Batu. He had been Tsubodai’s favorite, they said, a grandson of Genghis who had not sullied his hands with politics and deals. Guyuk seethed at the details he recalled. The common warriors had learned to guard their speech, even among friends. The information coming in had dried to a trickle after the first examples had been made, but Guyuk still listened. He had ordered men bound to a post and beaten bloody. He had ordered two killed on the grounds that they spoke of insurrection and disloyalty to the khan. Guyuk had watched one man’s tongue being torn out with iron pincers before he was killed. He smiled slightly at the memory. There would be no more of that sort of talk.

He was sure such events could not damage his authority. If anything, he thought the examples he made increased it. It hurt nothing for the men to know their khan would enforce his rule just as ruthlessly as Genghis ever had. The warriors went in fear of him and that was only right. They would not run from an enemy with Guyuk watching them.

He rode west with his army for a hundred miles or more, stopping for two days to practice formations and charges. On the third morning, Guyuk swung the army to the north, riding toward the Russian lands his father had so foolishly granted to an enemy. It was a tainted line, he had realized. Batu’s father had been a traitor and his faults had bred true. There could never be trust between them, even if he had summoned Batu to Karakorum and taken his oath. Such a line would poison the new nation and could only be cut down and burned to the root. He thought of his mother and Sorhatani, sisters in their manipulation of him. Neither would understand the need to remove his enemies. Leaving Batu in peace was not the act of a great khan, but of a weak one, too frightened to engage. Guyuk smiled to himself. He would make an example that would light the way forward, a demonstration to all those others who sought to test the new khan’s strength. Let them all see! From the princes of Koryo to the Arabs and the nations of the west. Let them hear of Batu’s death and hesitate as they considered resisting the Mongol nation. Batu’s fate would be public and terrible. It would move from mouth to ear across the deserts, the mountains and green plains. Batu could be Guyuk’s bonfire on the mountaintop, his message to all his vassal states. In that, Batu would serve his khan well.

FROM TWO MILES AWAY, KUBLAI WATCHED THE ARMY PASSING, a vast, dusty column of men and horses. It was dangerous to come within sight of them, but he knew the scouting patterns as well as anyone alive and he worked around them, shadowing the khan’s force as they rode. It helped that he was not the only man alive on the plains. The movement of so many warriors and horses drove goat-herders and poor families from their homes, so that they could often be seen on the outskirts, moving swiftly out of the khan’s path. Kublai himself was dressed in a dirty old deel, his face and hands almost black with grime. He hoped he could pass for one of them if he was discovered.

As he lay in long grass, he ran his hand down the dark muzzle and lips of his horse. It lay completely flat, its cheek touching the ground as it had been trained. Even so, the animal needed his touch to remain in such an unnatural position. The liquid brown eyes watched him and he could not prevent the tail whisking at flies and disturbing the cover. Nothing was completely safe within sight of the tumans and their scouts, but he had to know. The message he had memorized would earn death for many if it ever became known to the khan. Kublai knew he had to be certain it was even needed. If the khan marched his army away from Batu’s lands, Kublai could simply slip away to Karakorum. It would never be mentioned again.

The tumans had swung north that morning. Karakorum was long behind them and Kublai had watched with growing anger, certain that he saw the khan’s true purpose at last. Even then, he had waited, watching to be certain they did not turn back or stop at some lake to water the animals. He had dried milk and meat in his saddlebags and he could cover almost twice the distance they did each day if he had to. At best, the khan’s army made forty miles, hardly starting before noon and riding without haste. Kublai kept his eyes on them, wanting to be wrong until he could not deny the truth any longer. When the last ranks had gone, he tapped his horse on the muzzle, making it jump up. He had rested all day, but he could not race madly through the night. If his horse broke a leg on unseen ground, he would not catch them again and Batu would never get the warning.

The following dawn found him barely sixteen miles north of the army, approaching a small village that lay by a stream in the crook of small hills. Kublai’s water was running low and he made the decision to stop and buy supplies from them. The hills around were clear and he knew he would be riding hard all day.

He brought his horse in slowly, making sure the herdsmen could see he was alone. There were only four small gers, rebuilt with wood to something more permanent. He passed a reeking toilet pit and nodded to himself, seeing that the families there were poor but clean.

His presence made a herd of goats scatter before him, their nervous bleating as good as any watchdog for rousing the inhabitants. It was only moments before two men faced him with drawn bows.

“I will pay for food and fill a skin with water from your stream,” he said loudly.

The men glanced at each other and one of them nodded reluctantly. Kublai tapped a small bag of silver coins on his hip, drawing their gaze to the sword he wore there. Both men stared at the weapon and he wondered if they had ever seen a long blade before. Their greed showed in their eyes and he read the looks they gave each other with a sinking feeling. It was likely such men earned a little coin by robbing anyone foolish enough to pass by on the road and they still held the bows while his own remained on his back. He decided not to dismount, where they might rush him.

“Bring enough for a few days and I will leave you,” he said.

He reached into the purse and withdrew two silver coins. Both men lowered their bows and one came forward to take the coins while the other watched closely, still suspicious.

Kublai took his feet out of the stirrups as he sat and reached down with the coins. He had half expected it, but it was still a shock when the man grabbed at his long sleeve and tried to pull him out of the saddle. He kicked out sharply, catching the man under the jaw with his boot and sending him reeling, his mouth suddenly bloody from a bitten tongue. The other one gaped and raised his bow, but Kublai kicked his mount forward, drawing the sword and lowering the tip to the man’s throat.

At that moment, Kublai heard a new voice, snapping a question. He dared to glance up from the terrified man he held at sword-point and his heart sank. Two of Guyuk’s scouts had approached the small collection of houses from the other side, walking their horses in while he had been distracted.

Kublai sheathed the sword and dismounted immediately on the far side of his mount, his mind racing. He could not outrun such men. They were more used to long distances than he could ever be and they would run him down before the day was over. He cursed himself for his mistake, then put it aside, finding a perfect calm he had learned at the feet of the khan’s chancellor years before. There was no profit in panic and he made quick decisions as he stood and waited for them to come closer.

The scouts were wary, but they saw only three men in a scuffle, one with blood leaking from his mouth. They trotted their mounts closer and Kublai dropped his shoulders lightly, disguising his height with a stoop as he fussed at his horse. He was as filthy as the other two, his robe as ragged as theirs. Only his sword marked him out and he hoped the scouts would not look too closely at it. The two thieves bowed deeply to the khan’s scouts and he copied them, his manner awed at meeting such important men.

“Stand still,” one of the scouts said sharply.

His companion stayed back a few paces, but the first one came among them. Kublai guessed he was the senior of the two, long used to the authority of being the khan’s man.

“What’s this then?” the scout asked. He was older than Kublai would have expected, but whip-thin despite his age.

Kublai spoke quickly. “Just a disagreement, lord,” he said, dipping his head. “A discussion over some goats I was buying.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the injured herder gape at him. A scout might be tempted to make an example of a thief on the road, even to take them all to the khan for justice. He would have no interest in settling some local dispute. Kublai only hoped the men would keep their mouths shut and let him talk his way out of it.

“I clip the left ears of my animals, two clips, as you can see there,” Kublai went on, pointing. The scout didn’t look around, too old a hand to be distracted. “My cousins do the same, which I have told them would lead to … um … disagreements like this one, lord. The animals are mine, I’d know them anywhere. You are a khan’s man, lord. If you could rule on this, I’d be grateful.” He rambled on and the scout relaxed, turning to grin at his companion.

The herder with the bloody mouth tried to speak and Kublai whirled on him.

“Shut your mouth, Hakhan, this is all your doing. I know that brown one like it was my own child.”

Both herders stared in amazement at the madman who addressed them in such a way, but the scouts were already losing interest. He kept his gaze down and spoke on, playing the role with everything he had.

“My lord, if you could just stay while I gather up the ones that are mine, I will send a hundred prayers to the sky father for you. My wife is pregnant again. We don’t have much and I can’t afford to lose some of my best breeders now.”

“Come on,” the older scout said to his companion. He had lost interest in the three grubby men who stood and argued in the road. Kublai kept pleading with them as they turned to ride away, but relief washed over him. At last, he was alone once again with the two herders. Both stared at him as they might have at a mad dog. The one with the bloody mouth spat red onto the ground and spoke, though the effort cost him dearly.

“Who are you?” he managed.

“Just a traveler,” Kublai replied. His muscles had been tensed to attack for too long and his hands shook as he unclenched. “In need of food and water, as I said. Now, if you still have an idea of robbing me, I will not be merciful the second time. One shout will bring them back.”

The herders looked instinctively to where the scouts had ridden away and both of them seemed to dislike that thought. There was little justice on the plains. Even the distant presence of the khan’s men was enough to send terror into their hearts.

Rather than turn his back on the pair, Kublai mounted again and trotted the horse behind them as they filled his waterskin and gathered a small package of fresh-cooked lamb and stone-ground bread. It smelled delicious, but he would not break his fast until the khan’s army was far behind him. Batu’s land lay more than a thousand miles to the north, but it was not enough to reach him barely ahead of the khan’s armies. Kublai was grim as he set out again, alert for any sign of the scouts in the distance. To run, Batu would need all the time Kublai could give him.

SEVEN

OVER THREE DAYS OF HARD RIDING, KUBLAI RAN HIS HORSE to complete exhaustion. The animal cropped grass in its sleep, but there was never enough time for it to recover before he had to mount again. He was in pain as he climbed into the saddle on the fourth day. He did not have the calluses of the scouts and great patches of skin had rubbed away on his buttocks and lower back. Each morning was an agony until the scabs broke and settled to a numb ache that would last all day. He did not know exactly how far he had come, only that the khan’s army was far behind him. Batu had kept an entire tuman of warriors and their families when he traveled to his new lands. They would have grown in number and so many could not be hidden easily. Kublai expected to find signs of them, though that was a challenge for another day.

His immediate problem was that his horse had lost weight alarmingly and was sweating and chewing yellow spit at its mouth. It was time to test the yam lines in a plan that had seemed simple back in Karakorum. From his saddlebags, Kublai drew out a set of small bells sewn into cloth. He draped them over his saddle and took his bearings once again, from the hills around him. There was no one in sight, but he had seen a yam station some twenty miles back and aligned himself to the path worn by its riders. He took stock of himself for the last time and winced at his own weariness. No yam rider rode with packs on his mount. Weight was everything. With a grimace, he wrenched the buckles open and let his supplies tumble out. His bow followed and he held his sword for a long moment before placing it on top of the small pile of leather and cloth. In hostile territory, he felt as helpless as a newborn child without it, but there was no alternative. He kept only a small leather bag he could strap to his back, exactly the sort of thing yam riders carried. He had even written an innocuous letter to a false name, ready to be shown if he were stopped and searched, though that was not likely. No one interfered with a yam rider.

On a whim, he sliced the bags into strips, then wrapped the scabbarded sword securely, making a package that he could hide. The blade was valuable and though he doubted he would ever see it again, he could not just leave it in the dust for scavengers or, worse, the khan’s scouts when they came riding behind him.

Kublai drew his horse into some trees and settled down to wait for dusk. There could only be a few miles to go and he wanted to arrive at the yam station at sunset, or even night. It had been Genghis himself who set the distance between yam stations at twenty-five miles. Some of them had been in operation for so long that wide roads stretched between them and families had built homes of brick and clay. He lay back against a tree trunk with the reins looped around his fist.

He awoke to find the trees were dark around him. He had no idea how much time had passed and cursed as he stood up and reached for his saddle. His horse whinnied, stepping away, so that he had to slap its face to get it to stand still.

In moments, he was back on the road, trotting and listening for signs of life. The moon had barely risen and he was thankful the night was still with him. It was not long before he saw lights ahead and forced his mount into a gallop once more. The bells on his saddle jingled at every step, loud in the darkness.

The yam station was a small one, built of flint and limestone in the wilderness, with little more than a few outbuildings and a cobbled yard. Torches had been lit as they heard him approach and Kublai rode in confidently, seeing two men waiting. One carried a fat waterskin and the other a platter of steaming meat scraps, still dripping water from the boil-pot inside. Another horse was already being led out of the stables, made ready as he dismounted.

“Who are you?” the man with the platter asked suddenly.

“I’ve come from Karakorum, with urgent messages,” Kublai snapped. “Who are you?”

“Sorry,” the man replied. He still looked suspicious and Kublai saw his gaze fall on the horse he had brought in. Kublai was not the first to think of stealing a yam pony in such a way, but the quality of the mounts they brought in usually gave thieves away. Kublai saw the man nod grudgingly to himself. Even so, he spoke again as Kublai took a double handful of moist lamb shreds and chewed them.

“If you’re from Karakorum, you’ll know the yam master there.”

“Teriden?” Kublai said around his mouthful. “Big Christian with a red beard? I know him well.”

It was an easy test for a young man who’d grown up in the city, though his heart thumped in his chest at the thought of being found out. Trying to hide the stiffness of his saddle sores, he mounted the fresh horse, adjusting his small pack on his shoulders as he accepted the skin and knocked back a draft of airag mixed with water. It was cheap and sour, but it warmed him and he gasped as he tossed it back. From that point on, his only sustenance would come from yam stations.

“I’ll tell him you keep a good house here,” he said as he took up the reins and trotted the horse to the stone gate. The yam staff were already busy unsaddling his last horse and rubbing it down. The animal steamed in the torchlight and no one bothered to reply. Kublai smiled and dug in his heels, clattering out onto the road north. It had worked and it would work again. It had to if he was to stay ahead of the khan’s army. No message could move faster than those riders. Until he spoke to Batu himself, the man would be completely unaware of the threat against him.

As Kublai left, the yam servant stared thoughtfully after him. He’d never seen yellow eyes like those before. Genghis was said to have had such eyes. The man scratched a flea bite on his cheek, lost in thought. After a time, he shrugged and went back to work.

THE FOUR MEN HAD WATCHED THE TRAIL FOR THREE DAYS, hunting in pairs, so that there were always rabbits for the stew each night. There was a huge warren nearby and it was easy enough to set strangling snares over the holes. They had a good view of the road through the mountains and so they spent their time talking, or gambling with knucklebones, or just repairing old kit. They knew they could expect to be relieved in another two days and they were approaching the end of their time. There had been little excitement. Just one family of peddlers had passed through and the men were not interested in the cheap goods they had in their little cart, drawn by an ancient pony with one white eye. With rough laughter and a kick, they had sent them on their way.

“Someone coming,” said Parikh, the youngest of them.

The other three shuffled over to the edge of their small camp, looking down at the trail below while being careful not to show their heads. Their bows were well wrapped against damp, lying unsprung so the strings didn’t stretch. Nonetheless, each man had the weapons in easy reach. They could have an arrow ready to fly in moments. They peered down, cursing the morning haze that blurred the air, seeming to come from the rocks themselves before it burned off.

Despite the mist, they could see a single man walking slowly, leading a lame horse. His head was bowed and he looked like any poor warrior, stumbling home after many nights hunting, or searching for a lost animal. Even so, the watchers had been placed on that road as the first line of defense and they were wary of anyone. The oldest, Tarrial, had seen more than his share of ambushes and battles. He alone had scars on his forearms and they looked to him for decisions. Sound carried far in the mountains, and with a silent gesture Tarrial sent Parikh off on his own along the ridge. The lad would scout for anyone else creeping up on them, as well as providing a second shot from hiding if something went wrong. The others waited until Parikh reached a place where he could see half a mile along the back trail. The young man raised a flat palm to them, visible at a distance. Clear.

Tarrial relaxed.

“Just one man. Stay here and don’t steal my food. I’ll go down to him.”

He made no attempt to hide his progress as he scrambled down the rocky scree. In fact, he made as much noise as possible, rather than make the stranger nervous. Years before, Tarrial had seen his jagun officer killed on patrol in Samarkand. The officer had kept to the shadows while thieves robbed a store. As one of them passed him, he had stepped out and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, hoping to scare the thief half to death. His ploy had worked, but the man jammed a dagger into his ribs in panicked reflex. Tarrial smiled fondly at the memory of the officer’s face.

By the time he reached the trail, the stranger was close enough for Tarrial to make out his features. He was tall, unusually so. The stranger looked exhausted, his feet barely lifting with each stride. The pony was as dust-covered as he was and favored its right foreleg.

Kublai sensed Tarrial’s gaze and jerked his head up. His hand dropped to his hip, but there was no sword there and, with a grimace, he raised his free hand to show he was unarmed.

“Yam rider?” Tarrial called.

“Yes,” Kublai replied. He was furious with himself for walking so blindly into the hills. He had lost track of the days, even of the horses he’d exchanged at yam stations along the way. Now, everything he had achieved could be undone by a few thieves. Not for the first time, he regretted leaving his weapons behind.

“Who is the message for?” Tarrial asked. There was something about the man that had his instincts twitching, though he couldn’t say what it was. Through all the grime that layered him, pale yellow eyes glared at Tarrial and more than once the rider’s hand dropped to his hip, as if he was used to carrying a sword. Odd, for a simple yam rider who always went unarmed.

“No one stops the yam,” Kublai said sternly. “The message isn’t for you, whoever you are.”

Tarrial grinned. The man couldn’t be much older than Parikh, but he spoke like one used to authority. Again, that was a strange thing for a yam rider. He couldn’t resist prodding a little further, just to get a reaction.

“Seems to me a spy would say the same thing, though,” Tarrial said.

Kublai raised his eyes to the sky for a moment. “A spy on a yam horse, with a leather bag? With nothing at all of value on him, I might add.”

“Oh, we’re not thieves, lad. We’re soldiers. There’s a difference. Not always, I admit, but usually.”

To his surprise, Kublai straightened subtly, his gaze sharpening.

“Who is your minghaan officer?” he said curtly.

“He’s about a hundred miles away, lad, so I don’t think I’ll be bothering him with you, not today.”

“His name,” Kublai snapped. There were only ten minghaans to every tuman. He knew the name of almost every man who held that rank in the nation.

Tarrial bristled at the tone, even as he wondered at it. Alone, unarmed, hundreds of miles from anywhere and the man still had an air about him that made Tarrial reconsider his first words.

“You’re not like the yam riders I’ve seen before,” he said warily.

“I don’t have time for this,” Kublai replied, losing patience. “Tell me his name, or get out of my way.” Before Tarrial could reply, he tugged on his reins and began walking again, taking a path straight at the warrior.

Tarrial hesitated. He was tempted to knock the rider on his backside. No one would blame him, but some instinct for survival stayed his fists. Everything had been wrong about the meeting from the first words.

“His name is Khuyildar,” he said. If the rider tried to barge past him, Tarrial was confident he could put him down. Instead, the man stopped and closed his eyes for a moment, nodding.

“Then the message is for his master, Batu of the Borjigin. For his ears alone and urgent. You had better take me to him.”

“You only had to say, lad,” Tarrial replied, still frowning.

“Now.”

EIGHT

THERE WASN’T MUCH CONVERSATION AS TARRIAL AND PARIKH led Kublai through the mountains. They had left only one man behind to watch the road, while the last of the four rode back to inform their officer. Kublai’s lame horse rested with the other mounts, while he had been given the smallest of the scouts’ ponies, an irritable animal that tried to bite whenever it saw a finger.

Parikh shared his waterskin with the strange yam rider, but neither Kublai nor Tarrial seemed to be in a mood to talk and his first efforts were ignored. With Tarrial in the lead, they followed a wide path that wound its way upward into the hills. Kublai could see mountains in the distance, but he had only the vaguest idea where he was, even with the maps he had in his head. The air was clean and cold and he could see for miles as they walked or trotted their mounts.

“I’ve already lost a day with that lame horse,” Kublai said after a time. “We need to go faster.”

“Why’s that, then?” Tarrial asked immediately. He glowered at the mysterious rider who ordered men about as if they were his personal servants. Tarrial could hardly believe the way Parikh almost came to attention every time the stranger looked at him. No yam rider was that used to authority. Tarrial knew he had to be some sort of officer, perhaps on his own business and using the yam lines without permission.

He thought Kublai wasn’t going to reply—until he did, grudgingly.

“There is an army behind me. A week, maybe ten days, and they’ll be here. Your lord will want every moment of warning I can give him.”

Parikh gaped and Tarrial lost his frown, suddenly worried.

“How big an army?” he said.

In answer, Kublai dug his heels into the flanks of his horse, kicking it on.

“Find out when I give my message to your lord,” he called over his shoulder.

Tarrial and Parikh looked at each other for a moment, then both men broke into a canter to reach and overtake him.

As Kublai rode, he tried to assess the defensive qualities of the land around him. It looked as if Batu had made himself a camp in the valleys of the range of hills, unless the scouts were lying to him about distances. He thought back to the accounts he had read in the library of Karakorum. Under Genghis, the tumans had once destroyed an Assassin fortress, taking it down, stone by stone. No stronghold Batu could have built would stand for longer than that one. Kublai brought the worst possible news, that Batu had to move his people away. With the khan’s army coming, Batu had to run and keep running, with only a small chance he would not be caught and slaughtered.

At a better pace, the scouts led him over a series of ridges and the valleys beyond. Most of them were thick with trees. There were small animal paths and they followed those, but the forests would slow Guyuk’s army and force them into single file. They would expect ambushes and traps and lose days as a result. Kublai shook his head as he trotted his mount through the gloom, the canopy of branches blocking the sun. He lost track of time and distance, but the sun was setting as they reached an inner ring of scout camps and Tarrial halted to refill his waterskin, empty his bladder, and change horses. Kublai dismounted to do the same, his bones creaking. He could feel the hostile stares of Batu’s warriors as they nodded to Tarrial and Parikh. Perhaps a dozen or so men lived in that damp place, rotated on constant watch. Kublai doubted anyone could approach Batu without his hearing of it, but it would not help him.

Wearily, Kublai mounted his new pony and followed Tarrial and Parrikh, leaving the inner scout camp behind. Darkness came quickly after that and he was completely lost. If Tarrial hadn’t been leading, Kublai knew he’d never have been able to find his way through. The forest seemed endless and he became suspicious that Tarrial was deliberately leading him in a twisting path, so he could not find his way back, or lead anyone else in.

They rode all night, until Kublai was dozing as his horse walked, his head nodding in time to its steps. He had never been so tired. The last paths had vanished and Kublai began to wonder if Tarrial was as lost as he was. They could not see the stars to guide them and it seemed a waking dream as their horses clambered over unseen obstacles and pushed their way through bushes with sharp commands from the three men to drive them on. Branches and thorns scratched them as they forced their way in deeper.

Dawn came slowly, the gray light returning the forest to reality. Kublai was drenched in sour sweat and he could hardly raise his head. His back ached terribly and he straightened and slumped at intervals, trying to ease the stabs of pain. Tarrial watched him with barely hidden scorn, but then the scout had not ridden hard for a month before that, burning through his reserves and eating little until the bones of his skull showed. Kublai had reached a point where he resented Batu bitterly, without reason. He knew the man would never appreciate what he had gone through to bring him the news ahead of Guyuk’s army and his temper grew with the light. At times, it was all that sustained him.

As the sun rose, Kublai had a sense that the trees were thinning from the impossible tangle of the night before. Already that was becoming a strange memory, in incoherent flashes. He raised his face to the sun when it grew warmer, opening his bloodshot eyes to see they had passed out of the trees at last.

A gentle valley lay beyond the forest. Kublai strained his eyes into the distance and saw the wall of trees begin again. It was not a natural meadow, but the work of years and thousands of men, clearing land where Batu’s families could settle in peace. Around them, the forest stretched for many miles in all directions. For the first time, Kublai wondered how Guyuk would find such a place. Among the oaks and beeches, Kublai had not even smelled the smoke of their fires.

Their arrival had not gone unmarked. No sooner had the three men walked their mounts out of the trees than there were shouts and cries, echoing far. From among the clustered homes and gers, warriors gathered and rode toward them. Kublai shook the weariness away, knowing he had to remain alert for the meeting to come. He took his waterskin and squeezed a jet of warm water onto his face, rubbing hard at the bristles on his lip and chin. He could only imagine how bedraggled and dirty he looked. His disguise as a poor yam rider had become the reality.

The warriors cantered in on fresh mounts, looking disgustingly alert. Kublai massaged his eye sockets as they approached, easing a headache. He knew he would need food soon, or he’d be likely to pass out sometime that afternoon.

As the jagun officer opened his mouth, Kublai raised his hand.

“My name is Kublai of the Borjigin, cousin to Batu and prince of the nation.” He was aware of Tarrial and Parikh jerking around in their saddles. He had not told them his name.

“Take me to your master immediately. He will want to hear what I have to say.”

The officer shut his mouth with a click of teeth, trying to reconcile the idea of a prince with the filthy beggar he saw before him. The yellow eyes glared through the dirt and the officer recalled the descriptions of Genghis he had heard. He nodded.

“Come with me,” he said, wheeling his mount.

“And food,” Kublai muttered, too late. “I would like food and perhaps a little airag or wine.”

The warriors didn’t answer and he rode after them. Tarrial and Parikh watched him go with wide eyes. They felt responsible for the man and they were reluctant to leave and go back to their lonely post in the hills.

After a time, Tarrial sighed irritably. “Might be an idea to stay here and find out what’s happening. We should wet our throats before reporting in, at least.”

As Kublai entered the encampment proper, he saw there were wide dirt roads running past the homes. Some of them were gers in the style he knew, but many more had been built of wood, perhaps even from the great trunks they had cut to make the clearing in the first place. There were thousands of them. Batu’s original ten thousand families had raised children in the years in the wilderness. He had expected a lonely camp, but what he saw was a fledgling nation. Lumber was plentiful and the buildings were tall and strong. He looked with interest at the ones with two stories and wondered how the occupants would escape in a fire. Stone was rare there and the whole camp smelled of pine and oak. He realized his weary thoughts had been drifting as the officer halted before a large home somewhere near the center of the camp. With shattering relief, Kublai saw Batu standing in front of the oak door, leaning against a wooden post with his arms crossed lightly over his chest. Two big dogs poked their heads out to see the stranger and one of them growled before Batu reached down and fondled his ears.

“You were barely a boy when I last saw you, Kublai,” Batu said, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “You are welcome in my home. I grant you guest rights here.”

Kublai almost fell as he dismounted, his legs buckling. Strong arms held him up and he mumbled thanks to some stranger.

“Bring him in before he drops,” he heard Batu say.

BATU’S HOME WAS LARGER THAN IT LOOKED FROM THE OUTSIDE, perhaps because there were very few partitions. Most of it was an open space, with a wooden ladder leading to a sleeping platform at one end, almost like a hayloft above their heads. The floor was cluttered with couches, tables, and chairs, all haphazard. Kublai entered in front of two of the warriors, pausing on the threshold to let the dogs smell his hand. They seemed to accept his presence, though one of them watched him as closely as the two men at his back. He stood patiently while they searched him for weapons, knowing they would find nothing. As he waited, he saw the heads of children peeping down at him from the second level. He smiled up at them and they vanished.

“You look exhausted,” Batu said, when the warriors were satisfied.

He wore a long knife on his hip and Kublai noted how he had been ready to draw the blade at the first sign of a struggle. Batu had never been a fool and there was a legend in the nation that Genghis had once killed a man with a sharp scale of armor, when everyone thought him disarmed. There wasn’t much threat in a deel robe that stank of old urine and sweat.

“It’s not important,” Kublai said. “I have brought a message from Karakorum. From my mother to you.” It was a relief to be able to say the words he had hidden for so long. “May I sit?” he said.

Batu flushed slightly. “Of course. Over here.”

He gave orders for tea and food and one of the warriors went running to fetch them. The other was a small, wiry man with Chin features and a blind white eye. He took a place at the door and Kublai saw how the man winked his dead eye at the children above them before he stared ahead.

“Thank you,” Kublai said. “It has been a long trip. I only wish the news was better. My mother told me to warn you that Guyuk is coming. He has taken the army away from the city. I followed them for some days until I was sure they were coming north. I’ve stayed ahead of them, but they can’t be more than a week behind me, if that. I’m sorry.”

“How many tumans does he have?” Batu said.

“Ten, with two or three spare mounts to a man.”

“Catapults? Cannon?”

“No. They rode like raiders on a grand scale. All the supplies were on the spare horses, at least those I saw. Cousin, my mother has risked a great deal in sending me. If it became known …”

“It won’t come from me, you have my oath,” Batu replied. His eyes were distant, as he thought through what he had been told. Under the silent pressure of Kublai’s gaze, he came back and focused.

“Thank you, Kublai. I will not forget it. I can wish for more than a week to prepare, but it will have to be enough.”

Kublai blinked. “He has a hundred thousand warriors. You’re not thinking of fighting?”

Batu smiled. “I don’t think I should discuss that with you, cousin. Rest here for a few days, eat and grow strong, before you ride back to the city. If I live, I will show my gratitude—give my regards to your mother.”

“My brother Mongke is with the khan,” Kublai went on. “He is the orlok of Guyuk’s armies and you know he is no fool. See sense, Batu! I brought you the warning so you could run.”

Batu looked at him, seeing the terrible weariness in the way Kublai slumped at the table.

“If I discuss this with you, I cannot let you go, do you understand? If Guyuk’s scouts capture you, you already have too much information.”

“They would not dare torture me,” Kublai said.

Batu only shook his head.

“If Guyuk ordered it? You think too highly of yourself, my friend. I would imagine that your mother survives because Mongke has supported Guyuk so loyally. And there is only room for one on that particular tail.”

Kublai made his decision, in part because he could hardly imagine getting on a horse ever again, the way he felt at that moment.

“I will stay until it is safe to go. Now tell me you are not thinking of attacking the khan’s army—the army that took Yenking, broke the Assassin fortress, and humbled the Afghan tribes! What do you have, twelve thousand warriors at most, some of them still untried boys? It would be a massacre.”

The food and tea arrived and Kublai fell to with a will, his hunger banishing all other concerns. Batu sipped at a cup, watching him closely. Kublai was known for his intelligence. Even Genghis had remarked on the prodigy and told his brothers to look to Kublai for solutions. Batu could not ignore Kublai’s opinion when it was so completely against him.

“If I run, I run forever,” he said. “I was there in Hungary, Kublai, five thousand miles from home. There aren’t many alive who understand as well as I do that the khan cannot be outrun. Guyuk would chase me to the end of the world and think nothing of it.”

“Then have your people scatter in a hundred directions. Have them ride deep into the Russian steppes as herders. Tell them to bury their armor and their swords, that they might at least survive. You cannot stand, Batu.”

“The forest is vast—” Batu began.

Kublai had revived with the draft of salt tea and he thumped his fist on the table as he interrupted.

“The forest will only slow them down, not stop them. Genghis climbed mountains around the Chin wall with men just like these. You say you know the army. Think, then. It is time to run. I have bought you a few days, enough to stay ahead of them. Even that is not … Well, it is all you have.”

“And I am grateful, Kublai. I have said it. But if I run, how many of the people in this valley will still be alive a year from now? A few thousand? A few hundred even? Their lives are dedicated to me. These lands are mine, given by Ogedai Khan. No one has the right to take them from me.”

“Why didn’t you come to Karakorum? If you had bent the knee then, if you had given your oath, there wouldn’t be an army on the way here.”

Batu sighed and rubbed his face. For a moment, he looked almost as weary as Kublai.

“I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want my warriors taken for some pointless war under Guyuk. I supported Baidur, Chagatai’s son, but in the end he chose not to fight for the khanate. I can’t say I blame him. I didn’t expect the gathering to go ahead without me, but there it is. Call it vanity, perhaps, or just a mistake. It could have gone another way.”

“But after that? When Guyuk was made khan you could still have come.”

Batu’s face grew cold. “To save my people, I would have done even that. I would have knelt in front of that perfumed toad and sworn my honor away.”

“But you did not,” Kublai said, disturbed by the extent of the man’s simmering anger.

“He did not ask me, Kublai. You are the first person from Karakorum I have seen since Guyuk was made khan. For a time, I even thought you had come to call me to oath. I was ready for that.” He waved an arm to encompass the whole camp around them, as well as the dogs and children, the families. “This is all I want. The old khan chose well when he granted me these lands. Did you know that?”

Kublai shook his head silently.

“When I came here,” Batu continued, “I found a few rotting gers and homes of wood, deep in the forest. I was amazed. What were those things of the nation doing so far from home? Then I found a broken saddle, still marked with my father’s symbol. These are the lands Jochi settled when he ran from Genghis, Kublai. The lands chosen by the firstborn of the great khan. My father’s spirit is here, and though Guyuk may never understand it, this is my home. If he just stayed away, I would never be a threat to him.”

“But he comes. He will burn this camp to the ground,” Kublai said softly.

“That is why I must face him.” Batu nodded to himself. “Perhaps he will accept a personal challenge, between two grandsons of Genghis. I think he might enjoy the drama of such a thing.”

“He would have you cut down with arrows before you could speak,” Kublai said. “I do not enjoy saying these things, Batu. But you have to know the man would never risk his own life. Put aside these mad plans. You speak in desperation, I understand! But you have no choices …”

Kublai broke off, a thought occurring to him as he spoke. Batu saw his attention fix on some inner place and reached out suddenly to take him by the arm.

“What is it? What came into your mind just then?”

“No, it is nothing,” Kublai said, shaking off the grip.

“Let me judge,” Batu said.

Kublai rose suddenly, making one of the dogs growl at him.

“No. I will not be rushed into it. Give me time to think it through.”

He began to pace the room. The idea that had come to him was monstrous. He knew he was too used to solving problems in the safe confines of the city, without having to consider the consequences. If he spoke it aloud, the world would change. He guarded his mouth, refusing to say another word until he was ready.

Batu watched him pace, hardly daring to hope. As a young boy, Kublai had been the favorite student of the khan’s chancellor. When he spoke, even great men paused and listened. Batu waited in silence, only frowning at one of his sons when the boy crept under the table and curled himself around his leg. The little boy looked up with trusting eyes, convinced his father was the strongest and bravest man in the world. Batu could only wish it were true.

Finding it hard to think with Batu’s hopes and needs pressing on him, Kublai walked outside without a word. The warrior with the white eye came out after him and stood close by, watching. Kublai ignored the stare and went into the road, standing in the center and letting the people bustle around him. The camp was laid out like a town, with winding roads running through it in all directions. He smiled to himself as he realized none of them ran straight, where an enemy could use them to charge. As with a camp of gers, the tracks twisted and doubled back on themselves to confuse an attacker. There was an energy about the place, from raised voices calling their wares to sounds of construction. As Kublai stood there, he saw two men carrying a log of wood to some unknown destination, shuffling along with a weight almost too much for them. Young children ran around him, grubby urchins still blissfully unaware of the adult world.

If he did nothing, Batu would either attack and be destroyed, or run and be hunted down. Had he truly come so many hundreds of miles only to watch the annihilation of Batu’s families? Yet Kublai had given his oath to the khan. He had sworn to serve him with gers, horses, salt, and blood. His word was iron and he was caught between his oath and his need.

Suddenly furious, he kicked a stone in the road and sent it skipping. One of the children yelped in surprise, glaring at him as he rubbed a spot on his leg. Kublai didn’t even see the boy. He had already skirted his oath in warning Batu, but he could live with that. What he contemplated was far worse.

When he turned back at last, he saw Batu standing with the white-eyed warrior in the doorway, the dogs lying at their feet. Kublai nodded.

“Very well, Batu. I have something more to say.”

NINE

GUYUK LOVED THE LONG SUMMER EVENINGS, WHERE THE world hung for an age, suspended in gray light. The air was clear and warm and he felt at peace as he watched the sun begin to ease toward the west, turning the sky a thousand shades of red, orange, and purple. He stood at the small door of a ger, looking out at the encampment of his tumans. It was always the same, as they made a town, a city rise in the wilderness. Everything they needed was carried on the backs of the spare horses. He could smell meat and spices on the air and he breathed deeply, feeling strong. The light would last a long time yet and the hunger was strong on him. He tried to sneer at his own caution. He was khan; the laws of Genghis would not bind him.

Guyuk jumped onto the pony’s back, enjoying his own energy and youth. His face was flushed. Two of his minghaan officers were nearby, doing their best to look in any direction but his. He gestured to his waiting servant and Anar came forward with his hunting eagle, the bird and the man quiet with tension. Guyuk raised his right forearm, where he wore a long leather sheath from his fingers to above his elbow. He accepted the weight of the bird and tied the jesses. Unlike his falcons, the eagle had always fought the hood. She was bareheaded, her eyes sharp with excitement. For a moment, the bird flapped furiously, revealing the white underfeathers of her wings as they spread and beat. Guyuk looked away from the furious wind until she began to settle, trembling. He stroked her head, wary of the great curved beak that could rip the throat out of a wolf.

When the bird was calm, Guyuk gave a low whistle and one of the minghaan officers approached with his head down. It was as if the man wished to see nothing, to know nothing of what went on. Guyuk smiled at his caution, understanding it. The man’s life was in his hands at a single glance or poorly chosen word.

“I will hunt to the east this evening,” Guyuk said. “You have brought the scouts in?” His heart was hammering and his voice sounded choked to him, but the minghaan merely nodded in response, saying nothing. Seven times in a month of riding, Guyuk had done the same thing, swept up in passions he never felt with his young wife in Karakorum.

“If I am needed, send men directly east.”

The minghaan bowed without raising his eyes. Guyuk approved of his discretion. Without another word, the khan nodded to Anar and the two men began trotting their mounts out of the camp. Guyuk held the eagle lightly, the bird looking forward.

Whenever they passed warriors, he saw bowed heads. Guyuk rode with his head high, passing out into the long grasslands. Spare mounts grazed there by the tens of thousands, a herd so vast it covered the land like a shadow and grazed the long plains grass down to nothing each night. There were warriors there too, spending the night on watch with the animals. One or two of them saw him from a distance and trotted closer until they saw it was the khan. At that point they became blind and deaf, turning away as if they had seen nothing.

The evening light was beginning to fade in soft shades by the time Guyuk passed the herds. With every mile, he felt some of his burden lift and sat taller in the saddle. He saw the shadows lengthen before him, and as his mood cleared he was tempted to chase them, like a boy. It was good to be able to put aside the seriousness of his life, just for a time. That too was something he missed when he returned to the camps. When he came back, he could always feel responsibilities closing in on him like a heavy cloak. The days would be filled with tactical discussions, reports, and punishments. Guyuk sighed to himself at the thought. He lived for the golden moments away from it all, where he could be his own man, at least for a time.

Some half a dozen miles to the east of the camp, he and Anar found a stream trickling through the plains, running almost dry in its course. There were a few trees by the banks and Guyuk chose a spot where the shadows were gathering, enjoying the utter peace and isolation. Such things were precious to a khan. Guyuk was always surrounded by men and women, from the first moments of waking, to the last torch-lit meetings before he went to bed. Just to stand and listen to the stream and the breeze was a simple joy.

He untied the jesses that snared the eagle’s legs and waited until the bird was ready before he raised his arm and threw her into the air. She rose quickly on powerful wings, circling hundreds of feet above him. It was too late in the day to hunt and he thought she would not go far from him. Guyuk untied his lure and spun out the cord, watching her with pride. Her dark feathers were tinged with red and she was of a bloodline as fine as his own, descended from a bird caught by Genghis himself as a boy.

He began to whirl the lure around him, the cord invisible as he swung the weight in faster and faster circles. Above his head, he saw her wheel and drop, vanishing for a moment behind a hill. He smiled, knowing the bird’s tactics. Even then, she surprised him, coming from his side rather than where he was staring. He had time to see a blur that braked with outstretched wings as she plunged into the lure and bore it to the ground with a shriek. He cried out, complimenting the bird as she held it down. He fed her a scrap of fresh meat from his leather-bound hand and she gulped it hungrily as he retied the jesses and raised her up. If there had been more light, he might have ridden with her to take a fox or hare, but the evening was closing in. He left her tied to his saddle horn, silent and watchful.

While he exercised the bird, Anar had laid thick horse blankets on the soft turf. The young man was nervous, as he had learned to be. Guyuk removed his stiff leather glove and stood for a time, watching him. When the khan showed his teeth, it was the slow smile of a predator.

The expression was wiped from his face at the sound of distant hooves and faintly jingling bells. Guyuk looked up, furious that anyone dared to approach. Even a yam rider should have been told not to interrupt him that evening. With clenched fists, he stood self-consciously, awaiting the newcomer. Whatever it was about, he would send the man back to camp to wait for the morning. For a heartbeat, he wondered if some fool had enjoyed the thought of the khan being disturbed. It was the sort of simple malice that appealed to the common men and he vowed to get the name from the yam rider. He would enjoy administering punishment for the jest.

He did not recognize Batu at first in the darkening twilight. Guyuk had not seen him since they had returned from the west to Karakorum and the rider approached with his head down, barely trotting. When Batu raised his head, Guyuk’s eyes widened. In that instant, he knew he was more alone than he had been for years. His precious army was out of reach, too far to call. He saw Batu smile grimly and dismount. Anar called some question, but Guyuk did not hear as he raced to his own horse and drew his sword from where it lay strapped to the saddle. His eagle was fussing, disturbed by the stranger. On impulse, Guyuk tugged loose the cord that held her legs before he walked clear, giving himself space.

“There is no need to rush, my lord,” Batu called. He waited until he saw Guyuk was not going to try and ride away, then dismounted. “This has been a long time coming. A few moments more won’t hurt.”

With dismay, Guyuk saw Batu wore a sword belted to his hip. As he stared, Batu drew the blade and examined its edge.

Guyuk held the wolf’s-head sword he had inherited, a blade of blued steel with a carved hilt. It had been in his family for generations, khan to khan. He took strength from the feel of it in his hand as he threw the scabbard aside into the grass.

Batu approached slowly, perfectly balanced and every pace sure on the ground. The light was poor and darkness was coming swiftly, but Guyuk could see his eyes gleam. He snarled, throwing off his fear. He was younger than Batu and he had been trained by masters of the sword. He rolled his shoulders lightly, feeling the first light perspiration break on his brow as his heart rate increased. He was no lamb to be cut down without a fight. Batu seemed to sense his confidence and paused, his eyes flickering to Anar. Guyuk’s companion stood in shock a dozen paces away, his mouth open like a thirsty bird. Guyuk realized with a pang that he too would be killed if Batu succeeded in his madness. He set his jaw and raised his blade.

“You would attack the khan of the nation? Your own cousin?”

“Not my khan,” Batu said, taking another step. “You’ve had no oath from me.”

“I was coming to you to accept that oath, Batu,” Guyuk said.

Batu paused again and Guyuk was pleased to see he had worried him. Any small advantage would matter. For unarmored men, both of them knew a fight might last only a few heartbeats. Perhaps two masters could hold each other off for a time, but for normal warriors, the lengths of razor steel they held were too deadly. A single gash could bite to the bone or remove a limb.

Batu stalked past Guyuk’s pony and Guyuk barked a command.

“Strike!”

Batu lurched away from the animal, expecting it to kick out. They had both seen the warhorses of the Christian cavalry, trained to be weapons in battle. Guyuk’s pony did nothing and instead the eagle on its back launched with a huge spread of wings. Guyuk leapt forward at the same time, roaring at the top of his lungs.

In fear, Batu struck out at the bird, his sword coming down and across the eagle before its claws could reach him. The wings hid the wound from Guyuk’s sight, but it screeched and fell almost at Guyuk’s feet. He lunged for Batu’s chest and knew a moment of exultation as he saw Batu’s blade was too low to block.

Batu sidestepped, pulling his sword free from the crippled bird. It had landed on its back, its talons still raking the air and its head straining to reach him. For an instant, his arm was away from his body, outstretched. Guyuk had put everything into the lunge and could barely recover his balance, but he jerked his blade up and caught Batu along the ribs with the edge as he pulled back for another blow. The light deel opened in a gash and blood showed beneath it. Batu cursed and kept moving out of range, away from the bird and its master.

Guyuk smiled, though inwardly he was raging at the damage done to his eagle. He dared not glance down at it, but its cries were already weakening.

“Did you think this would be easy?” he taunted Batu. “I am the khan of the nation, cousin. I carry the spirit and the sword of Genghis. He will not let me fall to some dog-meat traitor.”

Without taking his eyes from Batu, Guyuk called over his shoulder: “Anar! Take your horse and ride back to camp. Bring my bondsmen. I will finish this scavenger while I wait.”

If he had hoped to provoke Batu into an attack, he got his wish. As Anar moved to his white mare, Batu surged forward, his sword alive in his hand. Guyuk brought his own blade across to block and grunted as he felt the man’s strength behind the blow. His confidence was jolted and he stepped back a pace before holding his ground. A memory flashed from his earliest lessons, that once you have started to retreat, it is hard to stop.

Batu’s blade was too quick to see and only his childhood training saved Guyuk as he parried twice more from instinct alone. The blades rang together and he felt a sharp sting on his forearm. To his disgust, he was already breathing hard, while Batu worked with his mouth closed, chopping blows at him without a pause. Guyuk stopped another attack that would have opened him like a goat, but his lungs were aching and Batu seemed tireless, growing faster and faster. Guyuk felt another sting on his leg as the tip of Batu’s blade caught him and opened a deep cut into the muscle. He took another step backward and almost fell as the leg buckled. He could not turn to look for Anar and he could hear nothing beyond his own breathing and the clash of swords. He hoped his servant had run. Guyuk had begun to think he could not win against this man who used a sword with all the casual strength of a woodsman cutting trees. He continued to defend desperately, feeling warm blood course down his leg as he looked for just one chance.

He didn’t see Anar come from the side in a rush. Guyuk’s response across a lunge had put his blade right over, leaving him vulnerable. At that moment, Anar crashed into Batu and sent them both rolling on the grass. Guyuk could hear his own heartbeat thump, as if the world had grown still.

Anar was unarmed, but he tried to hold Batu as the man sprang to his feet, giving Guyuk his chance. Batu punched his sword twice into Anar’s side, two hard blows that drew the air and life out of him. Even then, Anar’s hands gripped Batu’s deel robe, dragging him off balance. Guyuk stepped forward in a wild rage. His first blow was spoiled as Batu jerked Anar around as a shield, then let him drop. Guyuk lunged for his heart, but he moved too slowly. Batu’s sword ripped into him before he could land the blow. He was aware of every sliding inch of metal as it passed into his chest between his ribs. Guyuk turned with it, his rage allowing him strength to try and trap the blade. He gasped as it tore him inside, but Batu could not pull it free. They hung almost in an embrace, too close for Guyuk to bring his own sword to bear. Instead, he hammered his hilt into Batu’s face, breaking his nose and smashing his lips. Guyuk could feel his strength vanishing like water pouring out of him and his blows grew weak until he was barely able to raise his hands.

His sword fell from his fingers and he sat suddenly, his legs useless. Batu’s sword came with him, still deep in his chest. Anar was lying on the ground, choking and gasping bloody air. Their eyes met and Guyuk looked away, caring nothing for the fate of a servant.

Darkness swelled across his vision. He felt Batu tugging at the sword hilt as a distant pressure, almost without pain. When it came free at last, Guyuk felt his bowels and bladder release. It was not a quick end and he hung on, panting mindlessly for a time before his lungs emptied.

Batu stood, looking down through swelling eyes at his dead cousin. The man’s companion lasted a long time and Batu said nothing as he waited for the choking sounds to stop, the desperate eyes to grow still. When they were both gone, he sank to one knee, placing his sword on the ground at his side and raising a hand to his face to feel the damage. Blood flowed in a sticky stream from his nose and he spat on the grass as it dribbled into his throat. His gaze fell to Guyuk’s sword, with the hilt in the shape of a wolf’s snarling jaws. He shook his head at his own greed and looked around for the scabbard in the grass. Moving stiffly, he cleaned the blade before resheathing it and placing it on Guyuk’s chest. The khan’s robe was already heavy by then, sopping wet with cooling blood. The sword was Batu’s to take, but he could not.

“My enemy the khan is dead,” Batu muttered to himself, looking on Guyuk’s still face. With Kublai’s information, he had known Guyuk would leave his guards and the safety of his camp. He had waited for three precious days, risking discovery by the scouts while he lay and watched. Doubts had assailed him the whole time, worse than thirst. What if Kublai had been wrong? What if he was throwing away the days he needed to take his people to safety? Batu had been close to despair when he saw Guyuk ride out at last.

Batu stood, still looking down. The summer darkness had come, though he was sure they had fought for just a short time. He glanced at the dead eagle and felt a pang of regret, knowing the bird’s bloodline came from Genghis himself. He stretched his back and stood taller, breathing clean air and beginning to feel the aches and wounds he had taken. They were not serious and he felt strong. He could feel life in his veins and he breathed deeply, enjoying the sensation. He did not regret his decision to face the khan with a sword. He had a bow and he could have taken both men before they even knew they were under attack. Instead, he had killed them with honor. Batu suddenly laughed aloud, taking joy in being alive after the fight. He did not know how the nation would fare without Guyuk. It did not matter to Batu. His own people would survive. Still chuckling, Batu wiped his sword on a clean part of the servant’s tunic and sheathed it before walking back to his horse.

THE WARRIORS STOOD AROUND THE BODY OF THEIR KHAN, stunned and silent as Mongke rode in. Crows called in the trees around them as the sun rose. The lower branches seemed to be full of the black birds and more than one hopped on the ground, flaring its wings and eyeing the dead flesh. As Mongke dismounted, one of the warriors kicked out at a crow in irritation, though it took flight before he could connect.

Guyuk lay where he had fallen, his father’s sword placed on his chest. Mongke strode through his men and loomed over the khan’s body, his emotions hidden behind the cold face every warrior had to learn. He stood there for a long time and no one dared speak.

“Thieves would have taken the sword,” he said at last. His deep voice grated with anger and he reached down and picked up the blade, pulling out a length of the steel and seeing it had been cleaned. His gaze searched the bodies, settling on the smears that marked the tunic of the khan’s servant.

“You saw no one?” Mongke said suddenly, whirling on the closest scout. The man trembled as he replied.

“No one, lord,” he said, shaking his head. “When the khan did not return I went out to look for him … then I came to find you.”

Mongke’s eyes burned into him and the scout looked away, terrified.

“It was your task to scout the land to the east,” Mongke said softly.

“My lord, the khan gave orders to bring the scouts in,” the man said without daring to look up. He was sweating visibly, a trail like a tear working its way down his cheek. He flinched as Mongke drew the wolf’s-head sword, but he did not back away and simply stood with his head down.

Mongke’s face was calm as he moved. He brought the sword edge down on the man’s neck with all his strength, cutting the head free. The body fell forward, suddenly limp as Mongke turned back to the bodies. He wished Kublai were there. For all his distaste for his brother’s Chin clothes and manners, Mongke knew Kublai would have offered good counsel. He felt lost. Killing the scout had not even begun to quench the rage and frustration he felt. The khan was dead. As orlok of the army, the responsibility could only be Mongke’s. He stayed silent for a long time, then took a deep, slow breath. His father, Tolui, had given his life to save Ogedai Khan. Mongke had been with him at the end. Better than any other, he understood the honor and the requirements of his position. He could not do less than his father.

“I have failed to protect my oath-bound lord,” he muttered. “My life is forfeit.”

One of his generals had come close while he stood over the body of the khan. Ilugei was an old campaigner, a veteran of Tsubodai’s Great Trek into the west. He had known Mongke for many years and he shook his head immediately at the words.

“Your death would not bring him back,” he said.

Mongke turned to him, anger flushing his skin. “The responsibility is mine,” he snapped.

Ilugei bowed his head rather than meet those eyes. He saw the sword shift in Mongke’s hand and straightened, stepping closer with no sign of fear.

“Will you take my head as well? My lord, you must put aside your anger. Choosing death is not possible for you, not today. The army has only you to lead them. We are far from home, my lord. If you fall, who will lead us? Where will we go? Onward? To challenge a grandson of Genghis? Home? You must lead us, Orlok. The khan is dead, the nation is without a leader. It lies undefended, with wild dogs all around. Will there be chaos, civil war?”

Grudgingly, Mongke forced himself to think beyond the still bodies in the glade. Guyuk had not lived long enough to produce an heir. There was a wife back in Karakorum, he knew. Mongke vaguely recalled meeting the young woman, but he could not bring her name to mind. It no longer mattered, he realized. He thought of his mother, Sorhatani, and it was as if he heard her voice in his ear. Neither Batu nor Baidur had the support of the army. As orlok, Mongke was perfectly placed to take over the nation. His heart beat faster in his chest at the thought and his face flushed as if those around could hear him. He had not dreamed of it, but the reality had been thrust upon him by the bodies lying sprawled at his feet. He looked down at Guyuk’s face, so slack and pale with his blood run out of him.

“I have been loyal,” Mongke whispered to the corpse. He thought of Guyuk’s wild parties in the city and how they had sickened him. Knowing the man’s tastes, Mongke had never been truly comfortable with Guyuk, but all that was behind. He struggled with a vision of the future, trying to picture it. Once more, he wished Kublai were there, instead of a thousand miles away in Karakorum. Kublai would know what to do, what to say to the men.

“I will think on it,” Mongke said to Ilugei. “Have the khan’s body wrapped and made ready for travel.” He looked at the wretched body of Guyuk’s servant, noting the slick of dry blood that had poured out of his mouth. Inspiration struck him and he spoke again.

“The khan died bravely, fighting off his murderer. Let the men know.”

“Shall I leave the body of the killer?” Ilugei said, his eyes gleaming. No one loved a lie like a Mongol warrior. It might even have been true, though he wondered how Guyuk’s sword could have been cleaned and laid down so carefully by a dying man.

Mongke thought for a time, before shaking his head.

“No. Have him quartered and the pieces thrown into one of the night pits. Let the flies and the sun feast.”

Ilugei bowed solemnly at the order. He thought he had seen the light of ambition kindle in Mongke’s eyes. He was certain the man would not turn down the right to be khan, no matter how it had come about. Ilugei had despised Guyuk and it was with relief that he thought of Mongke leading the nation. He had no time for the insidious Chin influences that had become so much a part of the nation’s culture. Mongke would rule as Genghis had, a traditional Mongol khan. Ilugei struggled not to smile, though his heart rejoiced.

“Your will, my lord,” he said, his voice steady.

TEN

IT TOOK A MONTH TO BRING THE ARMY HOME TO KARAKORUM, almost half the time it had taken to ride out. Freed of Guyuk’s command, Mongke had the men up before dawn each morning, moving on at a hard pace and begrudging every stop to snatch food or sleep.

When they sighted the pale city walls, the mood amongst the men was hard to define. They carried the body of the khan and there were many who felt the shame of failing in their duties to Guyuk. Yet Mongke rode tall, already certain in his authority. Guyuk had not been a popular khan. Many of the warriors took their manner from Mongke and did not hang their heads.

The news had gone before them, by way of the yam riders. As a result, Sorhatani had been given time to prepare the city for days of mourning. Braziers filled with chips of cedar and black aloes wood had been set alight that dawn, with the approach of the army. A gray smoke rose into the air across Karakorum, wreathing the city in mist and rich scents. For once, the stink of blocked sewers was masked.

With Day Guards in their best armor, Sorhatani waited by the city gate, looking out over the road to her son’s army coming home. Kublai had barely made it back before his brother and then only by resuming his guise as a yam rider. Sorhatani felt her age as she stood in the breeze, staring at the dust raised by tens of thousands of horses and men. One of the guards cleared his throat and then began a spasm of coughing that he could not control. Sorhatani glanced at him, her eyes warning him to be silent. Mongke was still some way off and she took a step toward the warrior, placing her hand on his forehead. It was burning and she frowned. The red-faced warrior was unable to reply to her questions. As she spoke, he raised a hand helplessly and in irritation she waved him out of line.

Sorhatani felt an itch begin in her own throat and swallowed hard to control it before she embarrassed herself. Two of her servants were in bed with the same fever, but she could not think of that now, with Mongke coming home.

Her thoughts strayed to her husband, dead so many years before. He had given his life for Ogedai Khan and he would never have dared to dream that one of his own sons would rise. Yet who else could be khan now that Guyuk was dead? Batu owed everything to her, not just his life. Kublai was certain he would not be an obstacle to her family. She sent a silent prayer to her husband’s spirit, thanking him for the original sacrifice that had made it all possible.

The army came to a halt and settled in around the city, unburdening the horses and letting them run free to crop grass that had grown lush in their absence. It would not be long before the plains of Karakorum were bare dirt again, Sorhatani thought. She watched as Mongke came riding in with his minghaan officers, wondering if she could ever tell him the part she had played in Guyuk’s death. It had not worked out as she and Kublai had planned. All she had intended was for Batu to be saved. Yet she could feel no regret for the loss of the khan. She had already seen some of his favorites reduced to trembling horror as they heard their protector had gone. It had been hard for her not to enjoy their distress, having so long endured their petty dominance. She had dismissed the guards Guyuk had set to watch her. She had no real authority to do so, but they had been able to feel the wind changing as well. They had left her apartments at undignified speed.

Mongke rode up and dismounted, embracing her with awkward formality. She noted he wore the wolf’s-head sword on his left hip, a potent symbol. She gave no sign she had seen it. Mongke was not yet khan and he had to tread a difficult path in the days ahead, until Guyuk was buried or burned.

“I wish I could have come back with better news, mother.” The words still had to be said. “The khan has been killed by his servant, murdered while he was out hunting.”

“It is a dark day for the nation,” Sorhatani replied formally, bowing her head. Her chest tightened as a cough threatened and she swallowed spit in quick gulps. “There will have to be another quiriltai, another gathering of the princes. I will send out the yam riders to have them come to the city next spring. The nation must have a khan, my son.”

Mongke looked sharply at her. Perhaps only he could have heard the subtle emphasis of the last words, but her eyes gleamed. He nodded just a fraction in answer. Among the generals, it was already accepted that Mongke would be khan. He had only to declare himself. He took a deep breath, looking around him at the honor guard Sorhatani had assembled. When he spoke, it was with quiet certainty.

“Not to the city, mother, not to this place of cold stone. I am the khan elect, grandson to Genghis Khan. The decision is mine. I will summon the nation to the plain of Avraga, where Genghis first gathered the nation.”

Unbidden, tears of pride came to Sorhatani’s eyes. She bowed her head, mute.

“The nation has drifted far from the principles of my grandfather,” Mongke said, raising his voice to carry to his officers and the Guards. “I will drag it back to the right path.”

He looked through the open gate to the city beyond, where tens of thousands worked to administer the empire, from the lowliest taxes to the incomes and palaces of kings. His face showed his disdain, and for the first time since she had heard of Guyuk’s death, Sorhatani felt a whisper of concern. She had thought Mongke would need her guidance as he took control of the city. Instead, he seemed to look through Karakorum to some inner vision, as if he did not see it at all.

When he spoke again, it was to confirm her fears.

“You should retire to your rooms, mother. At least for a few days. I have brought a burning branch back to Karakorum. I will see this filthy city made clean before I am khan.”

Sorhatani fell back a step as he remounted and rode through the gate toward the palace. His men were all armed and she saw their grim faces in a new light as they followed their lord into Karakorum. She began to cough in the dust of their passing, until there were fresh tears in her eyes.

BY THE AFTERNOON, THE SCENTED BRAZIERS HAD BURNED low and the city was beginning the formal period of mourning for Guyuk Khan. His body lay in the cool basement of the palace, ready to be cleaned and dressed for his cremation pyre.

Mongke strode into the audience room through polished copper doors. The senior staff in Karakorum had gathered at his order and they knelt as he entered, touching their heads to the wooden floor. Guyuk had been comfortable with such things, but it was a mistake.

“Get up,” Mongke snapped as he passed them. “Bow if you must, but I will not suffer this Chin groveling in my presence.”

He seated himself on Guyuk’s ornate throne with an expression of disgust. They rose hesitantly and Mongke frowned as he looked closely at them. There was not a true Mongol in the room, the legacy of Guyuk’s few years as khan as well as his father before him. What good had it done to conquer a nation if the khanate was taken over from within? Blood came first, though that simple truth had been lost to men like Guyuk and Ogedai. The men in the room ran the empire, set taxes and made themselves rich, while their conquerors still lived in simple poverty. Mongke showed his teeth at the thought, frightening them all further. His gaze fell on Yao Shu, the khan’s chancellor. Mongke studied him for a time, remembering old lessons with the Chin monk. From Yao Shu he had learned Buddhism, Arabic, and Mandarin. Though Mongke disdained much of what he had been taught, he still admired the old man and Yao Shu probably was indispensable. Mongke rose from the throne and walked along their lines, marking senior men with a brief hand on their shoulders.

“Stand by the throne,” he told them, moving on as they scurried to obey. In the end, he chose six, then stopped at Yao Shu. The chancellor still stood straight, though he was by far the oldest man in the room. He had known Genghis in his youth and Mongke could honor him for that at least.

“You may have these as your staff, Chancellor. The rest will come from the nation, from those of Mongol blood only. Train them to take over from you. I will not have my city run by foreigners.”

Yao Shu looked ashen, but he could only bow in response.

Mongke smiled. He was wearing full armor, a signal to them that the days of silk were at an end. The nation had been raised in war, then run by Chin courtiers. It would not do. Mongke walked to one of his guards and murmured an order into his ear. The man departed at a run and the scribes and courtiers waited nervously as Mongke stood before them, still smiling slightly as he gazed out of the open window to the city beyond.

When the warrior returned, he carried a slender staff with a strip of leather at the end. Mongke took it and rolled his shoulders.

“You have grown fat on a city that does not need you,” he told the men, swishing the air with the whip. “No longer. Get out of my house.”

For an instant, the assembled men stood in shock at his words. It was all the hesitation he needed.

“And you have grown slow under Guyuk and Ogedai. When a man, any man, of the nation gives you an order, you move!”

He brought the whip across the face of the nearest scribe, making sure that he struck with the wooden pole. The man fell backward with a yelp and Mongke began laying about him in great sweeps. Cries of panic went up as they struggled to get away from him. Mongke grinned as he struck and struck again, sometimes drawing blood. They streamed out of the room and he pursued them in a frenzy, whipping their legs and faces, whatever he could reach.

He drove them down the cloisters and out into the marshaling yard of the palace, where the silver tree stood shining in the sun. Some of them fell and Mongke laughingly kicked them to their feet so that they stumbled on with aching ribs. He was a warrior among sheep and he used the whip to snap them back into a group as he might have herded lambs. They stumbled ahead until the city gate loomed, with Guards looking down in amusement from the towers on either side. Mongke did not pause in his efforts, though he was running with sweat. He kicked and shoved and tore at them until the last man was outside the walls. Only then did he pause, panting, with the shadow of the gate falling across him.

“You have had enough from the nation,” he called to them. “It is time to work for your food like honest men, or starve. Enter my city again and I will take your heads.”

A great wail of distress and anger went up from the group and for a moment Mongke even thought they might rush him. Many had wives and children still in the city, but he cared nothing for that. The lust to punish was strong in him and he almost wished they would dare to attack, so he could draw his sword. He did not fear scholars and scribes. They were Chin men and, for all their fury and cleverness, they could do nothing.

When the group had subsided into impotent muttering, Mongke looked up at the Guards above his head.

“Close the gate,” he ordered. “Note their faces. If you see a single one again inside the walls, you have my permission to put an arrow in them.”

He laughed then at the spite and horror he saw in the crowd of battered and bruised courtiers. Not one had the courage to challenge his orders. He waited as the gates were pushed closed, the line of sight to the plains shrinking to a crack and then nothing. Outside, they wailed and wept as Mongke nodded to the Day Guards and threw down the bloody whip at last, walking back alone to the palace. As he went, he saw thousands of Chin faces peering out from houses at the man who would be khan in spring. He grimaced, reminded once again that the city had fallen far from its origins. Well, he was no Guyuk to be balked for years in his ambition. The nation was his.

The smell of aloes wood had faded since the morning. The city reeked again, reminding Mongke of a healing tent after a battle. He thought sourly of festering wounds he had seen, fat and shiny with pus. It took courage and a steady hand to drain such a wound: a gash and a sharp pain to let the healing begin. He smiled as he walked. He would be that hand.

THE ENTIRE CITY WAS IN UPROAR BY THE TIME DARKNESS came. On Mongke’s orders, warriors had entered Karakorum in force, groups of ten or twenty walking every street and examining the possessions of thousands of families. At the first hint of resistance, they dragged owners into the street and beat them publicly, leaving them on the cobbles until their relatives dared to come out and take them back. Some lay where they had been thrown all night.

Even sickbeds were searched for hidden gold or silver, with the occupants tossed out with their sheets and made to stand in the cold until the warriors were satisfied. There were many of those, coughing listlessly and still feverish as they stood with blank eyes. Chin families suffered more than other groups, though the Moslem jewelers lost all their stock in a single night, from raw materials to finished items ready for sale. In theory, all things would be accounted, but the reality was that anything of value disappeared into the deels the warriors wore over their armor.

Dawn brought no respite and only revealed the destruction. There was at least one sprawled body in every street and the weeping of women and children could be heard across Karakorum.

The palace was the center of it, beginning with a search of the sumptuous rooms that had belonged to the khan’s staff and favorites. Wives were either claimed by Mongke’s officers or put outside the walls to join their husbands. The trappings of status were ripped down, from tapestries to Buddhist statuary. There at least, Mongke’s eye could be felt and what treasures they found were dutifully collected and piled in the storerooms below. More were burned in great fires on the streets.

As evening came on his second day back in the city, Mongke summoned his two most trusted generals to the audience room in the palace. Ilugei and Noyan were Mongols in his mold, strong men who had grown up with a bow in their hands. Neither man affected any sign of Chin culture and already those who had done so were shaving their heads and ridding themselves of the artifacts of that nation. The orlok’s will had been made clear enough when he whipped the Chin scribes from the city.

Simply meeting his officers without Chin scribes to record was a break with Guyuk’s court. Mongke knew Yao Shu was outside, but he would let the old man wait until the real business was concluded. He was not filled with excitement at the need to meet Guyuk’s debts. The sky father alone knew how the khan had managed to borrow so much against a treasury that stood empty. Already there had been nervous delegations of merchants coming to the palace to collect gold for their paper. Mongke grimaced at the thought. With the wealth he had wrenched out of the foreigners in Karakorum, he could meet most of Guyuk’s paper promises, though it would leave him without funds for months. His honor demanded he do so, as well as the practical consideration that he needed the merchants’ goodwill and their trade. It seemed the role of a khan involved more than winning battles.

Mongke was not yet sure if he had acted correctly in removing the palace staff from their soft positions. Part of him suspected Yao Shu brought every small problem to him as a way of criticizing what he had done. Even so, the memory of whipping them from the city was immensely satisfying. He had needed to show he was no Guyuk, that the city would be run on Mongol lines.

“You have sent men to Torogene?” Mongke asked Noyan.

The general stood proudly before him in a traditional deel, his skin greasy with fresh mutton fat. He wore no armor, though Mongke had allowed him to keep his sword for the meeting. He would not fear his own men, as Guyuk and Ogedai had.

“I have, my lord. They will report directly to me when it is done.”

“And Guyuk’s wife, Oghul Khaimish?” Mongke said, his eyes passing on to Ilugei.

He tightened his mouth before replying. “That is not … settled yet, my lord. I had men go to her rooms, but they were barred and I thought you would want it handled quietly. She will have to come out tomorrow.”

Mongke grew very still and Ilugei began to sweat under the yellow gaze. At last the orlok nodded.

“How you carry out my orders is your concern, Ilugei. Bring me the news when you have it.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ilugei said, breathing out in relief. As Mongke looked away, Ilugei spoke again. “She is … popular in the city, my lord. The news of her pregnancy is everywhere. There could be unrest.”

Mongke glared at the sweating man.

“Then take her by night. Make her vanish, Ilugei. You have your orders.”

“Yes, lord.” Ilugei chewed his lip as he thought. “She is never without her two companions, lord. I have heard rumors that the old one knows herbs and ancient rites. I wonder if she has infected Oghul Khaimish with her spells and words?”

“I have heard nothing …” Mongke broke off. “Yes, Ilugei. That will serve. Find out the truth of it.” To be accused of witchcraft carried a terrible penalty. There would be no one willing to stand up for Oghul Khaimish once that was suspected.

Mongke found himself weary as he dismissed his officers and let Yao Shu in. The days were long for one who would be khan, but he had found his purpose. The wound would be cut and it would bleed itself clean. In just a few months, he would rule a Mongol empire without the corruption of the Chin at its heart. It was a fine dream and his eyes were bright with satisfaction as Yao Shu bowed before him.

ELEVEN

IN HER HUSBAND’S SUMMER PALACE, TOROGENE SAT IN A silent hall, lit by a single, gently hissing lamp. She was dressed neatly in a white deel and new shoes of stitched white linen. Her gray hair was tied back tightly, so that not even a wisp escaped the twin clasps. She wore no jewels, as she had given them all away. At such a time, it was hard to look back on her life, but she could not focus on the present. Though her eyes were still swollen with weeping for Guyuk, she had found something resembling calm. Her servants were all gone. When the first one had reported soldiers coming along the road from Karakorum, she had felt her heart skip in her chest. There had been twelve servants, some of whom had been with her for decades. With tears, she had given them whatever silver and gold she could find and sent them away. They would only have been killed when the soldiers arrived, she was sure of that. News of Mongke’s death lists had already reached her, with a few details of the executions in the city. Mongke was clearing away anyone who had supported Guyuk as khan and she was not surprised he had sent soldiers to her, only weary.

When the last of her servants had gone onto the road, heading away from Karakorum, Torogene had found herself a quiet place in the summer palace to watch the sun set. She was too old to run, even if she thought she could have lost her pursuers. It was strange to see death as finally inevitable, but she found she could put aside all her fear and anger in the face of it. The grief for her beloved son was still fresh, perhaps too great to allow any sorrow for herself. She was worn down, as one who has survived a storm and lies sprawled on rocks, too dazed to do more than breathe and stare.

In the darkness outside, she heard voices as Mongke’s men rode in and dismounted. She could hear every whisper of sound, from the crunch of their feet on the stones, to the jingle of their harness and armor. Torogene raised her head, thinking back over better years. Her husband, Ogedai, had been a fine man, a fine khan, struck down too early by a vengeful fate. If he had lived … She sighed. If he had lived, she would not be alone and waiting for death in a palace that had once been a happy home. She thought suddenly of the roses Ogedai had given her. They would run wild in the gardens without someone to tend them. Her mind flitted from one thing to another, always listening for the steps coming closer.

She did not know if Ogedai would have been proud of Guyuk in the end. Her son had not been a great man. With all her future stripped away, she saw the past more clearly and there were many regrets, many paths she wished she had not taken. It was a foolish thing to look back and wish things had been different, but she could not help it.

When she heard a boot scrape at the outer door of the hall, her thoughts tore into rags and she looked up, suddenly afraid. Her hands twisted together in her lap as the warriors slid into the room, one after the other. They walked lightly, ready with weapons in case they were attacked. She could almost laugh at their caution. Slowly, she stood, feeling her knees and back protest.

The officer came to her, looking into her eyes with a puzzled expression.

“You are alone, mistress?” he asked.

For a moment, her eyes shone.

“I am not alone. Do you not see them? My husband, Ogedai Khan, stands on my right hand. My son, Guyuk Khan, stands on my left. Do you not see those men watching what you do?”

The officer paled slightly, his eyes sliding right and left as if he could see the spirits watching over her. He grimaced, aware that his companions would be listening and every word reported to Mongke.

“I have my orders, mistress,” he said, almost apologetically.

Torogene raised her head further, standing as straight as she could.

“I am brought down by dogs,” she muttered, contempt banishing her fear. Her voice was strong as she spoke again. “There is a price for all things, soldier.” She looked up, as if she could see through the stone roof above their heads. “Mongke Khan will fall. His eyes will fill with blood and he will not know rest or sleep or peace. He will live in pain and sickness and at the end—”

The officer drew his sword and brought it across her throat in one swift movement. She fell with a groan, suddenly limp as blood poured out of her and spattered on his boots. The watching men said nothing as they waited for her to die. When it was finished, they left quietly, unnerved in the silence. They did not look at each other as they mounted their horses and rode away.

AS HE FACED MONGKE, GENERAL ILUGEI FOUND HIMSELF strangely troubled, an unusual emotion for him. He knew it was a sound tactic for a new leader to sweep away all those who had supported his predecessor. Beyond that, it was the merest common sense to remove anyone with a blood tie to the previous regime. There would be no rebellions in the future, as forgotten children grew to manhood and learned to hate. The lessons of Genghis’s own life had been learned by his descendants.

Ilugei had taken particular pleasure in putting his own enemies on the lists he prepared for Mongke, a level of power he had never enjoyed before. He simply spoke a name to a scribe and within a day the khan’s loyal guards tracked them down and carried out the execution. There was no appeal against the lists.

Yet what Ilugei had seen that morning had unnerved him, ruining his usual composure. He had known stillborn children before. His own wives had given birth to four of them over the years. Perhaps because of that, the sight of the tiny flopping body had sickened him. He suspected Mongke would think it a weakness in him, so he kept his voice calm, sounding utterly indifferent as he reported.

“I think Guyuk’s wife may have lost her mind, my lord,” he said to Mongke. “She talked and wept like a child herself. All the time she cradled the dead infant as if it was still alive.”

Mongke bit his lower lip in thought, irritated that such a simple thing should become so complicated. The heir had been the threat. Without one, he might have sent Oghul Khaimish back to her family. He was khan in all but name, he reminded himself. Yet his new authority stretched only so far. Silently, he cursed Ilugei’s man for going into such detail of her crimes. A public accusation of witchcraft could not be ignored. He clenched his fist, thinking of a thousand other things he had to do that day. Forty-three of Guyuk’s closest followers had been executed in just a few days, their blood still wet on the training ground of the city. More would follow in the days to come as he lanced the boil in Karakorum.

“Let it stand,” he said at last. “Add her name to the list and let there be an ending.”

Ilugei bowed his head, hiding his own obscure disappointment.

“Your will, my lord.”

TWELVE

OGHUL KHAIMISH STOOD ON THE BANKS OF THE ORKHON River, watching the dark waters flowing. Her hands were bound behind her, grown fat and numb in the bonds. Two men stood at her sides to prevent her throwing herself in before it was time. In the dawn cold, she shivered slightly, trying to control the terror that threatened to steal away her dignity.

Mongke was there, standing with some of his favorites. She saw him smile at something one of his officers said. Gone were the days when they would have made a bright and lively scene. To a man, his warriors and senior men were dressed in simple deels, without decoration beyond a little stitching. Most wore the traditional Mongol hairstyles, with a shaven scalp and topknot. Their faces shone with fresh mutton fat. Only Yao Shu and his few remaining Chin scribes were unarmed. The rest wore long swords that reached almost to their ankles, heavy cavalry blades designed for cutting down. Karakorum had its own foundry, where armorers sweated all day at their fires. It was no secret that Mongke was preparing for war once he had butchered the last of Guyuk’s supporters and friends.

Her husband’s supporters and friends. Oghul could not feel anything on that day, as if she had grown a protective sheath over her heart. She had lost too much in too short a time and she still reeled from all that had happened. She could not bear to look at her old servant Bayarmaa, trussed with a dozen others as they waited in sullen silence for Mongke to order their deaths.

The orlok seemed in no hurry. He was a solid figure at the center of them, almost half as wide again as the largest warrior in his retinue. Despite his bulk, he moved easily, a man secure in his strength and still young enough to enjoy it. Oghul stood and dreamed of him being struck dead in front of them all, but it was just a fantasy. Mongke was oblivious to the misery in the huddled rank of prisoners. Even as she watched, he accepted a cup of airag from a servant, laughing with his friends. Somehow, that burned worse than anything, that he should care so little for their fate even as they stood on their last day. Oghul saw one of the bound men had lost control of his bladder, so that a thin stream of urine darkened his leggings and pooled at his feet. He did not seem to notice, his eyes already blank. She looked away, trying to find her own courage. All that man had to fear was a knife. For her, it would be slow.

It was no blessing that Mongke had agreed the wife of a khan was one of royal blood. She looked at the dark canal Ogedai had built and shivered again. She could feel the urge to empty her own bladder, though she had been careful not to drink that morning. Her face and hands felt cold as the blood was leached away and her heartbeat increased. Even so, she was sweating and the cloth at her armpits was already wet. She focused on the small changes in her body as she waited, trying desperately to distract herself.

Mongke finished his airag and tossed the cup back to the servant. He nodded to one of his officers and the man bellowed a command to come to order. All the men there straightened, even some of the prisoners, standing as tall as they could in their bonds. Oghul shook her head at the poor fools. Did they expect to impress their tormentors and gain mercy? There was none to be had.

Yao Shu was present and Oghul thought she could see the signs of great strain on the old man. She had heard the chancellor had been absent for the first executions, claiming illness. With a delicate feel for cruelty, Mongke had sensed his discomfort. Now Yao Shu played a part in all the deaths. Oghul listened to the list of names, watching sadly as each prisoner lifted his head slightly as he heard his own.

After the endless wait, the procedure suddenly started to go quickly. The prisoners were kicked to their knees and a very young warrior stepped from Mongke’s group, drawing a long sword. Oghul knew he would have earned the duty as a reward for some service to Mongke. Many of the warriors desired the task if they had not yet been blooded in battle. Oghul recalled that Genghis had killed tens of thousands in one foreign city for no other purpose than to train his men in the reality of killing.

She did not listen to Yao Shu’s shaking voice as he called out the charges, reading from the page in front of him. The executioner braced himself over the first kneeling figure, determined to make a good show in front of Mongke.

Oghul looked over the river as the killing began, ignoring the shouts of approval and laughter from among Mongke’s group. Bayarmaa was fourth in line and Oghul had to force herself to look as the old woman’s turn came. Her crime had only been by association with Oghul Khaimish, named as the one who corrupted the khan’s wife to dark magic.

Bayarmaa had not bowed her head or stretched her neck and the swordsman spoke harshly to her. She ignored him, looking over to where Oghul stood. They shared a glance and Bayarmaa smiled before she was killed in two hacking blows.

Oghul looked back again to the dark waters until it was over. When the last of them was dead, she turned to see the young warrior examining his blade with a stricken expression. No doubt it had chipped on bone. Mongke came forward and clapped him on the back, pressing a fresh cup of airag into his hands while Oghul watched in sullen hatred. When Mongke looked over at her, she felt her heart constrict in panic and her numb hands twisted in the rope.

Yao Shu spoke her name. This time there was definitely a quaver in his voice and even Mongke frowned at him. Genghis had decreed that royal blood would never be shed by his people, but the alternative filled Oghul with terror.

“Oghul Khaimish, who has brought infamy to the name of the khan with witchcraft and foul practices, even unto … the killing of her own child.”

Oghul’s hands curled into fists at the last, reaching into the coldness within to keep her on her feet.

When Yao Shu had finished reading the charges, he asked if anyone would step forward and speak in her defense. The smell of blood was strong on the air and no one moved. Mongke nodded to the warriors standing with her.

Oghul stood shaking as she was lifted off her feet and laid on a thick mat of felt. She sensed muscles twitching in her legs, beyond her control. Her body wanted to run and could not. Yao Shu suddenly began to chant a prayer for her, his voice breaking. Mongke glared at him, but the old man spoke on.

The warriors rolled her over in the felt, so that the musty material pressed against her face and filled her lungs with dust. Panic swelled in her and she cried out, her gasping breath muffled in the cloth. She felt the tugging movement as they bound the roll of felt in reins of leather, yanking the buckles tight. She would not cry for help with Mongke listening, but she could not hold back a moan of fear, dragged from her like an animal in a trap. The stillness seemed to go on for ever. She could hear her heart thud in her chest and ears, a drum pulsing. Suddenly she was moving, turning over slowly as they rolled her toward the canal.

Freezing water flooded in and she struggled wildly then, seeing silver bubbles erupt all around her. The roll of felt sank quickly. She held her breath as long as she could.

SORHATANI LAY WITH JUST A SHEET OVER HER, THOUGH THE night was cold. Kublai knelt at her side and when he took her hand he almost recoiled at the heat from it. The fever had burned its path through Karakorum and there were fewer new cases reported each day. Every summer it was the same. A few dozen or a few hundred would succumb to some pestilence. Very often it was those who had survived the last one, still weak and thin.

Kublai felt tears prick his eyes as his mother coughed, the sound building until she was choking, her back arched and her muscles standing out in narrow lines. He waited until she could draw a shuddering breath. She looked embarrassed that he had seen her so racked and she smiled weakly at him, her eyes glassy with fever.

“Go on,” she said.

“Yao Shu has locked himself in his rooms. I’ve never seen him so distraught. It was not a good death.”

“No such thing,” Sorhatani said, wheezing. “It is never kind, Kublai. All we can do is ignore it until the time comes.” The effort of speaking was enormous and he tried to stop her, but she waved his objections aside. “People do that so well, Kublai. They live knowing they will die, but no matter how many times they say the words, they don’t truly believe it. They think somehow that they will be the one death passes by, that they will live and live and never grow old.” She coughed again and Kublai winced at the sound, waiting patiently until she could breathe once more.

“Even now, I expect to … live, Kublai. I am a foolish old woman.”

“Not foolish, or old,” he said softly. “And I need you still. What would I do without you to talk to?” He saw her smile again, but her skin wrinkled like old cloth.

“I don’t plan … on joining your father tonight. I’d like to tell Mongke what I think of his death lists.”

Kublai’s expression grew sour.

“From what I’ve heard, he has impressed the princes and generals. They are the sort of men who admire butchery. They are saying he is a new Genghis, mother.”

“Perhaps … he is,” she said, choking. Kublai passed a cup of apple juice into her hands and she sipped it with her eyes closed.

“He could have banished Oghul Khaimish and her old servant,” Kublai said. He had studied the life of his grandfather Genghis and he suspected his mother was right, but that did not remove the bitter taste. His brother had achieved a reputation for ruthlessness with fewer than a hundred deaths. It had certainly not hurt him with the nation. They looked to him as one who would bring a new era of conquest and expansion. For all his misgivings and personal dislike, Kublai felt they were probably right.

“He will be khan, Kublai. You must not question what he does. He is no Guyuk—remember that. Mongke is strong.”

“And stupid,” he muttered.

His mother laughed and the coughing fit that followed was the worst he had seen. It went on and on and when she dabbed at her mouth with the sheet, he saw a spot of blood on the cloth. He could not drag his eyes away from it.

When the coughing fit passed, she shook her head, her voice barely a whisper.

“He is no fool, Kublai. He understands far better than you realize. The khan’s vast armies cannot return to being herdsmen, not anymore. He is riding the tiger now, my son. He dare not climb down.”

Kublai frowned, irritated that his mother seemed to be supporting Mongke in everything. He had wanted to share his anger with her, not have her excuse his brother’s acts. Before he spoke again, understanding came to him. Sorhatani had been his friend as well as his mother, but she would never see clearly with her sons. It was a blind spot in her. With sadness, he knew all he could achieve would be to hurt her. He closed his mouth on all the arguments he might have made and remained silent.

“I will think on it,” he said. “Now get well, mother. You will want to be there, to see Mongke made khan.”

She nodded weakly at his words and he dried the sweat from her face before he left her.

GUYUK’S BODY WAS BURNED IN A FUNERAL PYRE OUTSIDE Karakorum and the days of mourning came to a climax. Even in the cool basements of the palace, the body had begun to rot and the pyre was thick with the smell of perfumed oils. Mongke watched as the edifice collapsed on itself in a gust of flame. Half the nation was drunk, of course, needing little excuse as they held a vigil to see the khan’s spirit into the next world. In their thousands they came drunkenly to the great fire, spattering drops of airag from their fingers or blowing them from their mouths. More than one ventured too close and fell back with shrieks as their clothing caught and had to be thumped out. In the darkness, moths and biting insects crackled in the flames, drawn from the city and the gers by the light. They died in their millions, black specks that wove trails over the pyre and fell into the flames. Mongke thought of the young women, servants, and warriors who had been buried with Genghis. He smiled at the thought that Guyuk had only flies to attend him in death.

When the great pyre was reduced to a glowing heap, still higher than a man, Mongke sent for his brothers. Kublai, Hulegu, and Arik-Boke fell into step beside him at his order and the small group walked back through the quiet city, leaving the nation to continue their revels. Children would be born as a result of the night. Men and women would be killed in drunken brawls, but that was the way of things: Life and death intertwined forever. It was fitting.

The city seemed empty as they walked together. Almost unconsciously, Mongke and Kublai led the group, opposites in physique and outlook. At their backs, Hulegu had the same broad forehead and heavy frame as Mongke, while Arik-Boke was the shortest, with eyes that flickered from man to man as he walked. An old scar disfigured the youngest brother, a thick line across Arik-Boke’s face that varied in color from dark pink to the yellow of callus. An accident years before had left him with no bridge to his nose, so he could be heard breathing through his mouth as they walked. Any stranger would have known they were brothers, but there was more tension than friendship in that small group. They kept their silence, waiting to see what Mongke planned for them.

Kublai felt the strain more than the others. Only he had refused to give up his Chin style, from the cut of his hair to the fine silk weave of his robes. It was a small rebellion, but as yet, Mongke had chosen not to force the issue.

There were Night Guards at the palace, holding their own silent vigil as they stood to attention under the light of lamps. At Mongke’s approach, they held themselves like statues. Mongke did not seem to notice, so deep was he in thought. He swept across the outer yard and Arik-Boke had to trot to keep up with the others as they passed through the cloisters and on to the main audience room.

More of the khan’s Guards waited there, by doors of polished copper. No sign of green appeared on the shining sheets and there was a smell of floor wax and polish strong in the air. Mongke may not yet have been khan, but his orders were law in the city and he worked them all hard.

Kublai watched in hidden irritation as Mongke entered and crossed the chamber, pulling off the cloth from a jug of wine and pouring himself a cup that he knocked back in quick swallows. There was nowhere to sit. The room was almost bare, except for a long table covered with carelessly strewn scrolls and maps, some of them bound in bright-colored thread. The glittering throne of Guyuk and Ogedai had disappeared, no doubt to languish in some storeroom for the next century.

“Drink if you wish,” Mongke said.

Hulegu and Arik-Boke moved to the table with him, leaving only Kublai standing alone and waiting to be told why they were there.

The answer was not long in coming.

“I will be khan in the spring,” Mongke said. He spoke without triumph, stating it as a simple fact. “I am orlok of the army and a grandson of Genghis. Baidur won’t challenge me and Batu has written to say I have his support.”

He paused as Kublai shifted slightly on his feet. The two most senior princes of the nation had been given vast lands in Ogedai’s will. They would not challenge his brother. For all Mongke’s plodding reasoning, he had risen above them all. He took his position for granted, but in truth he was the only man the tumans would accept.

“So you will be khan, brother,” Kublai said, accepting Mongke’s assessment. “Our father would be proud to see one of his sons rise so far.”

Mongke stared at him, searching for mockery. He found none and grunted, satisfied at his own dominance.

“Even so, I will not leave you behind,” Mongke told his brothers. Kublai noted how he addressed himself to Hulegu and Arik-Boke, but he nodded anyway as Mongke went on. “You will rise with me, as our father would have wanted. Tonight we will discuss the future of our family.”

Kublai doubted there would be much discussion. Mongke was confident in his new authority, dispensing wisdom as a father to his children, rather than as a brother. He clapped Hulegu on the shoulder and Kublai thought how alike they were. Though Mongke was slightly wider in the shoulder, Hulegu had the same cold eyes.

“I will not wait for spring to begin the campaigns,” Mongke said. “The world has waited too long for a weak khan to perish. Our enemies have grown strong without a hand on their throats, a knife at the neck of those they love. It is time to remind them who their masters are.”

Hulegu made some noise of appreciation as he drained another cup of the red wine and smacked his lips. Mongke looked on him with satisfaction, seeing the same qualities that Kublai did.

“Hulegu, I have written orders for you to take command of Baidur’s army of the west, with three more tumans from Karakorum. I have made you orlok of a hundred thousand and given you three of my best men, Baiju, Ilugei, and Kitbuqa.”

To Kublai’s embarrassment, Hulegu actually knelt and bowed his head.

“Thank you, brother,” he said, rising again. “It is a great honor.”

“You will raze the ground south and west, using Samarkand as your base city. Baidur will not oppose my orders. Complete the work our grandfather began, Hulegu. Go further than he ever did. It is my aim that you will carve a new khanate for yourself, filled with riches.”

Mongke handed Hulegu a scroll and watched as his brother unrolled a map of the region, copied with great care and marked with the curved lines and dots of some long-dead Persian hand. Kublai stared at it in fascination, drawing closer despite himself. The library in Karakorum had many wonders he had not yet seen.

Hulegu spread the map on the table, holding it with wine cups at the edges. His eyes gleamed as he stared across the lands represented there. Mongke patted him on the back as he leaned in, pointing with his free hand.

“The greatest city is there, brother, on the banks of the Tigris River. Genghis himself never reached so far. It is the center of the faith they call Islam. You will take it for me and make it the heart of your new khanate.”

“It will be done, brother,” Hulegu said, overwhelmed.

Mongke saw his pleasure and smiled, refilling a cup to hand to him.

“The line of Tolui has come to rule,” he said, glancing at Kublai. “We will not let it pass from us, not now. The path begun by Genghis will be cut further by our family. It must be fate, brothers. Our father gave his life for a khan, our mother held the city and the homeland together when it could all have been destroyed.” His eyes shone with a vision of the future. “Everything that has gone before was to prepare our line for this moment, here. Four brothers in a room, with the world a sweet virgin waiting for us.”

Kublai watched silently as Hulegu and Arik-Boke grinned, swept up in Mongke’s grand words. He could not be comfortable standing apart from them, and on impulse he filled the spare cup with wine and drank it. His younger brothers moved aside for him to reach the jug, though Mongke frowned slightly. As Kublai sipped, he saw with a sinking feeling how Arik-Boke was practically quivering to be told his destiny, his scar a dark pink, almost red.

Mongke chose that moment to grip the arm of their youngest brother.

“Arik, I have spoken to our mother and she has agreed this with me.”

Kublai looked up sharply at that. He did not think Sorhatani had been well enough to discuss anything.

Mongke went on, oblivious to Kublai’s suspicions.

“She and I have agreed that you will inherit the homeland khanate, all but Karakorum itself, which will remain the khan’s property. I don’t want this pestilent place, but I’m told it has become a symbol for the people. The rest is yours, to rule in my name.”

Arik-Boke almost spilled his wine as he too knelt and dipped his head in fealty. As he came to his feet, Mongke gripped him around the back of the head and shook him affectionately.

“Those lands were our father’s, Arik, and belonged to Genghis before that. Look after them. Make them green and thick with herds.”

“I will, brother, I swear it,” Arik-Boke replied. In just a few words, he had been granted unimaginable wealth. Herds and horses numbering in the millions awaited him, as well as great status in the nation. Mongke had made him a man of power in a breath.

“I will speak more to both of you tomorrow,” Mongke went on. “Come back at dawn and I will share everything I have planned.”

He turned to Kublai and the younger brothers grew still, understanding the tension that was always present between the two men. Mongke looked every inch the Mongol warrior in his prime. Kublai stood taller, his Chin robe in sharp contrast.

“Leave us now, Hulegu, Arik,” Mongke said softly. “I would have a word in private with our brother.”

Neither of the younger men looked at Kublai as they left. Both walked with a spring, thrust suddenly into their greatest ambitions. Kublai could almost envy their confidence and how easily it had been given to them.

When they were alone, Mongke carefully refilled the cups and handed one to Kublai.

“And what am I to do with you, brother?”

“You seem to have planned everything. Why don’t you tell me?”

“You have barely left the city in your lifetime, Kublai. While I rode with Tsubodai in the west, you were here, playing with books and quills. When I was taking Kiev, you were learning to dress like a Chin woman and bathe twice a day.” Mongke leaned closer to his brother and sniffed the air, frowning at the delicate scent around Kublai. “Perhaps a post in the city library would be suitable for a man of your … tastes.”

Kublai stiffened, aware that Mongke was deliberately taunting him. Nonetheless he felt his cheeks flush at the insults.

“There is no shame in scholarship,” he said through gritted teeth. “If you are to be khan, perhaps I would be happiest here in the city.”

Mongke sipped his wine thoughtfully, though Kublai suspected he had already come to a decision, long before the meeting. His brother had no great intelligence, but he was thorough and patient. Those qualities could serve a man almost as well.

“Yet I promised our father that I would look after the family, Kublai. I doubt he intended me to leave you with dusty scrolls and ink-stained fingers.” Kublai refused to look down at his hands, though it was true enough. “He wanted warriors for sons, Kublai, not Chin scribes.”

Despite himself, Kublai was stung into a reply.

“When we were young, brother, Genghis himself told his men to come to me when they had a problem. He told them I could see through the thickest patch of thorns. Are you asking me what I want from you?”

Mongke smiled slowly.

“No, Kublai. I am telling you what I want. Hulegu will tear down the strongholds of Islam, Arik-Boke will keep the homeland safe. I have a hundred other irons in the fire, brother, as far away as Koryo. Every day, I am presented with the envoys and ambassadors of a dozen small nations. I am the khan elect, the heart of the nation. But you have another path to tread, the work Ogedai and Genghis left unfinished.”

Kublai’s mind leapt to the conclusion and he swallowed uncomfortably.

“The Sung,” Kublai muttered.

“The Sung, Kublai. Dozens of cities, millions of peasants. It will be your life’s work. In my name, you will bring an end to what Genghis began.”

“And how would you have me accomplish this grand dream of yours?” Kublai asked quietly, masking his nervousness with a deep gulp of wine.

“Genghis started the conquest of the Chin with the region of Xi Xia. My advisers have found another gate into the Sung. I would have you take an army along the southwestern border, Kublai, into the Yunnan region. There is only a single city there, though they can call on an army to equal mine. Still, I think it will not be too great a task, even for an unblooded man.” He smiled to take the sting out of his condescension. “I would have you become the grandson Genghis wanted, Kublai, a Mongol conqueror. I find I have the means and the will to change your life. Swear an oath to me today and I will give you the authority to lead tumans. I will make you the terror of the Sung court, a name they dare not speak aloud.”

Kublai drained his cup and shuddered, feeling gooseflesh rise along his arms. He had to voice his first suspicion, or have it nag at him ever after.

“Are you expecting me to be killed, brother, by sending me against such an enemy? Is that your plan?”

“Still looking for games and plots?” Mongke replied with a laugh. “I think Yao Shu had you too long in his care, brother. Sometimes things are simple, as they should be. I would lose valuable cannons and my best general with you. Would I send Uriang-Khadai to his death? Put your mind at ease, brother. In a few months, I will become khan. Have you any idea what that means to me? I remember Genghis. To stand in his place is … worth more than I can explain. I don’t need to play games or construct complicated schemes. The Sung have already raided into Chin territory, on more than one front. Unless I answer them soon with force, they will slowly take back what Genghis conquered. That is my only plan, brother. My only aim.”

Kublai saw simple truth in Mongke’s stare and he nodded. In a revelation, he realized his brother was trying to fit the role he had won for himself. A khan needed a breadth of vision, to be able to rise above the petty squabbles of family and nation. Mongke was struggling to do just that. It was impressive, and with an effort Kublai shrugged off his doubts.

“What oath would you have?” he said at last. Mongke was watching him closely, his own emotions well hidden.

“Swear to me that you will put aside your Chin ways, that on campaign you will dress and act and look like a Mongol warrior, that you will train with sword and bow every morning until you are exhausted. Swear that you will not read a scholar’s book for the whole time you are on campaign, not one, and I will give you an army today. I will give you Uriang-Khadai, but the command will be your own.” For a moment, a sneer touched his lips. “If that is all too much, then you may return to the libraries here and wait out the years to come, always wondering what you could have been, what you could have done with your life.”

Kublai’s thoughts whirled. Mongke was trying to be a khan. It seemed he thought a similar change could be wrought in his brother. It was almost endearing to see the big brute so earnest. Kublai thought of Yao Shu and the peaceful years he had spent in Karakorum. He had loved the silences of study, the glories of insight. Yet part of him had always dreamed of leading men in war. His grandfather’s blood ran in him as much as it did in Mongke.

“You promised Hulegu a khanate, if he could take Baghdad,” Kublai said after what felt like an age.

Mongke laughed aloud, the sound echoing. He had begun to worry that his scholar brother would refuse him. He felt almost drunk on his own foresight as he reached for the pile of maps and documents.

His finger rested on the vast lands of northern China and he stabbed it down.

“There are two areas here, brother. Nan-ching and Ching-chao. They are mine to give. Choose either one, with my blessing. You will have your stake in Chin lands, your own estates. If you agree to this, you will be able to visit them. Before I promise you more, let me see that you can win battles for me.” His smile remained as he saw Kublai examine the maps minutely, fascinated. “Are we agreed then?”

“Give me Yao Shu as my adviser and we are,” Kublai said, letting the words spill out before he could think his choices to death. There were times when a decision had to be made quickly and part of him was filled with the same excitement he had seen in his younger brothers.

“You have him,” Mongke said immediately. “By the sky father, you can have all the Chin scholars left in Karakorum if you say yes to this! I will see my family rise, Kublai. The world will know our names, I swear it.”

Kublai had been looking closely at the maps. Nan-ching ran close to the Yellow River and he recalled that the plain was prone to flooding. The area was populous and Mongke would surely expect him to choose it. Ching-chao was further to the north of Yenking, on the boundary of the Mongol homeland. It had hardly any towns marked. He wished Yao Shu were there to give his opinion.

“With your permission, I will take Ching-chao,” he said at last.

“The small one? It is not enough. I will give you …” Mongke traced a line on the map as he peered at it, “Huai-meng as well. Estates so vast they are almost a khanate, brother. More will come if you are successful. You cannot say I have not been generous.”

“You have given me more than I expected,” Kublai said honestly. “Very well, brother. You have my oath. I will try to be the man you want.” He held out his hand and Mongke gripped it in pride and satisfaction. Both of them were surprised at the strength of the other.

IN THE SPRING, THE NATION GATHERED ON THE PLAIN OF Avraga, deep in the ancestral homeland. The oldest men and women could still remember when Genghis had bound the tribes there, replacing their individual banners with just one staff of horsetails, bleached white. The plain was vast and almost flat, so that it was possible to see for miles in any direction. A single stream ran through one part of it and Mongke made a point of drinking the water, where Genghis would have stood so many years before.

Batu had left his Russian estates to come with his honor guards, the image of his father, Jochi. He had been visibly distressed to find Sorhatani so wasted and thin, racked with a coughing illness that grew worse each day. Fevers came and went in her and there were times when Kublai believed she only hung on to life to see Mongke made khan.

From the west came Baidur, the son of Chagatai. His wealth was obvious in the gold he wore and the fine horses of a thousand guards. As khan of the homeland, Arik-Boke had arranged it all, so that they arrived over two months. One by one, the princes and generals rode in and made camp, until even that open plain was black with people and animals. Christian monks came from as far as Rome and France, and the princes of Koryo had traveled many thousands of miles to attend the man who would rule them. Until the last were in, the gathering traded and exchanged goods and horses, brokering deals that would make some rich and others poor for a generation. Airag and wine flowed freely and animals were slaughtered by the tens of thousands to feast them all.

When it was time, Mongke rode out among the host and they knelt to him and gave their oath. No one challenged him. He was the grandson of Genghis Khan and he had proven his bloodline, his right to lead. The bitter years under Guyuk were put firmly behind them. Kublai knelt with the others, thinking of the army he must take into Sung lands. He wondered if Mongke truly understood the challenge he had set. Kublai had spent most of his life in the city. He had honed his mind with the greatest philosophies of Lao Tzu, Confucius, and the Buddha, but all that was behind. As Mongke became khan on a roar of acclamation, Kublai shivered, telling himself it was anticipation and not fear.

THIRTEEN

SULEIMAN WAS OLD, BUT MOUNTAINS AND DESERTS HAD hardened his flesh, so that sinews and narrow muscles could be seen shifting against each other under his skin. In his sixtieth year, his will remained strong, simmered down to diamond hardness by the life he had led. When he spoke, his voice was gently reproving.

“That is not what I asked, Hasan, now is it? I asked if you knew who had stolen food from the kitchens, not if you had done it yourself.”

Visibly trembling, Hasan mumbled an unintelligible answer. He knelt on the stone floor before Suleiman’s great chair. His master was dressed in heavy robes against the predawn chill, while Hasan wore only a grubby linen shift. In the shadow of Mount Haudegan, the room saw the sun only in the afternoons. Until then, it could have been used to keep meat from spoiling.

“Come closer, Hasan,” Suleiman said, chuckling.

He waited until the man shuffled on his knees to the foot of the chair and then Suleiman snapped out his arm, backhanding him across the face. Hasan tumbled, pulling in his legs and hiding his head in his hands. Blood dripped from his nose and he looked in terrified silence at the shining drops. As Suleiman watched, the young man reached out with a finger and smeared a red line on the stones. His eyes filled with tears and Suleiman laughed aloud.

“A few stolen cakes, Hasan. Were they worth it?”

Hasan froze, unsure whether the question held a trap for him or not. He nodded slowly and Suleiman tutted to himself.

“I wish all men lied as badly as you do, Hasan. The world would be less interesting, but so many problems would simply vanish. Is there anything in that head of yours that understands you are not to steal from me? That I always find out and punish you? Yet still you do it. Fetch me my stick, Hasan.”

The young man looked at his master in abject misery. He shook his head, but he had learned it would only be worse if he refused. With Suleiman watching in amusement, he stumbled to his feet to cross the frozen room, feeling his bruised body protest. There were few days when he was not beaten. He did not understand why his master hurt him. He wished he had resisted the honeycakes, but the smell had driven him almost to madness. Over the years, Suleiman had broken too many of his teeth for him to eat without pain and the honeycakes were soft, dissolving on his tongue with something like ecstasy.

Suleiman patted the young man’s hand as Hasan gave him the stick. It was a walking cane with a weighted tip and a dagger blade hidden in the handle, suitable in all ways for the one who led the clan of Ismaili Assassins in Alamut. He saw Hasan was weeping and he put a thin arm around his shoulder as he stood.

“Hush, lad. Is it the stick you fear?” His tone was gentle.

Hasan nodded miserably.

“I understand. You don’t want to be hit. But if I don’t, you will steal again, won’t you?”

Hasan didn’t understand and he looked blankly at the old man with his cruel, black eyes and scrawny face. Hasan was both younger and wider than Suleiman, his shoulders made powerful by endless labor in the gardens. He might even have stood taller if he straightened his back. Even so, he flinched when the old man kissed his cheek.

“Better that you accept your punishment like a good boy. Can you do that for me? Can you be brave?”

Hasan dipped his head, tears spilling from his eyes.

“That’s it. Dogs, boys, and women, Hasan. They must all be beaten, or they are spoiled.” Suleiman brought the stick round with a sudden snap, cracking it against Hasan’s skull. The young man yelped and fell back as Suleiman stepped closer, raining blows on him. In desperation, Hasan covered his face and Suleiman immediately hit him in the chest with his bony fist, at the point just above the stomach and below the breastbone. Hasan folded to the floor with a low groan, straining to suck in a breath.

Suleiman watched him affectionately, surprised to find he was panting slightly. Old age was a curse. He might have continued chastising the simpleton if his son had not chosen that moment to clatter up the stairs to the room. Rukn-al-Din barely glanced at Hasan as he strode in.

“They have sent a response, father.”

Suleiman’s mood went sour at the words and he stood in thought, rubbing a spot of blood from the stick with his thumb.

“And what do they say, my son? Will you keep me waiting?”

Rukn flushed. “They sent our man back unharmed, but the message is to abandon our fortresses.”

Suleiman gestured for Hasan to rise and handed the stick to him to be put away. It was odd, but he preferred the simpleton’s company to his own son at times, like a favorite hound. Perhaps it was that Hasan could never be a disappointment, as Suleiman expected so little from him.

“Nothing else?” Suleiman said. “No negotiation, no counteroffer? Has this khan’s brother, this Hulegu, given me nothing for the pains I have taken?”

“No, father, I am sorry.”

Suleiman did not curse or show any reaction. He regarded such displays as ultimately futile, or worse, an advantage to his enemies. Even when he grew warm from beating Hasan, he was still able to talk calmly and kindly. As he thought, he detected the distant clinking of porcelain cups coming up the winding stair to his tower. He smiled in anticipation.

“It is almost time for my morning tea, Rukn. Will you join me?”

“Of course, father,” Rukn replied. He had not heard the woman approaching and his eyes swiveled to her in surprise as she entered with a heavy tray. At times, his father’s talents seemed to approach the mystical. Certainly he knew everything that occurred in the fortress, from the smallest whisper to the skills and training of each of the men.

Hasan turned quickly as he heard her step. Kameela meant “most perfect” in Arabic and she was as beautiful as her name suggested, with black hair and smooth olive skin. Her hips swayed as she walked and Hasan could not take his eyes from them.

Suleiman chuckled at the sight of Hasan so entranced. It had been a whim two years before to give her to Hasan as his wife. Suleiman had enjoyed the confusion and terror in the fool as he understood the gift. Hasan had not been with a woman before and it had amused Suleiman greatly. If he had one area of expertise, it was in finding the weak points of other men. Hasan could be made to do anything for fear Kameela would be hurt. At times, Suleiman could treat his pain almost as artistry, with the fool as his canvas. He recorded much of what passed between them, for the edification and instruction of future masters of the order. There were few such detailed records in existence and it pleased him to add to the world’s knowledge.

Kameela served tea to him without once looking at her husband. Suleiman watched her self-control in delight. A dog could be taught only simple tricks, but people were wonderfully subtle and complex. He knew she dared not acknowledge Hasan in his presence. Suleiman had thrashed him bloody at her feet on a number of occasions, for just a word or a smile. He had known the fool would fall in love with the beautiful young woman, but the miracle had been that she seemed to return his affection. Suleiman cradled his tea in his skinny hands, watching over the rim as he inhaled the delicate scent. If only he could make the Mongol generals dance as easily as his servants.

As Kameela bowed, Suleiman reached out and ran a finger slowly along her jawline.

“You are very beautiful,” he said.

“You honor me, my lord,” she said, her head still bowed.

“Yes,” he replied. Suleiman showed his yellow teeth as he drained his tea. “Take Hasan with you, my flower. I must talk to my son.”

Kameela bowed at the dismissal and Suleiman watched as Hasan shambled after her, his hands shaking. He was tempted to call them back, indeed had intended to do so, but Rukn-al-Din began speaking again before he could. His son’s eyes were irritated.

“The Shirat fortress could be taken down, as some proof of our resolve. The place is unsafe as it is, full of lizards and cracked stones. If we made a show of destroying Shirat, it would buy us another year at least. Perhaps by then, the Mongol armies will have moved on.”

Suleiman regarded his son, wishing once more that he had managed to sire a man of intelligence. For years he had hoped to produce an heir in his own image, but those hopes and dreams had long been ashes.

“You do not placate a tiger by feeding it your own flesh,” he snapped. Hasan and Kameela had made their escape and he was angry with Rukn for interrupting his pleasures. “If such an abomination is to be my legacy, he will have to drag it out of us. We must find what this general wants and pray he is not like his grandfather Genghis. I think not. Men like that are rare.”

“I don’t understand,” Rukn said.

“No, because you are a man of weakness, combined with appetites, which is why you have a belly and must visit my doctors to burn the warts off your manhood.”

Suleiman paused for a beat, waiting to see if his son would dare respond to the insults. Rukn-al-Din stayed silent and Suleiman made a sound of derision before he went on.

“When Genghis came to my father’s home, he desired only destruction. The khan cared nothing for wealth and looked to himself for power and titles. Be thankful the world has not seen too many of such men, my son! For the rest, there is always something. You have offered this Hulegu peace and been refused. Offer him gold now and see what he says.”

“How much should I take to him?” Rukn said.

His father sighed.

“Not a single coin. If you return to him with carts of jewels, he will wonder how much we have kept back. He will struggle all the harder to see our fortresses brought down. Even Genghis took tribute from cities, because those around him enjoyed the glitter of fine metals and rubies. Offer … exactly half of everything in the treasury here, so that we may double the offer when he refuses.”

“You would have me give him everything?” Rukn asked in amazement.

His father slapped him viciously across the face, making him fall back in pain and shock. Suleiman’s voice was utterly calm as he continued to speak.

“What comfort will it be to have gold in our pouches if Alamut and Shirat are gone? In all the world no one dares threaten us but these. The Mongols must not come here, my son. No fortress can stand forever, not even Alamut. I would offer him the clothes from my back if I thought for a single instant that he would leave us in peace. Perhaps he can be bought with gold. We will find out.”

“And then? If he refuses, what then?” Rukn said. His cheek was flaming from the blow.

“If he refuses gold, we will make rubble of Shirat, once a jewel of our possessions. Did you know I was born there, my son? Yet I will give it up if it saves the rest.” He shook his head in weary cynicism. “If the Mongol prince demands still more, I will have no choice but to send our best men to poison his food and wine, to strike down his officers, and to murder him as he sleeps. I have tried to avoid such a course, my son. I do not want to enrage this destroyer of towns, this slaughterer of women and children.”

Suleiman clenched his fists for a moment. His father had sent men against the great khan and they had failed. The result was a whirlwind of destruction that had left cities ruined and a swath of death across the region. There were deserts where Genghis had passed, to that day.

“If he gives us no other choice, I will take his life. The man who threatens our very existence is no greater than the goatherds tending my flocks. They can all die.”

HULEGU WATCHED THE CORPSES SWINGING GENTLY IN THE breeze. Mongke would be proud of him, he was certain. He had shown no mercy as he drove south and west of Samarkand. The word would go out that there was a new khan and that he should be feared. Hulegu understood his task and he relished earning his older brother’s approval. Only nine young men remained from the town after Hulegu’s warriors slaughtered every other living thing. The river was running red as bodies in the water were drained by the tugging current. Hulegu was pleased at the sight, imagining that the color would be carried for a hundred miles, bringing fear to all those who saw it. There would be no gates closed to him as he marched, not again.

He had burned three small cities and a dozen towns as he moved west, killing few, but leaving the inhabitants destitute and hungry, with every loaf and jar of oil or salt taken for his men. He did not know the name of the walled town which had tried to resist, barring their gates with iron and retreating into the cellars while their soldiers held the walls.

It had fallen in just a day. Though he did not have the numbers of cannon that Mongke had given Kublai, there were still enough. In a line of eighty, the polished rock balls smashed open the gates with two blows, but he had not paused to assault the town. Instead, he had ordered the guns to keep firing, cracking the stones to rubble and sending defenders flying in sprays of blood. The tumans had watched indifferently, waiting for his orders.

Only the thought that he should not waste his dwindling store of black powder made Hulegu call the halt. He enjoyed the thunder he could bring with just a wave of his hand. It was intoxicating to say “Fall” and have a city wall hammered to pieces before his eyes. He sent his men in that evening, loping on foot as they rushed to be first to loot the town.

Young women were raped, then tied together in weeping groups, ready for the gambling and bargains that would follow. Children and the elderly were killed as they were found. As with the battered men of the town, they were of no value. Gold and silver items were stripped from each house and piled in the central square to be weighed and assessed. Hulegu had his own forges with him. His habit was to melt the precious metals, skimming off the impurities and alloys as they rose out of the denser gold. Persian chemists directed the work, sending ancient items to feed the flames. They were allowed to keep a tithe of all they collected, one part in a thousand to split between them. Already they were wealthy men and Hulegu had been forced to cut hundreds of trees and wait as the new timber was made into carts to carry the wealth.

Many of the defenders had fallen as the walls collapsed, coughing and choking on dust. Some tried to surrender, and for those Hulegu had only contempt. He stared with pleasure at the swinging bodies. He did not hang them by the neck, to die quickly. A few were hung by the feet, but most were held by ropes under their armpits and gashed across their stomachs to bleed to death. They lasted a long time and their cries could be heard across the hills.

When the town was burning, Hulegu signaled to General Ilugei to cut the bonds holding his prisoners. They were all men who had fought with courage and been battered to the ground. From a town of ten thousand, it was a pitifully small number, but he could at least have the glimmerings of respect for those few. He watched in stern silence as they stood and rubbed their wrists. Two of the nine were sobbing, while the rest stared at him in mute horror and impotent rage. He felt it like good wine in his mouth, making him strong.

He did not speak the local tongue, so he had his words repeated by one of the chemists, a turban-wearing Moslem named Abu-Karim.

“I will give you horses,” Hulegu said. “You will go ahead of my warriors, my carts and guns. Ride west and south and tell them I am coming. Tell each man you meet that he must open his doors to me, that he must give me his wives and daughters to be mine and his wealth, which will also be mine. He may keep his life. Tell them that if a city, or a town, or a single home bars its doors to me, I will visit destruction on them all, until the earth itself cries out in pain.”

He turned away then, not bothering to wait until the translator was finished. Baghdad was to the southwest and the caliph there had sent more blustering threats and lies. To the north, Hulegu felt the pull of the Assassin strongholds. He grunted in irritation at being caught between the two desires.

FOURTEEN

KUBLAI COULD SEE A MULTITUDE AROUND HIM, FROM THOSE digging toilet pits, to warriors leading horses and women tending cooking fires for their husbands and sons. He had never known the life of a moving tribe, but something in him found peace in it. Looking into the distance, he wondered again at the veritable nation he had brought south. There must have been half a million souls in the column that rode down the border of Sung lands. He was not even sure of the true number.

He stretched his back with a soft groan as his wife and son prepared his ger for him. Not that little Zhenjin was much use, he noticed. Mongke’s orders had not extended to his family and the eight-year-old still wore a Chin silk tunic and leggings, down to a pair of soft sheepskin boots. His topknot of black hair flicked back and forth with every movement. Kublai tried not to laugh as he saw the boy sneak a handful of steaming meat scraps from the pile that Chabi was working into pouches. She had only looked away for a moment, but the boy had quick hands. Zhenjin had stuffed his cheeks before she turned back. It was bad luck that his mother chose that moment to ask a question, or perhaps not. Chabi adored and spoiled her firstborn, but that did not mean her instincts were blunt. As Zhenjin struggled to reply around a mouthful of hot meat, she poked him in the stomach and he sprayed bits of food, giggling.

Kublai smiled. He could still be surprised at the strength of his emotions when he looked over his family. It wasn’t just that the boy delighted him, but a moment with his family could bring sudden understanding of his own parents. His father had given his life to save a khan, and Kublai finally appreciated the scale of that sacrifice. The man had acted for the nation, knowing he would never see his sons or his wife again. In a strange way, it left a debt to be paid by all of them, as well as a sense that however they lived their lives, they could not equal their father’s final act. Kublai sensed Mongke struggled with the same burden. His older brother was trying to fit an ideal, but he would never know peace looking for the approval of the dead.

At least Mongke had not stinted in men or supplies. With Uriang-Khadai as orlok and Bayar as his senior general, Kublai traveled with two hundred iron cannon and thousands more carts filled with gunpowder and equipment under heavy tarpaulins. He had a staff of ninety-four men and women to handle the moving nation. As he stood there in his reverie, he could see some of them close by. When he had eaten, they would come to him with the details, plaints, and problems of so many. He sighed at the thought, but the tasks were not beyond him, not yet. He crashed into slumber each night, yet still rose before dawn and practiced with the sword and bow. When the armor had begun to feel light on him, Kublai could even imagine thanking Mongke for the changes he had wrought. The khan knew more about being a warrior than his brother. Unfortunately, it was all he knew.

Kublai felt an itch in his armpit and worked his thumb under the iron scales to scratch the sores there, grunting at the small pleasure. Life was good. He had seen his Chin estates, and in his mind’s eye, green shoots were rising quickly from the black earth. Just sinking a few painted poles into the soft ground had marked a grand new venture in his life. Yao Shu had arranged the lease of thousands of plots, with the rent to be paid from the first crops. If the Chin farmers prospered, two fifths would be Kublai’s and the money would go to making a city in the north.

It was a dream worth having, something beyond the mass of warriors and horses that filled his sight to the horizons. Though it was little more than a vast square marked out on grassland, his men had already begun calling it Shang-du, the “Upper Capital.” Those who did not speak the Chin languages called it Xanadu. He whispered the word aloud.

With a sigh, Chabi wiped a hand across her brow and told Zhenjin to carry the platter inside for the stove. Kublai’s mouth filled with saliva. He was always hungry these days. His wife stood and stretched her own back. He looked over at her and their eyes met, united in their weariness. His mind lost the visions of palaces as his stomach rumbled.

“Did you get me a skin of wine?” he said.

“Of course,” she replied, “though I hope you will not leave it empty again and complain tomorrow about how your head is bursting. There will be no sympathy from me.”

“I never complain!” he said, wounded. “I am like a stone for keeping silent.”

“Was that some other man stumbling around the ger this morning, then? Cursing and demanding to know who had stolen his hat? I thought it was you. In fact, I hope it was you, because he was very active last night, whoever he was.”

“You were dreaming, woman.”

She grinned at him and flicked her long hair back from her face, working quickly with her hands to tie it. He stared deliberately at her breasts as they moved under the cloth and she snorted.

“There is a fresh bucket of water at the door for you to wash, old goat. Don’t stay out here dreaming, so the food gets cold. I know you will complain anyway, but I will ignore you.”

She went inside and Kublai could hear her berating Zhenjin for stealing some of the pouches. Kublai chuckled to himself. When he had set out from Karakorum, he had not known how long it would take to reach the Sung lands. It was almost two years since Mongke had become khan and Kublai had spent a year of that simply traveling, moving his great host south, day after day. His tumans were with their families and there was no sense of impatience in their ranks. They did not need to stop to live. For them, the journey was as much their lives as reaching the destination. In the evenings, they played with their children, sang, gambled, made love, tended the animals or a thousand other small things that they could do anywhere. For a man who had lived most of his life in Karakorum, it was a strange thing to see.

Kublai had kept his oath to Mongke and not opened a single scroll or book since leaving the city. At first, it had been a terrible hardship and he had slept badly, dreaming of old texts. On the borders of Sung lands there were many signs of that ancient culture. They had already passed through hundreds of small towns and villages and Kublai had not been able to resist snapping up written works when he found them. His growing collection traveled with him like an itch at the back of his mind.

It had been Yao Shu who offered to read them to him in the evenings. Though Kublai was uncomfortable at skirting his oath, he could not deny it was a comfort. His son, Zhenjin, seemed to enjoy the droning voice and sat up late when he should have been asleep, listening to every word. Kublai’s mind had suffered like a desert in time of drought and the ideas poured in, reviving him.

His body too had toughened in the months of travel. Saddle sores were just a painful memory. Like the experienced warriors, he had developed a sheath of dark yellow callus on his lower spine, about the width of a man’s hand across. He reached behind him to scratch it, frowning at the sweat-slick that stayed on his skin no matter how often he bathed. Mongke could not object to his being clean, at least. Though he wore the scaled armor, Kublai suffered less with rashes and skin rot than his men. In the humid summer, a scent of bad meat overlaid even the odor of wet wool and horses. Kublai still missed the cool Chin robes he had grown to love.

The orlok of his tumans had a ger in sight of Kublai’s, with three women and a host of servants tending his every need. Kublai squinted to see Uriang-Khadai standing over one of them, giving some instruction about the best way to stitch a saddle. The orlok’s back was arrow-straight, as always. Kublai snorted to himself. He had already decided Uriang-Khadai was Mongke’s man, the khan’s eyes on their expedition. The orlok was an experienced officer of the sort who would certainly impress his brother. He had even scarred his cheeks to prevent a beard growing. The keloid ridges proclaimed that he put duty above self, though Kublai saw it as a sort of twisted vanity.

As Kublai watched, Uriang-Khadai felt the scrutiny and turned sharply to face him. Caught staring, Kublai raised his hand as if in greeting, but the orlok pretended he had not seen and turned away to his own ger, his own little world within the camp. Kublai suspected the man saw him as a mere scholar, given authority by his brother for no great merit. When they met each day, he could see Uriang-Khadai’s subtle amusement as Kublai laid out his strategies. There was little liking between them, but it did not truly matter, as long as he continued to obey. Kublai yawned again. He could smell his meal on the breeze and his mouth ached for wine to take the edge off his thoughts. It was the only way to ease his mind, to stop it tearing every idea to pieces and then making new things with the scraps. With a last look around him, he realized he could relax. Some of the tension left his shoulders and back as he ducked into the ger and was immediately ambushed by Zhenjin, who had waited patiently for him.

THE TUMANS WERE NEVER QUITE ALONE AS THEY DRIFTED south. With such a vast and slow assemblage, they could not possibly surprise the Sung nation. There were always scouts watching from the nearest hills. Word had gone ahead. The most recent villages were all abandoned, some of them with odd markings of blood in the road. Kublai wondered if the inhabitants had been slaughtered rather than left to give aid to an enemy. He could believe it. Though he loved the culture, he had no illusions about their brutality or the sort of armies his men would face. The Sung outnumbered him by hundreds to one. They had walled cities, cannon and flame weapons, good steel, crossbows, and excellent discipline. As he trotted his horse, he listed their strengths and weaknesses as he had a thousand times before. Their strengths were intimidating, impossible. The only weaknesses he had been able to think of were that they had few cavalry and that they chose their officers for nobility of birth, or with written examinations in their cities. Compared with men like Uriang-Khadai and Bayar, Kublai hoped the Sung generals would also be considered effete scholars. He could beat scholars.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his scouts ride up to Uriang-Khadai and report. Kublai kept facing forward, though he felt his heart beat faster in anticipation. Four days before, the Mongol column had crossed the Sung border and begun to move east. Whatever the Sung armies had been doing for the months of his approach, they would have to respond. He had been expecting contact. He had done everything he could with their formations and battle plans, but all of that would change when he met the enemy at last. Kublai smiled as a memory of one book flashed into his mind. He did not have to read it again to know every line. He had memorized the work by Sun Tzu many years before. The irony of a book on the art of war being written by a Chin general was not lost on him. The Sung would know it just as well.

Uriang-Khadai rode slowly over to him, deliberately unhurried, though thousands of interested eyes watched the orlok’s progress. He reached Kublai and dipped his head formally.

“The enemy are in the field, my lord,” he said, his voice as clipped and dry as if he discussed the rations. “They have taken up a position on the other side of a river, some twenty miles further east and south. My scouts report two hundred thousand infantry and some ten thousand horsemen.”

His voice was deliberately unimpressed, but Kublai felt sweat break out in his armpits, stinging the scabs there. The numbers were terrifying. He did not think Genghis had ever faced so many, except perhaps at the Badger’s Mouth, far to the north.

“If I may, my lord?” Uriang-Khadai said into the silence.

Kublai nodded for him to go ahead, suppressing his irritation at the man’s pompous tone.

“They could have attacked after we crossed the river, but with it still between us, I suggest we ride on. We can force them away from whatever traps and trenches they have dug. The Yunnan city of Ta-li is only another hundred miles south. If we continue toward it, they will have no choice but to follow.”

Uriang-Khadai waited patiently while Kublai thought. The orlok had not minded Kublai’s endless interference in the supplies and formations. Such things were to be expected from a new man. The battles, however, were the orlok’s responsibility. Mongke himself had made that clear before they left.

“Look after him,” the khan had said. “Don’t let my younger brother get himself killed while he’s in a dream.” The two old campaigners had shared a smile of understanding and then Uriang-Khadai had ridden out. Now the time was upon him and he was prepared to guide Kublai through his first taste of warfare.

While he waited, Uriang-Khadai rubbed the ridge lines of his cheeks. There were a few stubborn bristles that had somehow survived the years of scarring. He was never sure whether he should cut himself again or just yank the things out when they grew long enough. As Kublai pondered, Uriang-Khadai curled one long hair around his finger and jerked it free.

“We must cross the Chin-sha Chiang River,” Kublai said suddenly. He had pictured maps in his imagination, his recall almost perfect. Uriang-Khadai blinked in surprise and Kublai nodded, making his decision.

“That is the name of the river you mentioned, Orlok. It lies between us and the city I have been told to take. We must cross it at some point. They know the ground, which is why they have gathered on that side. They are content to defend it wherever we choose to cross. If we find a fording point, they will slaughter us in the waters, reducing us to the narrow ranks we can put in.”

Uriang-Khadai shook his head, struggling to find the right words to persuade a sheltered academic who had barely left Karakorum in his life.

“My lord, they already have every advantage. We cannot also give them the choice of land, or we risk annihilation. Let me lure them along the banks for thirty miles. I will have the scouts out looking for places to cross. There will be more than one. We can have archers cover those crossing and then we can come up behind them.”

Kublai could feel the silent pressure from Uriang-Khadai, waiting for him to give way. The man was too obvious and it irritated him.

“As you say, Orlok, they have chosen their ground carefully. They will expect us to rush across the river like the wild tribesmen they think we are and then die in our thousands.” He thought suddenly of a way to get enough men across quickly and he smiled.

“No. We will take them on here, Orlok. We will surprise them.”

Uriang-Khadai stammered for an instant.

“My lord, I must advise against your decision. I—”

“Send General Bayar to me, Uriang-Khadai. Return to the tumans.”

The orlok bowed his head instantly, all sign of his anger vanishing like a snuffed candle.

“Your will, my lord.”

He rode away even more stiff-backed than he had come. Kublai stared sourly after him. It was not long before Bayar was in the orlok’s place, looking worried. He was relatively young for his authority, a man in his early thirties. Unlike Uriang-Khadai, he had a smooth face, except for a wisp of black hair at his chin. There was a strong odor of rot around him. Kublai had long grown used to it as he accepted the man’s greeting. He was in no mood to ease Bayar’s misgivings.

“I have a task for you, General. I order you to carry it out without complaint or argument, do you understand?”

“Yes, my lord,” Bayar replied.

“When I was a boy, I read about warriors with Genghis crossing a river using a sheepskin raft. Have you heard of such a thing?”

Bayar shook his head, flushing slightly.

“I do not have the reading, my lord.”

“Never mind. I recall the idea. You will need to slaughter some six hundred sheep for what I have in mind. Take care to cut them high on the neck, so that the skin is undamaged as it is peeled back. The wool must be shaved away, I believe. This work is delicate, Bayar, so give it to careful men and women in your command.”

Bayar looked blankly at him and Kublai sighed.

“There is no harm in knowing a little history, General. We should not have to relearn every skill each generation. Not when the hard work has already been done. The idea is to sew up the holes in the skins, leaving just one near the neck. Strong men can blow into the skin, using tar or tree sap to seal the gaps. Do you understand? Have vats of both substances put to boil. I do not know which will work best. When they are tight with air, the skins will float, General. Bind them together in a frame of light poles and we will have rafts capable of carrying many men at a time.” He paused to run calculations in his head, one thing Kublai could always do quickly.

“With three rafts, say eighteen hundred sheepskins, we should be able to carry … twelve hundred warriors across the river at a time. In half a day, we could put some twenty thousand men on the opposite side. I will assume another half day to swim horses across, using the rafts to guide them. Yes, with ropes around their necks to help them swim against the current. A day in all, if there are no mishaps. How long will you need to put the rafts together?”

Bayar’s eyes widened as he saw the prince had lost his internal gaze and was once again focused on him.

“Two days, my lord,” he said with false confidence. He needed to impress the man who commanded him and Uriang-Khadai had already lost face. Bayar did not want to join him in incurring the displeasure of the khan’s own brother.

Kublai inclined his head as he thought.

“Very well. This is your only task until it is complete. I will hold you to two days, General. Now, give the order to halt the column. Get scouts back into the area where the enemy wait. I want to know every detail of the river: the current, the banks, the terrain. Nothing is too trivial to bring to me. Have them report after the evening meal.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Bayar swallowed nervously as he was dismissed. He had never heard of sheepskins being used in such a way. He was going to need help and he guessed that Uriang-Khadai was not the man to ask. As the horns sounded the halt and the tumans began to dismount and tend their horses, Bayar saw the cart that carried Kublai’s chief adviser, Yao Shu. The old Chin monk would know of such strange things as floating rafts, Bayar was almost certain.

AS THE SUN CAME UP THE FOLLOWING DAY, BAYAR HAD LOST himself in the challenge of the task. The first bulbous hides had been prepared by the previous evening and carried by horse to the nearby river. With great ceremony the bobbing things had been placed on the waters, with volunteers to ride them over. Both men had sunk before they reached halfway and had to be dragged out by ropes attached to their waists. It seemed impossible, but according to Yao Shu it had certainly been done on a smaller scale. They tried rubbing oil into the skins as soon as the wool had been shaved off, then blowing and sealing them quickly, before leaving them to dry. As Bayar returned to the banks, he sent a silent prayer to the earth mother. He had gambled on the oil working and so had thousands of families preparing them. If the latest batch failed as well, he would not make the limit he had set himself. Standing in the morning gloom, Bayar looked across at Yao Shu, taking confidence from his calm. They stood together as two warriors tied ropes to themselves and lay across the floating skins, pushing off from the bank. Neither man could swim and they looked deeply uncomfortable as they paddled across the dark water.

At halfway, the current was strong and those holding the ropes on the bank found themselves shuffling downstream with the floating warriors. Even so, they splashed on and Bayar let out a whoop as he saw one of them stand and raise his arm from the opposite shallows, before clambering back on for the return trip. That went much faster, with the ropes pulled by many willing hands.

Bayar clapped Yao Shu on the back, feeling the bones beneath his colorful robe.

“That will do,” the general said, trying to conceal his relief. Uriang-Khadai was not there. The orlok had decided not to notice the sudden and massive labor that had overtaken the camp. While families worked the skins, oiling and sewing for all they were worth, the orlok had his men practicing their archery and the cannon teams sweating to improve their speed with the guns. Bayar didn’t care. He found the work fascinating and on the evening of the second day he strode up to the ger erected for Kublai, hardly able to restrain his grin as he was allowed to enter.

“It’s done, my lord,” he said proudly.

To his relief, Kublai smiled, responding to the man’s evident satisfaction.

“I never doubted it would be, General.”

FIFTEEN

HULEGU WAS HOT AND THIRSTY AS HE RODE NORTH. THE bulk of his army had gone on without him, ready to lay a siege around Baghdad. The center of Islam was a powerful city on the Tigris River and he knew it would not fall quickly. The decision had been difficult, but he had thought his detour to the stronghold of Alamut would be a quick strike, no more onerous than crushing the head of a snake under his heel before going on with the real work. Instead, he suffered through hundreds of miles of the most hostile country he had ever seen. The sun fed a simmering anger that seemed to have been with him for weeks. He shaded his eyes as he stared up into the mountains, seeing snow on the peak of the one known as Solomon’s Seat. Somewhere in those remote crags was the most powerful fortress of the Ismaili Assassins.

The last towns and villages were long behind. His warriors rode across a burning plain, over a surface of loose rocks and scree that made many of the horses go lame. There was no grazing in such a place and Hulegu had lost time securing grain and water for the men and animals. Three tumans had originally come north with him, but he had sent one back to Baghdad and another to act as a relay for water when he saw the desolation of the terrain. He had no wish to see his best mounts die of thirst. Yet Hulegu was not deterred by the difficulties. If anything, they reassured him. No worthy goal should come easily, he told himself. Suffering created value.

In another age, Genghis had vowed to annihilate the Assassin cult. The great khan may even have thought he had done so, but they had survived like weeds in the rocks. As Hulegu looked over the single tuman, he sat straighter in the saddle, his pride obvious to them all. He had grown up with stories of Genghis. To meet one of the old enemies in the field was more than satisfying. He would give orders for their precious fortresses to be taken down and left in the valleys as fire-blackened blocks of stone. Only snakes and lizards would creep where the Assassins had walked, he vowed to himself. Mongke would not begrudge him the time he lost, Hulegu was sure. Baghdad would not fall in the next season. He had time to finish the personal matter between his family and the Moslems who inhabited Alamut.

Three guides led the tuman across the plain, recruited at knifepoint from the last town they had passed. Hulegu had scouts and spies across the country feeding him information, but none of them had been able to give him the exact location of the fortress. Even the letters he had exchanged with the Assassins had gone to prominent merchants in cities, passed on by their own riders. His best information gave him only the range of mountains and nothing more. Even that had cost him a fortune in silver and a day spent torturing a man given up by his friends. It did not matter. Hulegu had always known he would have to come to the area to hunt them down. He questioned the guides constantly, but they only argued with each other in Arabic and shrugged, pointing always into the mountains. He had not seen another living soul for a long time when his scouts came riding in, their horses lathered in soapy sweat.

Hulegu frowned when he saw them making for him across the face of the ranks. From a distance, he could see the urgency in the way they sat their horses and he forced himself to keep the cold face as a matter of habit.

“My lord, there are men ahead,” the first scout said. He touched his right hand to his forehead, lips and heart in a gesture of respect. “Twelve miles, or a little more. I saw only eight horses and a silk awning, so I went closer, while my companion stayed out of range, ready to ride back to you.”

“You spoke to them?” Hulegu asked. Sweat was trickling down his back under his armor and his mood improved at the thought that he must be close if there were strangers gathered in the foothills to wait for him. The scout nodded.

“The leader said he was Rukn-al-Din, lord. He claimed to have authority to speak for the Ismailis. He told me to say he has prepared a cool tent and drinks for you, my lord.”

Hulegu thought, wrinkling his brow. He had no particular desire to sit down with men who dealt in death. He could certainly not eat or drink with them. Equally, he could not let his warriors see he was afraid of so few.

“Tell him I will come,” he said. The scout cantered off across the lines to get a fresh horse and Hulegu summoned General Ilugei, nodding to the man as he approached.

“They have made a meeting place, General. I want to surround it, so that they understand the consequences of treachery. I will walk in, but if I do not walk out, I want you to visit destruction on them. If I fall, Ilugei, you are to leave a mark in their histories to show their error. Do you understand? Not for me, but for those who come after me.”

Ilugei bowed his head.

“Your will, my lord, but they do not know your face. Let me go in your place to see what they intend. If they plan to kill, let me be the one who draws them out.”

Hulegu thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. He felt a worm of fear in his stomach and it made anger rise in him like the heat of the day. He could not stop his fear, but he could face it down.

“Not this time, Ilugei. They rely on the fear they create. It is part of their power, perhaps even the heart of it. With just a few deaths each year, they create a terror in all men. I will not give them that, not from me.”

RUKN-AL-DIN SAT IN LIGHT ROBES AND SIPPED AT A DRINK cooled with ice. If the Mongol general did not show himself soon, the precious stock brought down from the peaks would all have melted. He glanced at the dripping white block sitting in a wooden bucket and gestured to have a few more shavings added to his drink. At least he could enjoy the luxury while he waited.

Around his small group, the Mongols were still riding, a wall of moving men and horses. For half a day, they had amused themselves with yells and mock screams while Rukn’s men ignored them completely. It took time to move ten thousand warriors into position and Rukn wondered if he would see the khan’s brother before sunset. There were no hidden forces for the Mongols to find, though he did not doubt they wasted their energies searching the hills all around him. For the thousandth time, he went over the offers he could make in his father’s name. It was not a long list. Gold and eventually a fortress, offered in such a way that it seemed to be drawn out of him. Rukn frowned, wishing his father were there to conduct the negotiation. The old man could sell his own shadow at noon, but Rukn knew there was a chance he would not survive the meeting. The Mongols were unpredictable, like angry children with swords. They could treat him with honor and courtesy, or simply cut his throat and move on with utter indifference. Despite the afternoon breeze and the cool drink, Rukn found he was perspiring after all. He did not know what to do if his offers were refused. No one had expected the Mongols to appear in the area, when good sources said they were heading to Baghdad, hundreds of miles away. Even the natural barrier of the dry plain seemed hardly to have slowed them and Rukn realized he was afraid. Before sunset, he could be just another body waiting to be reclaimed by the dust.

At first, he did not realize Hulegu had come. Rukn-al-Din was used to the grandeur of caliphs and expected at least some sort of retinue, some fanfare. Instead, one dusty warrior among many dismounted. Rukn watched him idly, noting the extraordinary breadth of the man’s shoulders as he stopped to talk to two or three others around him. The Mongols loved to wrestle, one of the few civilized things about them. Rukn-al-Din was wondering if he could interest the khan’s brother in a challenge from one of his own when he saw the man striding toward the tent. He rose, putting down his drink.

“Salaam Alaikum. You are most welcome. I assume you are Prince Hulegu, brother to Mongke Khan. I am Rukn-al-Din, son to Suleimanal-Din.”

His interpreter translated the Arabic into the general’s coarse tongue, making Hulegu glance at him. Rukn chose that moment to bow deeply. His father had ordered it, though Rukn resented even the idea. The warrior stared coldly at him and Rukn watched as his eyes flickered around the inside of the tent, taking in every detail. Hulegu had yet to enter the shaded awning. He stood on the threshold glaring in, while his ten thousand continued to make an appalling racket all around them. Dust drifted in wisps through the air, visible in the light of the setting sun. Rukn struggled to remain calm.

“You must be thirsty, my lord,” Rukn went on, hoping he was not overdoing the titles and honors. “Please sit in the shade. My men have brought ice to keep us cool.”

Hulegu grunted. He did not trust the weak-faced man standing before him, even to the point of revealing his understanding of the language. He thought of Ilugei’s offer to go to the meeting in his place and wondered if the stranger was who he claimed to be. Under the pressure of Rukn’s open-palm gesture, Hulegu unbent enough to enter. He frowned at the sight of a chair with its back to Rukn’s servants and snapped an order to his own men. One of the Mongol officers sauntered into the tent behind him, radiating danger with every movement. Rukn remained still as the chair was dragged across the carpeted floor against the silk wall. At last, Hulegu sat, waving away his own man and the servant with a tray of tall glasses.

“I told you to destroy your fortresses,” Hulegu said. He placed his hands on his knees, sitting straight and ready to leap up. “Has that been done?”

Rukn cleared his throat and sipped his drink as the interpreter spoke. He was not used to business being discussed so quickly and it unnerved him. He had hoped to begin a negotiation that would last all night and perhaps most of the next day, but under that cruel stare, he found himself babbling part of his promises in one rush, his father’s warnings melting away like the ice in his drink.

“I have been told, lord, that we will begin the work on Shirat castle next spring. By the end of next year, it will be gone and you may tell your khan that we have obeyed you.”

He paused for translation, but at the end, Hulegu did not speak. Rukn struggled to find words to go on. His father had told him to make the Mongols understand it took months to bring down thousands of tons of cut stone. If they accepted the offer, the work would be delayed over and over again. There would be great energy and effort, but the castle would take years to demolish. Perhaps by then, the distant khan would have broken his neck, or Hulegu’s great army would have moved on to other targets for their bile.

“Shirat is high in the mountains, lord. It is no easy task to bring down something that has stood for millennia. Yet we understand that you will want to report success to the khan, your brother. We have prepared gifts for him, gold and jewels to fill a city.” For the first time, he saw a spark of interest in Hulegu’s eyes and was partly reassured.

“Show me,” Hulegu said, his words translated in a single sound from the interpreter.

“My lord, they are not here. You and I answer to more powerful men. I am merely an emissary for my father, as you speak for your khan. Yet I have been told to offer you four thousand finger bars of gold as well as dinar coins to fill two chests.” Even saying the words made fresh sweat break out for Rukn-al-Din. The amounts were vast, enough to found a small city. The Mongol merely stared at him as the interpreter droned on.

“You do accept tribute from your allies?” Rukn said, pressing him. Hulegu waited patiently for the translation to finish.

“No. We accept tribute from those who serve us,” Hulegu replied. “You have spoken, Rukn-al-Din. You have said what you have been told to say. Now listen to me.” He paused while the interpreter caught up, watching Rukn closely all the time. “My concern is the center of Islam, the city of Baghdad. I will take that place, do you understand?”

Rukn nodded uncomfortably as he heard the words.

“In comparison to that, your father and your sect mean little to me. For the honor of my grandfather, I would have been content to see them made into ashes, but you have offered me gold and friendship. Very well, I will accept twice the sum in gold and the destruction of two of your fortresses. I will accept an oath of allegiance to me and to my family.” He let the translator reach the end, so that he could watch Rukn-al-Din’s reaction. “But I will not give you my word. As you say, we both have those to whom we must answer. When I return to my brother, he will ask if I spoke to this Suleiman. Nothing else will do, do you understand? There can be peace between our families, but only when I have spoken to Suleiman. Take me to Alamut, that I may meet with him.”

Rukn struggled not to show his delight. He had been afraid the Mongol would refuse everything he offered, perhaps even to the point of killing him in his tent. In his pleasure, a tendril of suspicion entered. The Mongol leader might see an advantage in getting his army close to the ancient stronghold. Rukn did not know if the man’s guides could even find it on their own. He thought of the impregnable fortress, with its single path across the sheer rock face. Let them come and stare up at it. Their catapults and cannon would not reach such a height. They could roar and bluster for a hundred years at the foot of the peak and never get in.

“I will do as you say, my lord. I will send word ahead of us and you will be welcomed as a friend and ally.” His eyes grew cunning and he shook his head ruefully. “As for the gold, I do not think there is that much in all the world. If you will accept the first part as a gift, I’m certain the rest could be brought to you each year in tribute.”

Hulegu smiled for the first time. He did not think the young man had realized yet that his life was in Hulegu’s hands.

SULEIMAN BREATHED DEEPLY, ENJOYING THE SCENT OF SHEEP droppings in the high, clear air. The tiny meadow on the far side of Alamut was a miracle of rare device, a testament to the skill and foresight of his ancestors. Small trees gave shade to the herd and Suleiman often came there when he needed to think in peace. The meadow was barely two acres in all, enough to support only a dozen sheep and six goats. They were fat and glossy in the sunshine, their constant bleating a balm to his soul. Some of them came close at the sight of him, standing without fear as they hoped for food. He smiled, showing them empty hands. At heart, he had always thought of himself as a shepherd, to men as well as animals.

He strolled across the thick turf until he reached the sheer rock on one side and ran his fingers along it. There was a small hut there, with bags of feed for the winter and gray blocks of salt for the animals to lick. He checked the bags carefully, wary of the mold that could be poisonous to his precious flock. For a time he lost himself carrying the sacks into the light and checking the contents. In such a place, it was difficult to believe he faced the utter annihilation of his clan.

It was hard to bargain with those who seemed to desire only his destruction. Suleiman hoped his son would come back with something, but he doubted it. The Mongol leader would insist on seeing Alamut and once he had found his way through the labyrinth of valleys and paths, he would lay his siege and begin to starve them out. Suleiman looked ruefully over his small field. The animals would not support his people for long. Rarely were there more than sixty or seventy men in the stronghold of Alamut, perhaps as many again in servants. It had always been a small community, unable to survive without the payments in gold from their work. He could not resist the Mongols with force, any more than his father had managed against Genghis. Suleiman grimaced to himself as he realized he had no choices left. Three of his men were out in the world, with payments expected. Silently, he listed the merchants they had been told to kill. He would not hear from them again until their work was done. Eighteen others were at the peak of fitness in Alamut, trained in the methods of silent murder. It was tempting to send them all out, but the reality was that they would only get in each other’s way. Their training had never prepared them for any kind of mass assault. Everything they had been taught was focused on an unseen approach and a single blow, either from the hand or a weapon. In his younger days, Suleiman had dispatched a wealthy merchant simply by drugging his wine, then holding his mouth and nose shut while he slept. There had been no mark on the body and it was still considered a near-perfect example of the craft. He sighed in memory of happier times. The Mongols had no respect for tradition and, it seemed, no fear of the retribution they might face. His Assassins would have to be sent against the khan himself, perhaps while Alamut endured the siege to come. Suleiman did not doubt the khan’s anger if his own brother fell, no matter how they made it look. The old man calculated journey times in his head, trying to work out the best arrangement to take them both. He still hoped they could be bribed or fooled, but his role as shepherd to his flock meant he had to plan for all possibilities.

Lost in his thoughts, Suleiman did not see Hasan step out from the shadow of the little hut. Suleiman was looking out across the meadow, shading his eyes against the setting sun. The younger man suddenly darted forward and swung a flat stone against the side of his head. It struck with a crack and Suleiman cried out in surprise and pain. He staggered sideways, dropping almost into a crouch as his vision blurred. He thought a stone must have fallen from the cliffs above and he was dazedly feeling his face for blood when Hasan struck again, knocking him down.

Suleiman could taste the blood running into his throat from his broken mouth. He looked up in dazed astonishment, unable to understand what was happening. When he recognized Hasan standing there, his gaze dropped to the red-smeared stone the young man still held.

“Why, my son? Why would you do this? Have I not been a father to you?” he said, half choking. He saw Hasan was in the grip of surging emotions, panting like a dog left in the sun. He looked appalled at what he had done, and as the world stopped spinning, Suleiman raised a hand to him.

“Help me to my feet, Hasan,” he said gently.

The young man came forward again and for a moment Suleiman thought he would do as he was told. At the last instant, Hasan raised the stone again and brought it down in a great blow on Suleiman’s forehead, breaking the dome of his skull. He knew nothing more and did not hear the fool run weeping back into the fortress.

HULEGU HAD TO ADMIT HE WAS IMPRESSED BY ALAMUT. THE fortress was built of a different stone from the mountains all around them. He could hardly imagine the labor involved in transporting every block up to the original cleft in the rocks, widening that place with hammers and chisels, then building stone upon stone until it seemed to have grown from the landscape.

He raised his head to take it in, then craned further and further back. At the best elevation, his cannons would merely graze the surface, sending their deadly missiles skipping up the walls without force. He had nothing else that could even reach the stronghold from the valley floor and his eyes picked out a single track running up the face. There would be no assault on the gates. He doubted more than two men could stand before them without someone pitching to his death thousands of feet below.

It had taken many days to reach the fortress and Hulegu knew he would have been hard-pressed to find it without Rukn-al-Din. His ten thousand warriors could presumably have covered every valley and dead end in the range, but it would have taken months. His three guides seemed as awed as the Mongols, and Hulegu suspected only terror had made them promise a way in.

There had been one slight disagreement with Rukn-al-Din since their first meeting. The younger man had pressed for just an honor guard to accompany Hulegu on the last stretch. Hulegu smiled again at the thought. To bargain, a man needed some advantage and Rukn had none. Hulegu had merely described the many ways a man could be tortured for the information he needed and Rukn had fallen silent. He no longer rode proudly, chattering to the men around him. He and his companions had realized they were little more than prisoners, for all the fine promises that had been made.

Yet Alamut itself dented Hulegu’s confidence for the first time. With his southern army descending on Baghdad, he did not want to lay a siege that might take two years or longer to end. As he reached the foot of the path, he could see there were men wending their way down to him, presumably carrying messages from Rukn’s father. Hulegu eyed the steep steps with irritation and, on impulse, sent one of his men riding up. He had some vague hope that the small Mongol ponies could keep their footing. They had known mountains in the homeland and they were nimble animals.

Hulegu watched with interest as the lone rider walked his mount up to the first bend, hundreds of feet above their heads. He heard his officers whisper bets to each other and then one of them cursed and Hulegu shaded his eyes to look up.

The horse and rider struck the ground just moments later, the crash echoing from the hills all around. Neither survived the fall and Hulegu cursed under his breath as Ilugei cheerfully collected silver coins from the other officers.

The men coming down had paused, peering over the edge and gesturing to each other before going on. When they finally made it to the flat ground, both were stained in sweat and dust. They made hurried bows to the Mongol officers, their eyes seeking out Rukn-al-Din. Hulegu dismounted and walked over to them as they bowed to him.

“Master, your father is dead,” he heard one of them say. Rukn gave a great cry of pain and sorrow and Hulegu chuckled.

“It seems I have the new master of Alamut to take me up the path, Rukn-al-Din. My men will lead the way. Stay close to me. I do not want you falling to your death in this time of grief.”

Rukn-al-Din gaped at him, dull-eyed in despair. His shoulders slumped at Hulegu’s words and he walked almost in a daze, following the first of the men who would make their way up the path to the fortress high above.

SIXTEEN

THE SUN SET IN STREAKS OF GOLD AND RED AS KUBLAI halted his great host on the banks of the river. He had scouted the area and drawn them all to a halt in sight of the ford on his maps. Across the wide stretch of dark water, the Sung commander waited expectantly. The man knew Kublai would have to cross the river at some point, perhaps even that night. In the evening gloom, Kublai grinned at the sight of Sung columns maneuvering subtly closer to the ford, ready for whatever assault he planned. The two vast armies stared at each other across a rushing barrier. Kublai could imagine the confusion in their command tents as the Mongol tumans failed to attack. He doubted they were getting much sleep.

Before the last light had gone, Kublai’s gun teams finished their preparations, marking sites and placing shuttered lamps on poles. In the night, before the moon rose, the cannons were heaved forward to the marked positions, pushed in silence by dozens of straining volunteers. At the same time, the main force moved further back, away from the river. Kublai had seen no sign of similar work going on in the Sung camp, but he did not want to be surprised by some enterprising officer with the same idea. For once, his warriors would spend the night in the saddle or on the grass by their horses. The families were a mile further away from the river, well clear of danger. Kublai wondered what Chabi was doing at that moment. She had known tonight would be dangerous for him, but she’d shown no fear at all, as if there wasn’t a man alive who could trouble her husband. He knew her well enough to sense the performance in it, but even so he found it oddly reassuring. The thought of telling his wife and son he had failed was a better motivation than anything Mongke could do to him.

The moon rose slowly and Kublai stood and watched it, rubbing his damp palms down his armor and wishing he wore a lighter robe. Even the nights were warm so far to the south and he was never comfortable. His cannons were covered by loose branches to confuse their shapes and he did not think the enemy would be able to see what he had done. On its own, it would be only a gesture at best, a brief taste of fear in the night before they pulled back and restored order. A young commander might have made the decision, intending to kill a few and make the enemy run about for a while. Kublai chuckled to himself. He hoped for more. Timing was going to be important and he strained his eyes in the darkness, looking for a sign. He had not spoken to Uriang-Khadai for some days, beyond the most basic courtesies. The man clearly resented the authority Kublai had exercised over him, suddenly a reality rather than an empty formality. Kublai sensed Uriang-Khadai was holding himself in check, waiting for some error to be made. The battle to come was important in many ways and the stakes worried him. Not only did he have to break the Sung army against him, but he also had to show his own generals that he was fit to lead. Kublai felt a headache begin behind his eyes and considered visiting a shaman for willow-bark powder or myrtle leaves. No, he dared not be out of position when the time came.

BAYAR WATCHED THE MOON RISE AND BEGAN A SLOW TROT. By his best reckoning, he was less than ten miles north of the Sung army, on the other side of the river. In the end, he and Kublai had agreed to lose two more days to ferry enough men across on the sheepskin rafts. Three tumans had made the crossing, with their horses and weapons taking most of the time. The rafts worked and Bayar sensed the anticipation in the ranks. With just a little luck, the Sung would have no idea they had even left Kublai’s army. Bayar stepped up the pace, judging the speed he needed to cover the ground and still keep the horses fresh. Ten miles was not far for the Mongolian ponies. They could cover it before the moon reached its zenith and at the end he could still order a gallop and be answered.

The ground was firm away from the river and there were few obstacles, though no horsemen liked riding at night, regardless of the conditions. There would be falls and casualties, yet Bayar had his orders and he was cheerful. No one loved a surprise attack more than his people. The very idea filled him with glee. It did not hurt that Uriang-Khadai was still on Kublai’s side of the river. The orlok had been scornful of the great rafts and Bayar was pleased to be away from his baleful gaze for once. He sensed a camaraderie with Kublai that he had not expected. The khan’s brother was out of his depth in many ways, facing one of the most powerful enemies in the nation’s history. Bayar smiled as he rode. He did not intend to let him down.

IN THE DISTANCE, KUBLAI SAW A BRIGHT SPARK SEAR A TRAIL across the sky. From so far away, it was little more than a needle of light that vanished almost as soon as it appeared. He had feared he would miss the sign and tried to relax his cramped muscles, held tight for too long. Bayar was there, with a Chin firework he had lit and thrown into the air from the saddle. As Kublai turned to give his orders, another spark appeared, in case the first one had been missed. High-pitched voices began to roar confused orders on the other side of the river.

“Begin firing on my signal,” Kublai shouted. He dismounted to attend to his own device, a long tube of black powder resting in an iron cradle. He brought a shuttered lamp close and lit the taper from it, standing back as it fizzed and sputtered before rising into the air in a great whoosh of light.

The cannon teams had been waiting patiently for their moment and as they saw the signal the great iron weapons began to sound, cracking thunder across the river. The flashes lit up both banks for the briefest of moments, leaving ghosts on the vision of all those who stared into the blackness. They could not see where the balls landed, but distant screams made the gun teams laugh as they sponged down the barrels and reloaded, jamming in bags of black powder and fitting the hollow reeds to the touch-holes. The mouths of the cannon erupted in belches of flame, but the balls themselves were invisible as they soared across the water. Kublai noted the best rates of fire and wondered how it could be improved. There was just too long a gap between each shot, but he had the best part of a hundred heavy cannon lined up on the banks, all he could bring to bear on the Sung positions. The barrage would surely be devastating. He could imagine the flashes of light and cracks from the Sung perspective, followed by the whistle of stone balls ripping through the camp. Many of the shot balls disintegrated at the moment of firing, reducing their range, but sending razor shards along the firing path.

On any other night, the Sung soldiers would have pulled back quickly. Kublai wished he could listen for Bayar’s tumans, but the noise of the cannons was too great as the shots rippled on and on. He waited as long as he dared, then sent a second rocket up into the night sky. The thunder died as the teams saw it, though a last few cracks sounded as they got off one final shot. After the noise, the night was suddenly silent and the darkness was absolute. Kublai strained to hear. Far away, there was a new noise, growing steadily. He laughed aloud as he recognized the sound of Mongol drummer boys, beating their own thunder in the darkness across the river.

BAYAR HAD NEVER KNOWN A BATTLE AT NIGHT. HE HAD SEEN the signal rocket and then watched in amazement as the river bank was lit in flashes of gold, a rolling wave of destruction. He had once seen a dry lightning storm, with the thick air lit at intervals by flashes. This was like that, but each crack of light and sound revealed chaos in the Sung camp. He had to trust that Kublai would stop the barrage before Bayar’s warriors were among them. The spikes of light gave him the arrow range and he began to empty his quiver of thirty arrows, whipping them out and onto the string almost without thought. He could not aim with only the flashes to guide him, but he had a wide charging line of thousands of men and the arrows poured out of them. He lost count of the shafts he had shot and it was only when his grasping fingers closed on nothing that he cursed and hooked the bow to his saddle. Bayar drew his sword and the action was copied all along the line.

The Sung had heard them coming, but dead men lay everywhere among their packed ranks. Kublai had been far more successful than he had known. The Sung soldiers had clustered on the riverbanks, pressing close to repel the night river-crossing they thought would come. Into that mass of waiting men, the cannonballs had torn red paths. Thousands had been killed. The forming lines dissolved in sheer panic as men ran from the terrible unseen death that was still cutting through their camp. They ran to get out of range, some of them dropping their shields and swords and pelting away.

Out of the darkness, the arrows of Bayar’s tumans came slicing and tearing into them. The Sung soldiers were caught between jaws and they pushed and spun in a great crush as they tried to find a clear path out of the destruction. Bayar’s first lines hit a rabble of soldiers, cutting into them at full speed. Horses and men crashed together and Bayar’s own mount went down as it struck a knot of soldiers, smashing them apart. He fell hard and rolled over someone who yelled in his ear. The cannon fire ceased at that moment and in the darkness Bayar found himself wrestling with a man he could not see. He had lost his sword, but his fists were armored to the knuckles and he pounded the dark figure over and over until it was still.

The Sung army was in complete disarray. Bayar swore as someone else knocked into him, but the man picked himself up and ran on. They had no idea of the size of the force spearing into them from the dark night and the Sung officers had lost control. The tumans stayed together in their ranks, walking their horses onward together and killing anything in their way.

In the moonlight, Bayar saw a pony and rider loom in front of him. He shouted before the raised sword could come down.

“Give me your horse! And if you cut me, I’ll have your ears.”

The warrior dismounted immediately, handing over the reins. Another rank was already upon them and once again Bayar had to shout to be recognized. He realized he could not leave the warrior to be cut down by his own men, so had him jump up behind. The pony snorted at the extra weight and Bayar calmed it with a rub of the ears before he trotted to the rank ahead. They spread across the Sung camp and Bayar saw that a few of the men had snatched lamps from sentry poles and used them to set fire to the tents and carts. The light of the flames began to restore his sense of the battlefield and what he saw amazed and delighted him. The Sung army was running and he rode over a carpet of the dead, thousands upon thousands of them. The ranks ahead were still killing and it was more to blood those behind than to save their sword arms that he bellowed orders to rotate the front ranks.

His orders were answered instantly by signal horns. The first five ranks halted and the next moved up, Bayar among them. He passed panting men, spattered in the blood of their enemies. They sat bowed over their saddle horns, resting their aching sword arms on the high pommel. Many of them called out to the ranks passing them, asking where they had been while the real work was being done. Their spirits were high and Bayar chuckled as he went through. The flame light was increasing as more and more tents were set on fire. Ahead, he could see a mass of men, pressing desperately to get away from the dark line of horses. Bayar saw a pony without a rider and stopped briefly to let his unknown companion take the mount. There was a body nearby and he was delighted to find a quiver with half a dozen shafts. Jumping down briefly, he flipped the body over and took a long knife from the ground, though he could not find a sword. His rank had gone on without him and he trotted to keep up as the killing began again.

KUBLAI WAITED IN AN AGONY OF SUSPENSE. HE COULD HEAR the sounds of battle out there in the dark, the crash and scream of men and animals being killed. He had no way of knowing how Bayar was doing and wished for light as he had never wished for anything before. He wondered if the rockets could be fired together to light up a battlefield, but he had only a small store. The idea was tempting, however. It was one more thing to remember for the future.

“That’s long enough,” he said, almost to himself. He took another rocket from a roll of oilcloth and placed it in its cradle, pointing to the sky. As it lifted, it made a high whistling sound, similar to the shaped arrowhead the Mongols sometimes used. The tumans on his side of the river were ready for the signal and they began to ride to the ford. If the Sung still held their side, the tumans would be crossing without proper cover. His archers would send a hail across the banks, but in the darkness it would be impossible to aim. Kublai drew his sword, preferring to have its comforting weight in his hand.

His horse hit the waters of the fording place in the midst of thousands of others, all trying to make the crossing at a canter. Kublai felt his horse lurch into a hole and quickly sheathed his sword again rather than lose it. He needed both hands and he felt his cheeks grow hot with embarrassment as he flailed about.

His horse was snorting and whinnying as it clambered up the far bank and plunged on with the rest. Kublai could not have controlled the animal if he’d wanted to and he found himself racing headlong toward the sounds of battle. All the plans he had made dissolved in confusion as he lost track of the position of the tumans, or even which way he was going. In the glow of burning tents, he could see a great mass of men. He only hoped he was not about to charge Bayar’s tumans. There was no point listening for Mongol voices or even the drummer boys. The noise of horses around him drowned all that out and he had somehow managed to get water in his ear during the crossing, so that he was deaf on one side.

Two hundred yards ahead of him, the first ranks off the river ford met the Sung soldiers streaming away from Bayar’s tumans. The Mongol warriors had not strung their bows for the crossing and they barely had time to draw swords before the forces crashed together. Kublai could not halt or turn aside. Held in the press of moving horses, he was moved inexorably forward. He tapped the side of his head to clear his ear and smelled blood strongly on the air. He was beginning to realize that, for all the benefits of a surprise night attack, the danger was complete chaos on both sides. He heard yelling voices ahead and the unmistakable sound of Mongol warriors cheering in triumph. Kublai tried to gauge how much of the night was left by the sliver of moon and wondered vaguely where Uriang-Khadai had gone. He hadn’t seen his orlok since the first round of cannon fire. The cheering intensified and he headed toward it, helped by the light of burning tents, the fire beginning to spread right across the river plain.

Kublai drew to a halt in the light of three burning carts piled against each other. With a rush of relief, he saw Bayar there, shouting commands and bringing some sense of order. When he saw Kublai, Bayar grinned and rode over to him.

“Half of them have surrendered, at least,” Bayar said. He stank of blood and fire, but he was jubilant. Kublai forced the cold face, remembering suddenly that he was meant to be a figure of distant and terrifying authority. Bayar didn’t seem to notice.

“We’ve broken the back of their best regiments,” Bayar went on, “and those that haven’t run have thrown down their weapons. Until the sun comes up, I won’t know the details, but I don’t think they’ll counterattack tonight. You have the victory, my lord.”

Kublai sheathed his sword, still unblooded. He endured a sense of unreality as he stared around at the piles of dead men. It had worked, but his mind filled with a dozen things they could have done differently.

“I want you to look into using signal rockets to light a battlefield,” he said.

Bayar looked at him strangely. He saw a young man sitting with his hands relaxed on the pommel, his leggings soaked. As Kublai stared around him with interest, Bayar nodded.

“Very well, my lord. I’ll start testing them tomorrow. I should finish herding the prisoners. We’re having to use their own clothes torn into strips to bind them.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Kublai replied. He looked to the east, but there was no sign of dawn.

A thought struck him and he smiled in anticipation as he spoke again.

“Send Orlok Uriang-Khadai to me. I would like to hear his assessment of the victory.”

Bayar smothered his own smile as he dipped his head.

“Your will, my lord. I’ll send him to you as soon as I find him.”

THE SUN ROSE ON A SCENE OF COMPLETE DEVASTATION. IN his imagination, Kublai could only compare it to the description he had read of the battle of Badger’s Mouth in northern Chin lands. Flies had gathered in their millions and there were too many dead soldiers to consider burying or even burning them. They could only be left behind for the sun to rot and dry.

For a time, dawn had brought some excitement as the remaining Sung regiments were hunted down and the Mongol families crossed the river with slow care. Tumans rode out with fresh quivers and overhauled the scattered enemy before the sun was fully up. Thousands more were forcibly returned to the river, stripped of weapons and armor to be bound with the rest. Mongol women and children walked among them, come to see the fearsome men their husbands, brothers, and fathers had defeated.

Yao Shu had remained behind in the main camp during the battle. He crossed the ford with the families when there was enough light to ride without falling in. By noon, he was at Kublai’s ger, set up at his order on the battle side. Chabi was already there, her eyes full of concern for her exhausted husband. She fussed around him, laying out fresh clothes and making enough food to feed whoever might come to speak with Kublai. Yao Shu nodded to her as he accepted a bowl of some stew and ate quickly rather than give offense. She watched until he had finished it all. Yao Shu sat on a low bed with scrolls of vellum waiting to be read to the khan and he could do nothing, say nothing, until he was given permission. Even after a battle, the rules of ger courtesy held firm.

Zhenjin entered at a run, skidding slightly as he came to a halt, his eyes large. Yao Shu smiled at the boy.

“There are so many prisoners!” Zhenjin said. “How did you beat them, father? I saw flashes and thunder all night. I didn’t sleep at all.”

“He did sleep,” Chabi murmured. “He snores like his father.”

Zhenjin turned a look of scorn on his mother.

“I was too excited to sleep. I saw a man with his head cut off! How did we beat so many?”

“Planning,” Kublai replied. “Better plans and better men, Zhenjin. Ask Uriang-Khadai how we did it. He will tell you.”

The little boy looked up at his father in awe, but he shook his head.

“He doesn’t like me to speak to him. He says I ask too many questions.”

“You do,” Chabi said. “Take a bowl and find somewhere else to eat it. Your father needs to speak to many of his men.”

“I want to listen,” the boy almost wailed. “I’ll be quiet, I promise.”

Chabi smacked his head and pressed a bowl into his hand. Zhenjin left with a furious glare that she ignored completely.

Kublai sat down and accepted his own bowl, finishing it quickly. When he was ready, Yao Shu read him the tallies of dead and maimed as well as the loot they had taken, his voice droning on in the thick air. After a time, Kublai waved him to a stop. His eyes felt gritty and swollen and his voice was hoarse.

“Enough. I’m not taking it in. Come back in the evening, when I’ve rested.”

Yao Shu rose and bowed. He had trained Kublai from boyhood and he was uncertain how to show his pride in him. They had destroyed an army twice as large, on foreign ground. The news was already heading back to Karakorum with the fastest scouts. They would race to the yam lines in Chin territory and then the letters would move even faster, reaching Karakorum in just a few weeks. Yao Shu paused at the door to the ger.

“Orlok Uriang-Khadai is waiting for your word on the prisoners, my lord. We have …” He consulted a scroll thick with tally marks, holding it at the full extension of his arm so he could read it. “Forty-two thousand, seven hundred, many of them wounded.”

Kublai winced at the figure and rubbed his eyes.

“Feed them with their own supplies. I’ll decide what to do with them …” He broke off as Zhenjin reentered the ger. The boy’s face was incredibly pale and he was panting.

“What is it?” Chabi asked. Zhenjin only looked at her.

“Well, boy? What is it?” Kublai said. He reached out and rubbed his son’s hair. The action seemed to break his trance and Zhenjin spoke as if gulping words between ragged breaths.

“They’re killing the prisoners,” Zhenjin said. He looked ill and his eyes strayed to the bucket by the door as if he might need it.

Kublai cursed. He had given no such order. Without another word, he pushed past his son and went outside. General Bayar was there, striding toward the ger. He looked relieved to see Kublai. At a gesture, servants brought horses and both men mounted quickly, trotting away through the camp.

Yao Shu eyed his own horse with misgiving. He had never been much of a rider, but Kublai and Bayar were already gone. Zhenjin came out of the ger and pelted off after them without looking back. Sighing, the old man called a young warrior across to help him mount.

KUBLAI BEGAN TO PASS RANKS OF BOUND PRISONERS LONG before he saw Uriang-Khadai. In lines that vanished into the distance, forty thousand men knelt on the ground with their heads down, waiting. Some of them talked in low tones or looked up as he passed, but for the most part they were dull-eyed, their misery and defeat clear in their faces.

Kublai cursed under his breath as he saw the orlok gesturing to a group of young warriors. There were dozens of headless bodies in neat rows already and as Kublai rode closer, he saw the swords swing and more men fall to the ground. He could hear a low moan of terror from those closest to them and the sound filled him with rage. He checked himself as Uriang-Khadai looked up. He could not humiliate his orlok in front of the men, no matter how much he wanted to.

“I have not given an order for the prisoners to be slaughtered,” he said. Kublai remained in the saddle deliberately, so that he could look down at the man.

“I did not want to trouble you with every detail, my lord,” Uriang-Khadai said. He looked faintly puzzled, as if he could not understand why the khan’s brother should interrupt him in his duties. Kublai felt his anger rise and strangled it again.

“Forty thousand men is not a detail, Orlok. They have surrendered to me and their lives are now mine to protect.”

Uriang-Khadai clasped his hands behind his back, his mouth tightening.

“My lord, there are too many. You surely can’t allow them all to walk away? We will be facing them again—”

“I have told you my decision, Orlok. Have them fed and have their wounded looked at. Then release them. After that, I will see you in my ger. That is all.”

Uriang-Khadai stood in silence while he digested the news. After a moment too long, he bowed his head, just ahead of Kublai relieving him of his authority in a rage.

“Your will, my lord,” the orlok said. “I apologize if I have given offense.”

Kublai ignored him. Yao Shu and Bayar had both arrived and he glanced at Yao Shu before speaking again. In fluent Mandarin, then broken Cantonese, Kublai addressed the prisoners within earshot.

“You will be allowed to live and return home. Pass the word. Take news of this battle with you and tell whoever will listen that you were treated with mercy. You are subjects of the great khan and under my protection.”

Yao Shu nodded to him in satisfaction as Kublai turned his horse and dug in his heels. He could feel Uriang-Khadai’s glare on his back for a long way, but it did not matter. He had plans for the Sung cities, plans that could not begin with a slaughter of unarmed men.

On his way back to the ger, he saw his son running along, head down and puffing. Kublai reined in and reached down. Zhenjin took the arm and his father swept him up into the saddle behind him. They rode on together and after a time Kublai felt his son shift uncomfortably. Zhenjin had seen horrors that day. Kublai reached behind him and patted the boy’s leg.

“Did you stop them killing the men?” Zhenjin asked in a small voice.

“Yes. Yes, I stopped them,” Kublai replied. He felt the weight increase against his back as his son relaxed.

ALAMUT WAS A PLACE OF QUIET AND CALM. IN HIS LIFE, Hulegu had found little to love in cities, but there was something about the spartan fortress that appealed to him. He was surprised to feel a pang of regret at the idea that he must destroy it. He stood on the highest wall in the sunlight and looked down across a landscape of mountains, stretching many miles into the distance. He even wondered briefly if he could leave a hundred families to keep the place for the khan, but it was just a fantasy. He had seen the tiny meadow behind the main buildings. The animals there could not support more than a few. The fortress was so completely isolated that he could not imagine trade ever taking place, or anything in the way of contact with the world. Alamut guarded no pass, held no strategic worth. It had been the perfect spot for the Assassins, but it was not suited to anything else.

As he walked on, Hulegu stepped over the body of a young woman, careful not to tread in the pool of sticky blood around her head. He looked down and frowned. She had been beautiful and he assumed the archer who had put a shaft into her throat had done so from a distance. It was a waste.

It had taken a day to get two hundred men into the fortress, each warrior trudging up the narrow path in single file, then holding the door for the next. Rukn-al-Din could do nothing and he had not had the courage to throw himself off the cliff. Not that they would have let him, but it would have been a fine thing to attempt. They had spread into Alamut’s rooms and corridors with calm deliberation and the Ismaili Assassins had only stood and watched, still looking to Rukn-al-Din for authority. When the killing began, they scattered, trying to protect their families. Hulegu smiled at the memory. His warriors had scoured the castle, room by room, floor by floor, stabbing and shooting anything that moved. For a time, a group of the Assassins had blockaded themselves into a room, but the door fell to axes and they were overwhelmed. Others had fought. Hulegu looked over the battlements into a courtyard far below, seeing the bodies of his men laid out. Thirty-six of them had been killed, a higher toll than he might have expected. Most of those had died from poisoned blades, when they would otherwise have survived with a gash. By dawn, only Rukn-al-Din was still alive, sitting in the courtyard in dull despair.

It was time to finish it, Hulegu realized. He would have to leave men behind, but to destroy rather than to live. It would take months for them to break down the fortress, and he could not wait while Baghdad resisted his army. It had been a risk, even a luxury, to seek out the Assassins, but he could not regret it. For a short time, he had walked in the steps of Genghis.

It took an age to descend the stone stairs running inside the walls. Hulegu finally came out into the bright sunshine, blinking after the gloom. Rukn-al-Din was sitting with his knees drawn up into his arms, his eyes red. As Hulegu came out he looked up and swallowed nervously, certain he was about to die.

“Stand up,” Hulegu said to him.

One of his warriors kicked the man hard and Rukn clambered to his feet, swaying slightly from exhaustion. He had lost everything.

“I will be leaving men here to destroy the fortress, stone by stone,” Hulegu said. “I cannot stay longer. In fact, I should not have taken so much time to come here. When I return this way, I hope there will be a chance to visit the other fortresses your father controlled.” He smiled, enjoying the utter defeat of an enemy in his power. “Who knows? Only rats live on in Alamut and we will burn them out when it falls.”

“You have what you wanted,” Rukn said hoarsely. “You could let me go.”

“We do not shed the blood of royalty,” Hulegu replied. “It was a rule of my grandfather and I honor it.” He saw a gleam of hope come into Rukn’s eyes. The death of his father had broken the young man. He had said nothing while the Mongols tore through Alamut, hoping that they would spare him. He raised his head.

“I am to live?” he said.

Hulegu laughed. “Did I not say I honor the great khan? No blade will cut you, no arrow will enter your flesh.” Hulegu turned to the warriors around Rukn-al-Din. “Hold him down.”

The young man cried out as they laid hands on him, but there were too many and he could not resist. They took his arms and legs and stretched them out, so that he lay helpless. He looked up and saw only bright malice in the Mongol general.

Hulegu kicked Rukn in the ribs as hard as he could. He heard them crack over Rukn’s scream. Twice more he kicked out, feeling the ribs give way.

“You should have cut your own throat,” Hulegu told him as Rukn-al-Din panted in agony. “How can I respect a man who wouldn’t even do that for his people?” He nodded to a warrior and the man began to stamp on the broken chest. Hulegu watched for a time, then walked away, satisfied.

SEVENTEEN

YAO SHU WAS FILLED WITH STRANGE EMOTIONS AS HE ROCKED back and forth on the cart taking him into Sung lands. As a young monk, he had known Genghis even before he had become the first khan of the Mongol nation. Yao Shu had put aside the natural course of his life to observe that extraordinary man as he united the tribes and attacked the Chin empire. Even in those days of youth, Yao Shu had hoped to influence the khan, to bring a sense of civilization to his court.

Somehow, as the years passed, Yao Shu had lost sight of his first ambitions. It was strange how a man could forget himself in the thousand tasks of a day. There was always some new problem to solve, some work that had to be done. Yao Shu had seen his life slip through his fingers, so that he looked up from the details less and less often with each passing year. There had been a time when he could have written his ambitions and desires on a single parchment. He was still not sure whether he had lost the ability to think so clearly, or whether he had just been naive.

Still, he had kept hope alive. When Genghis had died, Yao Shu had worked with Ogedai Khan, then Torogene as regent. He had remained in Karakorum as chancellor during Guyuk’s short and bitter reign. Ogedai had shown promise, he thought, looking back. The third son of Genghis had been a man of great vision, until his heart failed and allowed a weak son to rule the nation. Yao Shu sighed to himself as he stared out at the massed ranks riding all around him. He had grown old in the service of khans.

Mongke’s rise had been a terrible blow. If ever there had been a man in the mold of Genghis, Mongke was the one. Genghis had been ruthless, but then he had been surrounded by enemies bent on his destruction. He had been formed in conflict and spent his entire life at war. Yao Shu smiled ruefully at the memories of the old bastard. The philosophies of Genghis Khan would have shocked his Buddhist teachers, almost to the point of unconsciousness. They had never met anyone like that cheerful destroyer of cities. In Genghis, all things had come together. He had kept his fledgling nation safe by slaughtering their enemies, but enjoyed himself enormously while doing so. Yao Shu remembered how Genghis had addressed a council of Chin lords on the subject of ransom. He had told them solemnly that a captured Mohammedan could buy his freedom for forty gold coins, but the price of a Chin lord was a single donkey.

Yao Shu chuckled to himself. Mongke had not inherited that sense of joy. It had drawn men to Genghis as they sensed a vibrant life in him that Yao Shu had never seen anywhere else. Certainly not in the grandson. In Mongke’s earnest efforts to be a worthy khan, he showed no true understanding. Thinking back through the generations, Yao Shu worried that he had wasted his life, drawn like a moth to a lamp, throwing his years of strength away for nothing.

The lamp had been extinguished when Genghis died. Yao Shu had thought many times since then that he should have gone home at that moment, the dream over. He would have counseled a stranger to do just that. Instead, he had waited to see what would happen, taking tasks upon himself until Ogedai trusted him with everything.

Yao Shu stared out at the massed ranks of horsemen in all directions. He had made the decision at last to leave the court. No, Mongke had made it for him when he whipped Chin scholars out of Karakorum and showed it was no longer a place where civilized men would be welcome. It had been almost a relief to begin his preparations for the long trip home. Yao Shu owned very little and had given most of his wealth away to the poor in Karakorum. He did not need much and he knew there were monasteries that would take him in as a long-lost son. The thought of regaling Buddhist monks with stories of his adventures was appealing. He could even read from the Secret History to them and give them a glimpse of a very different world. He doubted they would believe half of what he had seen.

Back in Karakorum, Yao Shu had been looking sadly at his collection of books when a messenger had arrived with news of Kublai’s destination. The old man had smiled then at the vagaries of fate. It had solved his problem of how to travel safely for thousands of miles east. He would go with Kublai to Chin lands and then one night he would get up from a fire and walk away from all his memories. He was not bound by oath to any living man, and there was a kind of balance in having the Mongols take him home, as they had once brought him out of the lands of his birth.

It had not happened. Over the months of conversation and travel, he had become fascinated again by Kublai, his interest sparked by the other man as he toured new estates in Chin lands and talked. Oh, how the man talked! Yao Shu had always known Kublai was intelligent, but his ideas and limitless curiosity had fired Yao Shu’s imagination. Thousands of new farms had been surveyed and marked out in just a few months. Kublai would be a landlord who took only a reasonable share and let his people prosper. Yao Shu hardly dared to believe he had finally found a descendant of Genghis who might love Chin culture as much as he did. On a spring evening, Yao Shu had reached a point where he knew an old monastery was barely thirty miles off the road and yet he had sat on his cart all night and not taken a single step toward it. One more year would not make too much of a difference to his life, he had told himself.

Now he was on the road to Ta-li, a Sung city, and once more, there was hope in his heart. He had seen Kublai spare forty thousand prisoners, and Yao Shu doubted the younger man even understood what an extraordinary event it had been. The orlok, Uriang-Khadai, still sulked in his ger, unable to understand why he had been shamed in front of his men. Yao Shu shook his head in wonder at the thought, desperate not to be disappointed once again. Genghis had destroyed cities to send a message to anyone who might resist him. Yao Shu had despaired of finding anyone in his line who did not model themselves on the great khan.

Now he could not leave. He had to see what Kublai would do at the city. For the first time in decades, Yao Shu felt a sense of purpose and excitement. Kublai was a different animal from his brothers Hulegu and Mongke. There was still hope for him.

THE REGION OF YUNNAN WAS ONE OF THE LEAST POPULOUS in Sung lands. Just one city connected the distant territory with the rest of that far-flung nation, supported by a few thousand farms and barely a dozen villages and small towns. There had been no growth there in living memory, perhaps for centuries, and the benefits of peace were obvious. Kublai’s army passed through millions of acres of rich ground, given over to rice paddies or dry crops and a rare breed of long-horned cow that was said to produce the best beef for a thousand miles.

Ta-li city was girded around by high walls and gates, though a suburb of merchant houses gripped the inner city like moss on a stone. That part of Sung territory was a world away from the lands Genghis had conquered. No one there had ever seen a Mongol warrior, or any armed force beyond the soldiers of their own emperor.

Kublai stared across a scene of stillness and tranquillity, his vast army out of place. He could see the smoke of a thousand chimneys over the city, but the farmers had all left their crops and gone to its protection. The fields and outer suburbs lay abandoned, stretching as far as he could see.

The ground was dry and they were close enough to the city for those within to be watching in terrified silence. Kublai spoke an order to Bayar at his side and stayed where he was while it was relayed down the line of authority. The Mongol host dismounted and began to make camp.

Kublai watched his ger being assembled, beginning with the sections of wooden lattice bound together. Everything was done for him by a group of warriors, routine making them quick. They raised a central column and slotted slender roof poles into it, taking lengths of moist sinew from pouches to tie them all off. Finally, thick mats of felt were layered and bound, the small door fitted and a cooking stove carried inside. In just a short time, it was one of thousands appearing on the land, waterproof and warm. Chabi and Zhenjin came trotting up on the same pony, the boy’s arms clasped around his mother. Kublai held his arms wide and Chabi guided the mount close enough for Zhenjin to leap at his father.

Kublai grunted and staggered backward as he took the boy’s weight.

“You are getting too big for this,” he said, holding him for a beat before lowering his son to the ground. Zhenjin already showed signs of his father’s height and his eyes were the same light gold that marked him as the bloodline of Genghis. Zhenjin stretched up to stand as tall as he could, making his father laugh.

“I have your bow, Zhenjin. Bring it out of the ger and I’ll help you practice.”

Zhenji gave a whoop and disappeared through the door. Kublai let the smile remain. He felt the responsibility of being a father acutely. In time, Zhenjin would be his own man. Yet at that moment he was still a child, long-legged and gangly, with two teeth growing through in the front. Kublai was glad he had brought his family on the campaign. Uriang-Khadai’s wife and children were safe in Karakorum, but Kublai had not wanted to leave Zhenjin to Mongke’s care for so many years. He would have come home to a stranger.

Kublai nodded to the warriors as they bowed and hurried off to complete their own dwellings before dark. As Chabi dismounted and kissed him on the neck, his personal servants went inside with the first armfuls of cooking implements and a large metal pot for tea. Zhenjin could be heard asking them where his quiver was. Kublai ignored the voices, choosing to spend the last moments of daylight staring at the city he must take. His first.

Chabi slipped her arm around his waist. “I am pregnant,” she said.

Kublai turned and held her at arm’s length. His heart leapt and he embraced her. Zhenjin’s older brother had died in infancy and another had been stillborn. It broke his heart to see once more the mingled hope and fear in her eyes.

“This one will be strong,” he said. “It will be born on campaign! Another boy? I’ll get the shaman to cast the bones. If it is a boy, I have been thinking of names.”

“Not yet,” Chabi said, her eyes rimmed with tears. “Let it be born first and then we will name it. I do not want to bury another child.”

“You won’t, woman. That was in Karakorum, where the father was a mere scholar. Now the father is a fearsome general, commanding fire and iron. I will always remember you told me before my first city. I could name him Ta-li, though it sounds like a girl’s—”

Chabi put a hand over his mouth.

“Hush, husband. No names. Just pray that it lives and then I will talk names with you as long as you want.”

He embraced her again and they stood together with the camp all around them. Chabi sensed Kublai’s thoughts settle on the city he must take for the khan.

“You will do well,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder.

Kublai nodded, but did not reply. He wondered if Genghis had ever felt the same sense of trepidation. Ta-li’s walls looked solid, impregnable.

They were entering the ger when Yao Shu approached. The old man raised a hand in greeting and Kublai copied the gesture. He had known Yao Shu for almost all his life and the monk was always a welcome presence.

“Will you want me to read to you tonight, my lord?” he asked.

“Not tonight … unless of course you have found something worth hearing.” Kublai could not resist checking. Yao Shu had a talent for unearthing interesting texts, covering all subjects from animal husbandry to soap-making.

The old man shrugged.

“I have some minor writings on the running of servants in a noble house. They can wait for tomorrow, if you are tired. I … had hoped to talk to you about other matters, my lord.”

Kublai had ridden all day. Though Chabi’s news had lit his blood, the excitement was already fading. He was dropping with weariness, but Yao Shu was not one to bother him with unnecessary details.

“Come in and eat with us then. I grant you guest rights, old friend.”

They ducked low to pass through the doorway and Kublai took a seat on a bed placed by the curving wall, his armor creaking. He could smell mutton and spices being seared on a wide pan and his mouth watered at the prospect. He kept silent until Chabi had handed over shallow bowls of salt tea. Zhenjin had found his bow and quiver and was waiting with them laid across his knee, fidgeting with impatience. Kublai ignored the stare as he sipped, feeling the hot liquid refresh him.

Yao Shu accepted his own bowl. He was uncomfortable speaking before Kublai’s wife and son. Yet he had to know. At Yao Shu’s age, Kublai was his last student. There would be no others.

“Why did you spare those men?” he asked at last.

Kublai lowered his cup, looking strangely at him. Chabi looked up from tending the food and Zhenjin stopped fidgeting, the bow forgotten.

“An odd question from a Buddhist. You think I should have killed them? Uriang-Khadai certainly did.”

“Genghis would have argued their deaths would act as a warning to anyone else who might stand against you. He was a man who understood the power of fear.”

Kublai chuckled, but it was a mirthless sound.

“You forget that Mongke and I traveled with him when we were barely old enough to stay on a horse. I saw the white tent raised before cities.” He grimaced, glancing at Zhenjin. “I saw the red and the black tents and what followed after.”

“But you spared an army, when they might take arms again.”

Kublai shrugged, but the old man’s gaze did not waver. Under the silent pressure, he spoke again.

“I am not my grandfather, old man. I do not want to have to fight for each step across this land. The Chin had little loyalty for their leaders. I hope to find the same thing here.” He paused, unwilling to reveal too much of his hopes. When Yao Shu did not speak, he went on, his voice low.

“When they face my tumans, they will know surrender is not the end for them. That will help me to win. If they throw down their weapons, I will set them free. In time, they will come to know my word can be trusted.”

“And the cities?” Yao Shu said suddenly. “The people there are hostages to their leaders. They cannot surrender to you, even if they wanted to.”

“Then they will be destroyed,” Kublai replied calmly. “I can only do so much.”

“You would kill thousands for the idiocy of just a few men,” Yao Shu said. There was sadness in his voice and Kublai stared at him.

“What choice do I have? They close their gates against me and my brother watches.”

Yao Shu leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

“Then show Mongke there is another way. Send envoys into Ta-li. Promise to spare the people. Your concern is with the Sung armies, not merchants and farmers.”

Kublai chuckled. “Merchants and farmers will never trust a grandson of Genghis. I carry his shadow over me, Yao Shu. Would you open your gates to a Mongol army? I don’t think I would.”

“Perhaps they will not. But the next ones will. Just as your freed soldiers will carry the news of your mercy across Sung lands.” Yao Shu paused to let Kublai think it through before going on. “In their own histories, there was a Sung general named Cao Bin, who took the city of Nanjing without the loss of a single life. The next city he came to opened their gates to him, safe in the knowledge that there would be no slaughter. You have a powerful army, Kublai, but the best force is one you do not have to use.”

Kublai sipped his tea, thinking. The idea appealed to some part of him. Part of him yearned to impress Mongke. Would he be comfortable with the sort of slaughter Mongke expected? He shuddered slightly. He would not. He realized the idea of it had been lying across his shoulders, weighing him down like the armor he was forced to wear. Just the chance of another way was like a light in a dark room. He drained his cup and set it aside.

“What happened to this Cao Bin in the end?”

Yao Shu shrugged. “I believe he was betrayed, poisoned by his own men, but that does not lessen what he did. You are not your grandfather, Kublai. Genghis cared nothing for the Chin culture, while you can see its value.”

Kublai thought of the torture devices he had found in abandoned military posts, of the bloodstained streets and the rotting bodies of criminals. He thought of the mass suicide on the walls of Yenking, as sixty thousand girls threw themselves to their death rather than see the city fall to Genghis. Yet the world was a harsh place, wherever you went. The Chin were no worse than the portly Christian monks who kept their hearty appetites while heretics were disemboweled in front of them. With Yao Shu’s eyes on him, he thought of the printed works he had seen, the vast collections of letters carved in boxwood and set by mind-numbing labor just to spread the ideas of Chin cities. He thought of their food, their fireworks, paper money, the compass he kept on him that somehow always pointed in the same direction. They were an ingenious people and he loved them dearly.

“He took a city without a single death?” he asked softly.

Yao Shu smiled and nodded.

“I can do that, old man. I can try that, at least. I will send envoys to Ta-li and we will see.”

The following morning, Kublai had his army surround the walled city. They approached Ta-li from four directions in massive columns, joining up just outside the range of cannon. Those within the walls would see there was no escape for them, and if they did not know already, they would realize the emperor’s army would not, or could not, come to their aid. Kublai intended them to see his power before he sent men in to negotiate. Yao Shu wanted to join the small group that would enter the city, but Kublai forbade it.

“Next time, old man, I promise you. The people of Ta-li may not have heard of Cao Bin.”

THE ROOM OF ADMINISTRATION IN TA-LI WAS A BARE PLACE, with no comforts. The walls were white-painted plaster and the floor was of rare zitan hardwood, its surface carved right across the width of the room, so that visitors would walk on a tracery of delicate shapes and patterns as they approached the prefect of the city.

Meng Guang stared up at a small window in the rafters as he waited. He could see a drift of rain high above, almost a mist from gray skies that reflected the mood of the city so perfectly. He wore the regalia of his office, thick cloth heavy with gold stitching over a silk tunic. He took comfort from the weight of it, knowing that the ornate hat and cloak were older than he was and had been worn by better men, or at least luckier men. Once more he glanced around the open room, letting its peace soak into him. The silence was another cloak in a sense, the exact opposite of the Mongols with their childish anger and constant noise. He heard them coming from a long way off, tramping through the corridors of the government buildings with no thought for the dignity or age of their surroundings. Meng Guang gritted his teeth in silence. His awareness was so heightened that he sensed his guards straining to see the intruders, bristling like fierce hounds. He could show none of the same feelings, he counseled himself. The emperor’s army had betrayed them, leaving his city at the mercy of rude and aggressive foreigners. He had readied himself for death, but then the Mongol general had sent a dozen men on foot to the city walls.

Instead of cannon shot, Meng Guang had received a polite request for an audience. He did not yet know if it was mockery, some Mongol delight in his humiliation. Ta-li could not resist the army that surrounded it in black columns. The prefect was not a man given to fooling himself with false hopes. If the Mongols waited a year, he knew there were armies that could defend Yunnan province, but the distances were great and the smooth flow of days had come to a sudden, jarring stop around his city. It was hard even to express the outrage he felt. He had been prefect for thirty-seven years and in that time his city had worked and slept in peace. Before the Mongols, Meng Guang had been content. His name would not be remembered in history, and the subtlety of that achievement was his favorite boast to his daughters. Now, he suspected he would have a place in the archives, unless future rulers set their scribes to removing his name from the official record.

As the Mongol envoys entered the room, Meng Guang repressed a wince at the thought of their boots damaging the delicate zitan wood. It gleamed in the morning light, dark red and lustrous from centuries of beeswax and labor. To his astonishment, the Mongols brought a stench with them that overcame the scent of polish. His eyes widened as the strength of it assailed his nostrils and it was all he could do to show no sign that he had noticed. The miasma of rotting meat and damp wool was like a physical force in the room. He wondered if they were even aware of it, if they knew the distress their very presence was causing him.

Of the dozen men, ten had the reddish skin and wide bulk he associated with the Mongols, while two of them had more civilized faces, slightly coarsened by mixed blood. He assumed they were from the northern Chin, the weaklings who had lost their lands to Genghis. Both men bowed their heads briefly, watched in blank interest by their Mongol companions. Meng Guang closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself to endure the insults he would suffer. He did not mind losing his life. A man could choose to throw that away like a tin cup and the gesture would find favor in heaven. His dignity was another matter.

“Lord prefect,” one of the Chin began, “the name of this humble messenger is Lee Ung. I bring you the words of Kublai Borjigin, grandson to Genghis Khan, brother to Mongke Khan. My master has sent us to discuss the surrender of Ta-li to his army. Before witnesses, he has made oath that not one man, woman, or child will be harmed if Ta-li accepts him as its lord and master. I am told to say that the khan claims this city and these lands as his own. He has no interest in seeing the rivers run red. He seeks peace and offers you the chance to save the lives of those who look to you for leadership.”

The blood drained slowly from Meng Guang’s face as Lee Ung spoke his poisonous insolence. The prefect’s guards mirrored his reaction, gripping their sword hilts and straining forward without moving a step. The small Mongol group was not armed and he longed to set his men among them, cutting out their arrogance in swift blows. He saw how the Mongols looked around them, muttering to each other in their barbarous language. Meng Guang felt soiled by their presence and he had to force himself to stillness while he thought. The little Chin traitor was watching him for a response and Meng Guang thought he saw amusement in his eyes. It was too much.

“What is a city?” Meng Guang said suddenly with a shrug. “We are not foolish Chin peasants, without honor or a place on the wheel of fate. We live at the emperor’s pleasure. We die at his command. Everything you see is his. I cannot surrender what is not mine.”

Lee Ung stood very still and the others listened while his companion translated the words. They shook their heads and more than one growled something unintelligible. Meng Guang stood slowly and at his glance his guards drew their long swords. The Mongols watched the display with supreme indifference.

“I will take your words to my master, lord prefect,” Lee Ung said. “He will be … disappointed that you refuse his mercy.”

Meng Guang felt rage suffuse him, bringing the flush of blood back to his pale cheeks. The Chin traitor spoke of impossibilities, concepts that had no place in the quiet order of his province. For a moment, Meng Guang could not even express his disdain. It did not matter if there were a million men waiting outside the city. They did not exist, or have any bearing on the fate he chose. If the emperor rescued Ta-li, Meng Guang knew he would be grateful. Yet if the emperor chose to let the city be destroyed, that was its fate. Meng Guang would not raise a hand to save himself. He thought of his wives and daughters and knew they too would prefer death to the dishonor this fool thought he might contemplate. It was no choice at all.

“Take them and bind them,” he said at last.

The two Chin translators did not have time to repeat his words and Lee Ung only stared glassily, his mouth opening like a carp. Meng Guang’s guards were moving before he had stopped speaking.

As they came under attack, the Mongols went from bored stillness to mayhem in a heartbeat, punching and kicking in wild flurries of blows, using their boots, elbows, anything. It was more evidence of their uncouth ways and Meng Guang despised them all the more for it. He saw one of his guards stagger backward as he was punched in the nose and had to look away rather than shame the man further. Meng Guang focused on the high window, with its smoke of moisture coming off the rain. More guards rushed in and he ignored the muffled grunts and shouts until the envoys were silent.

When Meng Guang lowered his upturned head, he saw that three of the group lay unconscious and the rest were panting and straining against their bonds, their teeth bared like the animals they were. He did not smile. He thought of the libraries and archives of Ta-li they threatened and felt only contempt. They would never understand the choices of a civilized man could not include craven surrender, no matter what the consequences. The manner of his death was always and finally a man’s own choice, if he could truly see it.

“Take them to the public square,” he said. “When I have refreshed myself, I will attend their flogging and executions.”

The smell of them had intensified as they sweated until it filled the room. Meng Guang had to struggle not to retch as he breathed more and more shallowly. He would certainly need to change his clothes before he finished this filthy business. He would order his present garments burned while he bathed.

EIGHTEEN

THE PRISONERS WERE BOUND BY THEIR WRISTS TO IRON posts in the great square in Ta-li, set into the ground long before to hold condemned criminals. By the time Meng Guang arrived, the sun was high and hot over the city and a huge crowd had gathered, filling the square in all directions. A troop of his guards had to clear the way with wooden staffs for Meng Guang to oversee the punishment, then bring up a comfortable chair for the prefect to rest his old bones. More men erected an awning to keep the sun from his head and he sipped a cool drink as he settled himself. No emotion showed on his face.

When he was finally ready, Meng Guang gestured to the men who stood by the posts, each bearing a heavy flail. The cords were of greased leather, each as thick as a child’s finger, so that they fell on flesh with a dull smack as painful as a blow from a club. He hoped the Mongols would cry out and shame themselves. They were talking to each other, calling out encouragement, Meng Guang assumed. He noticed too that the Chin translators were speaking to the crowd. The little one, Lee Ung, was jerking in his bonds as he ranted at them. Meng Guang shook his head. The traitor would never understand Sung peasants. To them, nobles lived on another plane of existence, so high above them as to be incomprehensible. The prefect watched his docile people staring at the prisoners, their faces blank. One of them even reached down to pick up a stone and threw it hard, making Lee Ung flinch. Meng Guang allowed himself a small smile at that, hidden by his raised cup.

The first strokes began, a regular thumping rhythm. As he had expected, the Chin men wailed and struggled against the bonds, arching their backs and yanking at the iron posts as if they thought they could pull them out. The Mongols endured like mindless bullocks and Meng Guang frowned. He sent one of his guards with an order to work them harder and relaxed back in his chair as the sound and speed intensified. Still they stood there, talking and calling to each other. To his surprise, Meng Guang saw one of them laugh at a comment. He shook his head slightly, but he was a patient man. There were other whips, with teeth of sharp metal sewn into the leather. He would make them sing out with those.

LEE UNG HAD SERVED KUBLAI FOR BARELY A YEAR. HE HAD signed on with the khan’s brother when the tumans came through northern Chin lands, marking out thousands of farms over a vast area. He had known there were risks in any enterprise, but the pay was good and came regularly and he had always had a gift for languages. He had not expected to be grabbed and tortured by the old fool in charge of Ta-li city.

The pain was unbearable, simply that. He reached the point again and again where he could not stand it any longer, but still it went on. He was bound to the post and there was nowhere to go, no way to make it stop. He wept and pleaded with each stroke, ignoring the Mongols who turned their heads from him in embarrassment. Some of them called for him to stand up, but his legs had no strength and he sagged against the pole, held only by the cords on his wrists. He longed to faint or go insane, anything that would take him away, but his body refused and he stayed alert. If anything, his senses became more acute and the pain worsened until he could not believe anything could hurt more.

He heard the prefect snap an order and across the square the flogging ceased. Lee Ung struggled up again, forcing his knees to lock. He looked around and spat blood from where he had bitten his tongue. The square was part of an ancient marketplace near the city walls. He could see the huge gate that hid Kublai’s army from sight. Lee Ung groaned at the thought that his rescuers were so close, yet blind. He could not die. He was too young and he had not even taken a wife.

He saw the bloody whips being cleansed in buckets, then passed on to other men to oil and wrap in protective cloth. In growing fear, he saw different rolls brought out and laid on the ground. Lee Ung strained, standing on his toes to see what they contained as the soldiers pulled back heavy canvas. The crowd murmured in anticipation and Lee Ung roared at them again, his voice hoarse.

“Hundreds of cannon lie outside these walls, ready to bring them down in rubble!” he shouted. “A huge army faces you and yet a noble prince has promised to spare every life in Ta-li! He offers you mercy and dignity, but you take his men and break them with whips. How will he react now, when he does not see us return? What will he do then? As our blood is spilled, so yours will follow, every man, every woman, every child in the city. Remember then that you chose it. That you could have opened your gates and lived!”

He saw his tormentor unfold a long whip and broke off in despair as he saw the glint of metal in the strips. Lee Ung had seen a man scourged to death once before, a rapist caught by the authorities in his home city. His mouth went dry at the memories. His bladder would release, his body would become a twitching, spastic thing under that lash. There was no dignity in the death that awaited. In sick horror, he watched the man swirl the whip in circles, freeing the straps. Somewhere distant, Lee Ung heard a low whistling sound. It grew louder and half the crowd jerked out of their reverie as something heavy struck the great gate to the square, the sound echoing across their heads.

“He comes!” Lee Ung screeched at them. “The destroyer is here. Throw down your masters and live, or the streets will be red by sunset.”

Another thump sounded and then two more as Kublai’s gunners found their range. One ball flew overhead, missing the wall entirely and vanishing to smash a roof across the square. The crowd flinched after the blur had passed.

“He comes!” Lee Ung shouted again, delirious with relief. He heard someone snap an order, but he was still craning his neck to look at the shivering gate when the guard reached him and cut his throat in one swift motion. The Mongols at the posts shouted in rage as his blood spattered the dry ground. They began to heave at the posts, working them back and forth, throwing their full weight against whatever held them. Meng Guang spoke again and more of his soldiers drew blades as the city gate came down with a crash.

In the roll of dust that spread out from the walls, the crowd could see a line of Mongol horsemen, black against the sunlight. They began to stream away, fear filling them as the riders entered the city in perfect ranks.

Meng Guang stood slowly as the square emptied, his face unnaturally pale. He swayed as he came to his feet, his world falling down around him. He had told himself the army outside Ta-li did not exist, that nothing the enemy could do would influence him. Yet they had entered, forcing him to see them. Meng Guang stood rooted in a shock so profound that his mind was completely blank. He was vaguely aware of his guards leaving the bloody whipping posts to protect him, their swords held high. He shook his head in slow denial, as if he could refuse entry to Ta-li even then.

With long silk banners fluttering on his left and right, the enemy rode up in shining armor that glittered in the sun. Meng Guang gaped at Kublai as he halted close to the group of armed men, disdaining their threat. Kublai knew those around him could lace the air with shafts at the first sign of aggression, but Meng Guang’s guards did not. The slow approach unnerved them all, as if he was invulnerable, so far above them in status that they could not possibly threaten him. Under his glare, many of the solders looked down, as if the sun itself burned their eyes.

Kublai saw a withered old man in clean robes standing uncertainly before him with empty eyes. The crowds had fled and the square was utterly silent.

In the stillness, one of the bound Mongols managed to wrench his iron post from the stones beneath it. He roared in triumph, taking hold of it like a weapon and advancing on Meng Guang with clear intent. Kublai raised his hand and the man stopped instantly, his chest rising and falling with strong emotion.

“I said I would spare Ta-li,” Kublai said in perfect Mandarin. “Why did you not listen to me?”

Meng Guang stared into the distance, his mind settling into a cold lump that could not respond. He had lived long and been prefect of the city for decades. It had been a good life. He heard the voice of the enemy as reeds whispering in the darkness, but he did not respond. They could not make him acknowledge them. He prepared himself for death, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly, so that his racing heart slowed to a steady beat.

Kublai frowned at the lack of reaction. He saw fear in the prefect’s soldiers and rage in the faces of his own men, but the prefect stood and looked out over the city as if he were the only man there. A breeze blew and Kublai shook his head to break the spell. He had seen the body of Lee Ung hanging from its wrists and he made his decision.

“I am a noble house,” Kublai said. “My lands in the north were once bound to the Sung territories under one emperor. It will be so again. I claim this city as my own, as my right. My protection, my shadow, stands over you all from this moment. Surrender to me and I will show mercy, as a father to his children.”

Meng Guang said nothing, though he raised his eyes at last and met those of Kublai. Almost like a shiver, he shook his head.

“Very well,” Kublai said. “I see I will have to disappoint a friend. Take this one and hang his body from the walls. The rest will live.”

He watched closely as the Mongol with the iron pole shouldered through the guards and pushed Meng Guang through to the front. The old man went without a protest and his guards did nothing. They did not dare look at each other, understanding at last that their lives hung on a single word from this strange prince who spoke in the language of authority.

“My word is iron,” Kublai said to the guards, as Meng Guang was led away. “Your people will come to know this, in time.”

HULEGU WAS PANTING SLIGHTLY AS HE DREW TO A HALT and passed his hunting eagle to its handler. The bird screeched and flapped, but the man knew her well and calmed the bird with a hand on her neck.

General Kitbuqa carried a white-flecked kestrel on his right arm, but he had only two pigeons on his belt and his expression was sour. Hulegu grinned at him as he dismounted and handed over a small deer, its head lolling brokenly. His cook was Persian, a local man who claimed to have once served the caliph himself. When he had been captured on the way back to the city from some distant market, Hulegu had taken him into his staff. It pleased him to eat meals the caliph should have been enjoying, though he made sure to have them tasted first. The dark-skinned man bobbed his head as he took the flopping animal, his gaze bright on the eagle as she fussed. His people loved to hunt the air. Hawks and kestrels were treasures, but the massive eagles were almost unknown in that region. The dark gold bird that settled on the handler’s wrist was worth a fortune.

Hulegu looked to Baghdad, just two miles to the north. His armies surrounded the ancient walled city, even to the point of blocking the Tigris with pontoons they had constructed in his absence. In all directions, he could see the dark smears of his tumans, waiting patiently. The caliph had refused to destroy the walls as an expression of his good faith. Hulegu still had the letter somewhere in his packs. The words were clear enough, but it was still a mystery to him. The man had written of the followers of Mohammed, certain that they would rise up to defend the center of their faith. Hulegu wondered where they all were as his army settled in around the city. In a previous generation, the caliph might have been right, but Genghis had slaughtered his way across the region, not once but twice. It amused Hulegu to think of the survivors crawling out of rubble, only to encounter Genghis on his way back to the Xi Xia territory on his last campaign. Baghdad did not have the support it had enjoyed in previous centuries, but the caliph seemed almost unaware of his isolation.

Hulegu accepted a drink of orange juice, chilled in the river overnight. He knocked it back and tossed the cup to a servant without looking to see if the man caught it. The people of Baghdad did not share their master’s confidence in God. Every night, they let themselves down by ropes, risking broken bones by scrambling down the rough walls. Hulegu had no idea how many people there were inside, but each dawn found another hundred or so being herded up by his men. It had become almost a game to them. He let his men practice their archery on the groups, giving the men and boys to be slaughtered while the women and girls were handed out to those who had pleased their officers. The caliph had not surrendered. Until he did, their lives were forfeit.

Hulegu heard the sizzle as his cook put fresh-cut venison steaks into a pan of hot fat. The smell was laced with garlic and his mouth watered in anticipation. The man was a marvel. Kitbuqa’s pitiful pigeons would not add much meat to the general’s noon meal, he thought, but then that was the difference between eagles and hawks. His eagle could send even a wolf tumbling. She and Hulegu were the same, he thought complacently. Predators did not need mercy. He could envy the bird its perfect single-minded ruthlessness. It had no doubts or fears, nothing to trouble a mind dedicated only to the kill.

Once more, he looked to Baghdad and his mouth tightened to a thin line. His cannons barely chipped the stones. The city’s defensive walls had been designed with sloping surfaces that sent the balls skipping away with little damage. When the black powder was gone, he would be left with torsion catapults and heavy trebuchets. In time, they would still break the walls, but not with the same roaring terror, not with the same feeling of godlike power. Baghdad was known to have no boulders for miles around it, but his men had planned for that, collecting them in carts as they came south. Eventually, they would run out and he would have to send his tumans to collect more.

Hulegu grimaced to himself, weary of the same thoughts spinning in his head as each slow day passed. He could assault the walls at any time, but they were still strong. Stubborn defenders could take as many as four or five of his men for each one they lost. That was the purpose of castles and walled cities, after all. They would pour naphtha oil and drop rocks on those trying to climb. It would be a bloody business and he did not want to see thousands of his men killed over one city, no matter how much wealth was reputed to lie inside its walls. It would always be better to smash the walls down, or for starvation to bring the caliph to his senses.

“If you make me wait much longer,” Hulegu muttered, staring at the distant city, “it will go hard with you.”

General Kitbuqa looked up as he spoke and Hulegu realized the man was still hoping for an invitation to share the noon meal. He smiled, recalling the eagle’s stoop. There was too much meat for one man, but he did not offer to share it. Hawks and eagles did not fly together, he reminded himself. They were very different breeds.

CALIPH AL-MUSTASIM WAS A WORRIED MAN. HIS ANCESTORS had secured a small empire around Baghdad that had lasted five centuries, with the city as the jewel. It had even survived the ravages of Genghis as he swept through the area decades before. Al-Mustasim liked to believe Allah had made the Mongol khan blind to the city, so that he rode past it without stopping. Perhaps it was even true. Al-Mustasim was not only of the royal Abbasid line, but also the leader of the Moslem faith in the world, his city a light for them all. Surely there were armies on their way to relieve Baghdad? He clasped his hands and felt the sweat on them as his fingers slid together and apart, over and over. The caliph was large of body, his flesh made soft by years of luxury. He felt the clammy perspiration in his armpits and clicked his fingers to have slave girls approach and wipe him with cloths. He did not break off his fearful thoughts as they tended to him, raising his arms and wiping at the smooth brown expanse that was revealed beneath his silks and layers. They had been chosen for their beauty, but he had no eyes for them that day. He barely noticed as one of them fed him sticky sweets from a bowl, pressing them into his mouth as if they fattened a prize bull.

As he lay there, a cluster of laughing children ran into the room and he looked fondly at them. They brought noise and life, enough to pierce the despair that weighed him down.

“The qamara!” his son demanded, looking up at him beseechingly. The other children waited in hope to see the marvel and al-Mustasim’s face softened.

“Very well, just for a little while before you return to your studies,” he said.

He waved his arm and they scattered before it, whooping in excitement. The device had been built to the specifications of the great Moslem scientist Ibn al-Haitham. “Qamara” was merely the word for “dark room,” but the name had stuck. Only a few servants went with him as he walked along a corridor to the room where it had been constructed. The children ran ahead in their excitement, telling those who had not already seen it everything they could remember.

It was a room in itself, a large structure of black cloth that was as dark as night inside. Al-Mustasim gazed on the black cube fondly, as proud as if he had invented it himself.

“Which one of you will be first?” he asked.

They leapt and shouted their names and he picked one of his daughters, a little girl named Suri. She stood shivering with delight as he placed her in the right spot. As the curtain fell, plunging them all into darkness, the children shouted nervously. His servants brought a flame and soon little Suri was lit brightly by shuttered lamps. She preened in the attention and he chuckled to see her.

“The rest of you go through that partition now. Close your eyes and do not open them until I say.”

They obeyed him, feeling their way through the layer of black cloth by touch.

“Are you all ready?” he asked.

The light from the lamps on Suri would pass through a tiny hole in the cloth. He did not fully understand how light could carry her inverted image, but there she would be, inside the room with them in light and shadow. It was a marvel and he smiled as he told them to open their eyes.

He heard them gasp in wonder, calling to each other to see.

Before al-Mustasim could organize another to take Suri’s place, he heard the voice of his vizier, Ahriman, speaking to the servants outside. Al-Mustasim frowned, the moment of simple joy spoiled. The man would not leave him in peace. Al-Mustasim sighed as Ahriman cleared his throat outside the qamara, summoning his attention.

“I am sorry to disturb you, Caliph. I have news you must hear.”

Al-Mustasim left the children to their games, already growing raucous in the dark tent. He blinked as he came back into the sunlit rooms and took a moment to send a couple of his servants inside to make sure the boys did not break anything.

“Well? Has anything changed since yesterday, or the day before? Are we still surrounded by infidels, by armies?”

“We are, Caliph. At dawn, they sent another flight of arrows over the walls.”

He held one in his hand with the scroll still tight around it. He had already unwrapped another and held it out to be read. Al-Mustasim waved it away as if its touch would corrupt him.

“Another demand to surrender, I am certain. How many of these have I seen now? He threatens and promises, offers peace and then annihilation. It changes nothing, Ahriman.”

“In this message he says he will accept tribute, Caliph. We cannot continue to ignore him. This Hulegu is already famous for his greed. In every town that he destroys, his men are there, asking: ‘Where is the gold? Where are the jewels?’ He does not care that Baghdad is a sacred city, only that it has treasure rooms filled with metals.”

“You would have me give the wealth of my line to him?”

“Or see the city burn? Yes, Caliph, I would. He will not leave. He has the scent of blood in his nostrils and the people are afraid. There are rumors everywhere that the Arabs are already dealing with him, telling him about the secret ways into the city.”

“There are no secret ways,” al-Mustasim snapped. His voice was high and sounded petulant, even to his own ears. “I would know if there were.”

“Nonetheless, it is what they discuss in the markets. They expect Mongol warriors to come creeping into Baghdad every night we delay. This man wants only gold, they say. Why does the caliph not give the wealth of the world to him, that we may live?”

“I am waiting, Ahriman. Have I no allies? No friends? Where are they now?”

The vizier shook his head. “They remember Genghis, Caliph. They will not come to save Baghdad.”

“I cannot surrender. I am the light of Islam! The libraries alone … My life is not worth a single text. The Mongols will destroy them all if they set foot in my city.”

He felt anger grow at the frown on Ahriman’s face and stepped further away from the qamara so that the children would not hear their discussion. It was infuriating. Ahriman was meant to support his caliph, to plan and defeat his enemies. Yet the vizier could suggest nothing but throwing gold at the wolves.

Ahriman watched his master in frustration. They had known each other for a long time and he understood the man’s fears. They were justified, but it was not a choice between survival and destruction. It was a choice between surrendering and keeping some dignity, or risking the wrath of the most destructive race Ahriman had ever known. There were too many examples in their history to ignore.

“The shah of Khwarezm resisted them to the end,” Ahriman said softly. “He was a man among men, a warrior. Where is he now? His cities are black stones, his people are broken: slaves or the dead. You told me always to speak the truth to you. Will you hear it now when I tell you to open the gates and save as many as you can? Each day we make him wait in the heat, his anger grows.”

“Someone will come to relieve the city. We will show them then,” al-Mustasim said plaintively. He did not even believe it himself and Ahriman merely snorted in derision.

Al-Mustasim rose from his couch and walked to the window. He could smell the scented soaps in the market, blocks by the thousand made in workshops in the western quarter. It was a city of towers, of science and wonders, and yet it was threatened by lengths of sharp iron and black powder, by men who would not even understand the things they saw as they smashed them apart. Beyond the walls, he could see the Mongol armies, shifting like black insects. Al-Mustasim could barely speak for grief and tears filled his eyes. He thought of the children, so blissfully unaware of the threat all around them. Despair pressed him down.

“I will wait another month. If no one comes to aid my home, I will go out to my enemies.” His throat was thick, choking him as he spoke. “I will go out to them and negotiate our surrender.”

NINETEEN

HULEGU WATCHED THE GATES CREAK OPEN, PUSHED BY TEAMS of men under the lash. He was sweating already, aware of the sun on his skin even as it grew in intensity. Naturally dark, he had never known sunburn before the endless weeks of siege around Baghdad. Now the first kiss of warmth each day felt like a branding iron held to his flesh. His own sweat stung him, dribbling over his eyebrows and lashes to irritate his eyes and make him blink. He had done his best to keep the tumans fit and alert, but the sheer boredom of a siege was like one of the rashes that spread slowly across the flesh of otherwise healthy men. He scratched his groin at the thought, feeling the cysts there. It was dangerous to allow his shaman to cut them, as infection often followed, but in the privacy of his own ger, Hulegu squeezed the worst of them each night, reducing the hard lumps each time until pain made him stop. The oily white substance remained on his fingers. He could smell its pungency even as he stood there and waited for the caliph.

At least it would soon be over. There had been two attempts to escape his grip around the city, both of them along the river. The first had been in small boats constructed inside the iron river gates. They had been destroyed with naphtha oil, the helpless men in them drenched as clay jugs were thrown from the banks, then set alight with flaming arrows. Hulegu did not know who had died that day. There had been no way to identify the bodies afterward, even if he had been interested.

The second attempt had been more subtle, just six men with their bodies blackened in soot and oil. They had reached the pontoons his men had built across the Tigris, anchored to heavy trunks jammed into the soft riverbed. The sharp eyes of one of his scouts had seen them sliding through the water and his warriors had unlimbered their bows, taking care with each shot as they laughed and called targets to each other. It may have been the last blow to the caliph’s hopes; Hulegu did not know. He had received word that al-Mustasim would meet him outside the city the following day.

Hulegu frowned as he watched a long retinue stride out of the city. He had demanded surrender once again, but the caliph had not even answered, preferring to wait for the meeting between them. Hulegu counted as the small column lengthened. Two hundred, three, perhaps four. At last it came to an end and the gates closed behind them, leaving the caliph’s soldiers to march their master into Hulegu’s presence.

Hulegu had not been idle the night before. He had no awning large enough to hold the caliph’s retinue, but he had cleared a spot on the stony ground and covered it in thick carpets taken from towns along their route. The edges of the spot were lined with plump cushions and Hulegu had added rough wooden benches, almost like one of the Christian churches he had seen in Russia. There was no altar, only a simple table and two chairs for the leaders to sit. Hulegu’s generals would stand, ready to draw their swords at the first sign of treachery.

Hulegu knew the caliph’s men would have reported his arrangements, viewed from the city walls. The small column made their way to it unerringly, giving Hulegu the chance to smile at the perfect steps of the marching men. He had not limited the numbers of soldiers the caliph could bring. Ten tumans surrounded the city and he made sure the caliph’s route was lined with his own horsemen, heavily armed and scowling. The message would be clear enough.

The man himself was carried in a chariot drawn by two large geldings. Hulegu blinked when he saw the size of the caliph who ruled the city and called himself the light of Islam. No warrior, then, not that one. The hands that held the leading edge of his chariot were swollen and the eyes that searched for Hulegu were almost hidden in bloated flesh. Hulegu said nothing as the caliph was helped down by his servants. General Kitbuqa was there at hand to guide him to his place, while Hulegu thought through what he wanted from the meeting. He chewed the inside of his cheek as the caliph’s men took their seats. The whole thing was a farce, a mask to allow the man some shred of dignity when he deserved none. Even so, Hulegu had not refused the offer, or even quibbled over details. The important thing was that the man would bargain. Only the caliph could do so and Hulegu wondered yet again what vast wealth lay within the city known as the navel of the world. He had heard stories of Baghdad for a thousand miles, tales of ancient jade armor and ivory spears, holy relics and statues of solid gold, taller than three men. He hungered to see such things. He had turned gold into bars and rough coins, but he yearned to find pieces that would impress his brothers, both Mongke and Kublai. He was even tempted to keep the libraries, so that Kublai would know he had them. A man could never have enough wealth, but he could at least have more than his brothers.

As the caliph lowered his bulk to his chair, Hulegu clenched and unclenched his hands, grasping unconsciously at what was owed to him. He took his seat and stared coldly into the watery eyes of al-Mustasim. Hulegu could feel the sun stinging the back of his neck and considered calling for an awning until he saw the full glare was in the caliph’s face. Despite his Persian blood, the fat man was not comfortable in the heat. Hulegu nodded to him.

“What do you intend to offer me, Caliph, for your city and your life?” he said.

KUBLAI RODE EAST THROUGH THICK FOREST THAT SEEMED endless. He knew he did not have to fear an attack. His scouts were out in all directions for thirty miles, yet the trees were thick and made an unnatural darkness that had his horse rearing at shadows. He had been told of a natural clearing ahead, but the sun was setting and he could not yet see the vast boulder or the lake his scouts had described.

General Bayar rode just ahead, a master horseman who made light work of the thick foliage. Kublai lacked the man’s easy touch, but he stayed in sight, his personal guards all around him. At least the forest was empty. He and his men had found one abandoned village deep in thick cover and miles from the nearest road. Whoever had made the wretched houses had vanished long ago.

The ground had been rising gently for half a day and Kublai reached a high ridge as the sun touched the horizon, looking down into a steep valley with a perfect black bowl of water at its foot. His horse whickered gratefully at the sight, as scratched and thirsty as its rider. Kublai let Bayar lead the way, happy to follow the path he chose. Together they guided the horses down the slope, seeing lamps ahead like a host of fireflies.

Bayar did not look as weary as Kublai felt. He was not much younger, though the man was still fitter than Kublai’s life among books in Karakorum had made him. No matter how he worked his body, it never seemed to have the easy endurance of warriors and senior men. Half his tumans had gone before him and many would already be asleep in the close confines of gers, or sleeping out under the stars if there was no place to set up.

Kublai sighed at the thought. He could hardly remember the last time he had slept through the night. He dreamed and woke in fits and starts, his mind whirring away as if it had an independent existence. Chabi would soothe him with a cool hand on his brow, but she fell asleep again quickly, leaving him still awake and thinking. He had been forced to keep a leather book of blank pages close to him, so he could write down the ideas that presented themselves just at the moment he was finally drifting off. In time, he would copy his journal onto better paper, a record of his time among the Sung. It would be worthy of the shelves in Karakorum if it continued as it had begun.

After the city of Ta-li had fallen to him, three others had followed within the month. He had sent scouts far ahead of him, carrying news of his mercy. He made a point of choosing men from the Chin who had joined his tumans over the years. They understood what he wanted and of course they approved, so he did not doubt they spoke well of the Mongol leader who was as much a Chin lord as anyone could be.

There had been a moment in those first months when he was able to dream of sweeping right across the Sung lands, of armies and cities surrendering without a blow being struck, until he stood before the emperor himself. That had lasted just long enough for Uriang-Khadai to approach. Kublai frowned at the memory, certain the older general had enjoyed being the bearer of bad news.

“The men are not paid,” Uriang-Khadai had lectured him. “You have said they are not allowed to loot and they are becoming angry. I have not seen this level of unrest before, lord. Perhaps you did not realize they would resent the mercy and kindness you have shown to our enemies.” Kublai remembered how the orlok’s eyes glittered with suppressed anger as he went on. “I believe they will become difficult to manage if you continue this policy. They do not understand it. All the men know is that you have taken away their baubles and rewards.”

As he guided his horse down through thick brush, Kublai blew air out slowly. Good decisions were never made in anger. Yao Shu had taught him the truth of that years before. Uriang-Khadai might have enjoyed telling him something so obvious, but the problem was a real one. The tumans gave their lives and strength without question for the khan, or whoever commanded them in his name. In return, they were allowed to take wealth and slaves wherever they found them. Kublai could imagine their greed at the thought of all the fat Sung towns, untouched by war and rich on centuries of trade. Yet he had refused to burn them and barely a dozen city officials had died, just those who refused to surrender. In the last city, the people had brought their prefect out and thrown him down in the dust before Kublai’s men. They had understood the choice he offered—to live and prosper rather than resist and be destroyed.

Kublai dismounted stiffly, nodding to Bayar as the general took the horses away. The night was peaceful, with an owl hooting in warning somewhere nearby, no doubt disturbed by the passage of so many men through its hunting ground. He reached down and scooped up a handful of cold water, rubbing it over his face and neck with a groan of appreciation. He had a solution to the problem. He paid many of the men who accompanied the tumans and he had silver and gold coins by the hundred thousand. He could pay the warriors as well, at least for a time. Kublai grimaced, taking more of the water to slick back his hair. It would empty the shrinking war chest Mongke had given him in just a few months. He would then have no money for bribes and no source of new income. Yao Shu had assured him the farmers on his northern lands would have a crop in the ground, but he could not decide the future on unknown quantities. Armies had to be fed and supplied. Adding silver to that was logical enough, if he could only find enough silver.

Standing there, staring across the water, Kublai grew still, then raised his eyes to heaven and laughed aloud. He was in a land where the soldiers were paid like any other tradesman. He had to find the mines where the ore was dug out. He was tired and hungry, but for the first time that day, he didn’t feel it. A year before, he might have seen it as an impossible task, but since then he had seen Sung cities open their gates and surrender to a Chin lord. By the time Mongke’s silver ran out, he would have taxes coming in from his new lands, even if he failed to find the emperor’s supplies. He could make the cities finance their own conquest!

He didn’t hear Yao Shu come up behind him. Despite his age, the old man could still move silently. Kublai gave a start when he spoke, then smiled.

“I am glad to see you cheerful,” Yao Shu said. “I would be happier if Bayar had not picked a spot to camp with so many mosquitoes.”

Still caught up in the idea, Kublai explained his thoughts. He spoke at high speed in Mandarin, unaware that his perfect fluency made the old man proud. Yao Shu nodded as he finished.

“It is a good plan, I think. A silver mine takes many workers. It should not be too hard to find someone who has heard of one, or even worked in one. Better still if we can interrupt the pay for Sung soldiers. As well as finding the coins already made, they would suffer as we benefited and perhaps lose a little faith in the men who pay them.”

“I will set scouts to the task tomorrow,” Kublai promised, yawning. “Until then, I have enough to pay our men in good Chin coin. Will you work out the amounts for me?”

“Of course. I will have to find the price of a cheap whore in a small town as my base. I think a man should have to save for a day or two to afford such a luxury. At the very least it will teach them discipline.” Yao Shu smiled. “It is a good plan, Kublai.”

They smiled at each other, aware that Yao Shu only used his personal name when there was no one else to overhear.

“Go to your wife now,” Yao Shu said. “Eat, make babies, or rest. You must stay healthy.” His stern tone brought back Kublai’s memories of old schoolrooms. “Somewhere far from here, the emperor of the Sung is raging as the reports come in. He has lost an army and four cities. He will not wait for you to come to him. Perhaps he hoped your men would exhaust themselves in the trek across his lands, but instead he will hear that you thrive and grow strong, that you eat well and yet are still hungry.”

Kublai grinned at the image.

“I am too tired to worry about him tonight,” he said, yawning hugely, so that he could feel his jaw crack. “I think for once I might sleep.”

Yao Shu looked skeptical. He rarely slept for more than four hours at a time and regarded any more as appalling slothfulness.

“Keep your book close by. I enjoy reading the things you write.”

Kublai’s mouth opened in protest. “It is a private journal, old man. Did Chabi let you look at it? Is there no respect?”

“I serve you better when I know your mind, my lord. And I find your observations on Orlok Uriang-Khadai most interesting.”

Kublai snorted at the old monk’s placid expression.

“You see too much, old friend. Get some rest yourself. Have you considered the Mandarin word for ‘bank’? It means ‘silver movement.’ We will find where they get it from.”

HULEGU ENJOYED THE SENSE OF POWER OVER THE CALIPH of Baghdad. The older man’s pretensions were torn away during the hours of the morning. Hulegu watched patiently as al-Mustasim spoke to advisers and checked endless tally sheets of fine vellum, making offers and counteroffers, most of which Hulegu simply ignored until the man understood the reality. As the morning wore on, Hulegu had his cannon and catapult teams run through their drills nearby, making the scribes nervous. The caliph stared in distaste at the moving ranks of warriors, at the gers that clustered for miles in all directions. The vast army held his city in a tight grip and he had no force to break the siege, no hope to give him peace. No one was coming to relieve Baghdad. The knowledge showed in his face and the way he sat, his shoulders slumped into the rolls of flesh.

It was intoxicating for Hulegu to have a proud leader reduced to hopelessness, to watch as the caliph slowly realized that everything he valued was in the hands of men who cared nothing for his people or his culture. Hulegu waved away the latest offer. He knew the people of the region loved to bargain, but it was no more than the twitching of a corpse. Everything they could possibly offer was in Baghdad and the city would open its gates to the Mongols. The treasure rooms and temples would be his to plunder. Still he waited for al-Mustasim to give up all hope.

They paused at noon for the caliph’s party to roll out prayer mats and bow their heads, chanting together. Hulegu used the time to stroll across to his senior generals, making sure they were still alert. There could be no surprises, he was certain. If another army moved closer than sixty miles, he would know far faster than hope could rise in the caliph. The man who ruled Baghdad would be killed if such news came, Hulegu had decided. Al-Mustasim was more than a lord to his people, with his spiritual status. He could be a symbol, or even a martyr. Hulegu smiled at the thought. The Moslems and Christians put great stock in their martyrs.

Hearing their droning chant, Hulegu shook his head in amusement. For him the sky father was always above his head, the earth mother at his feet. If they watched at all, they did not interfere with a man’s life. It was true the spirits of the land could be malevolent. Hulegu could not forget his own father’s fate, chosen to replace the life demanded from Ogedai Khan. In the sunshine, he shuddered at the thought of millions of spirits watching him in this place.

He raised his head, refusing to be afraid. They had not troubled Genghis and he had done more than his share of destruction, torn more than most from the sunlit world. If the angry spirits had not dared to touch Genghis, they could have no terrors for his grandson.

The moment he had been waiting for came deep into the afternoon, when even Hulegu had allowed his servants to drape his sunburned neck in a damp cloth. The caliph’s fine robes were stained in great dark patches and he looked exhausted, though he had only sat and sweated through the long day.

“I have offered you the riches of Croesus,” Caliph al-Mustasim said. “More than any one man has ever seen. You asked me to value my people, my city, and I have done so. Yet you refuse again? What more would you have from me? Why am I even here, if you will take nothing in exchange?”

His eyes were weak and Hulegu took his seat once more, laying his sword across his thighs and settling himself.

“I will not be made to look a fool, Caliph. I will not take a few cartloads of pretty things and have men say I never knew what else lay within the ancient city. No, you will not laugh when we are gone.”

The caliph looked at him in sheer confusion.

“You have seen the lists, the official records of the treasury!”

“Lists your scribes could well have written in the weeks before you came out armed with them. I will choose the tribute from Baghdad. You will not grant it to me.”

“What …” The caliph paused and shook his head. Once more he looked at the army around him, stretching into the distance so that they became a shimmering blur. He did not doubt they could destroy the city if he gave them the opportunity. His heart beat painfully in his chest and he could smell his own sweat strongly.

“I am trying to negotiate a peaceful end to the siege. Tell me what you want and I will begin again.”

Hulegu nodded as if the man had made a good point. He scratched his chin, feeling the bristles growing there.

“Have your people disarm. Have them throw every sword, every knife, every axe out of the city, so that my men can collect them. You and I will walk together into Baghdad then, with just an honor guard to keep the mob at bay. When that is done, we will talk again.”

Wearily, the caliph heaved himself to his feet. His legs had gone numb and he staggered a step before catching himself.

“You ask me to leave my people defenseless.”

“They are already defenseless,” Hulegu said, with a wave of his hand. He put his boots up on the table and sat back in his chair. “Look around you once more, Caliph, and tell me it is not so. I am trying to find a way to a peaceful solution. When my men have searched your palaces, I will know there is no trickery. Don’t worry, I will leave you a little gold, enough to buy some new robes at least.”

The men around him chuckled and the caliph stared in impotent fury.

“I have your word there will be no violence?”

Hulegu shrugged.

“Unless you force my hand. I have told you the terms, Caliph.”

“Then I will return to the city,” al-Mustasim said.

Hulegu thought for a moment.

“You are my guest. Send a man back with the order. You will stay in a ger tonight, to learn our ways. We have Moslems in the camp. Perhaps they will appreciate your guidance.”

They locked gazes and the caliph looked away first. He felt completely without choices, a fish on a line that Hulegu was happy to pull in at his own pace. He could only grasp at the slightest chance to turn the Mongol from Baghdad without blood in the streets. He nodded.

“I would be honored,” he said softly.

TWENTY

IT WAS NO SIMPLE TASK TO DISARM THE CITY OF BAGHDAD. It started well enough, with a populace who could see the vast Mongol army around their walls. The caliph’s heralds read his orders from every street corner and it was not long before the first weapons were being dragged out onto the street for collection. It was common for families to have a sword or spear in their home, relics of an old war, or just to protect the house. Many of them did not want to give up a weapon their father or grandfather had used. It was no easier to make butchers, carpenters, and builders give up their precious tools. By the end of the first morning, the mood of the city had become resentful and some weapons were even taken back in before they could be collected. Before sunset, the caliph’s city guards had to face down angry mobs and at one point were almost engulfed in them. Across the city, three thousand guards faced the simmering anger of the citizens, always vastly outnumbered. Groups of the caliph’s men went street by street, trying to bring massive force to bear on a single point and then moving on. As a result, the collection slowed even further. It was not a promising start and the troubles grew as night fell.

The guards had to keep their own weapons to enforce the caliph’s rule, but the sight of them inflamed already dangerous passions. Every father and son feared armed men when they had given up their own weapons. The guards were pelted with roof tiles and rotting vegetables as they checked each street, thrown from above or by darting little boys yelling curses at them.

As the hot days passed, shouting crowds dogged their steps. The guards grew tight-lipped with fury as they continued their work and tried to ignore the sight of people running out of each street with swords and knives as they entered.

On the fourth day, one of the caliph’s men was hit by something foul that slithered wetly down the back of his head. He had been under intense pressure for a long time: called a traitor and a coward, jeered and spat at. He swung around in a rage with his sword drawn and saw a group of teenage boys laughing at him. They scattered, but in his rage he caught one and felled him with a blow. The guard panted as he turned the body over. He had killed the youngest of them, a thin boy who lay with a great red gash across his neck, ugly and wide, so that bone showed. The guard looked up into the faces of the burly men he had paid to carry the blades. One of them dropped his armful with a crash and walked away. Behind him, others pressed forward, calling for still more to come and see what had been done. The anger was growing and the guard knew about rough street justice. His fear showed on his face and he began to back away. He managed to retreat only a few paces before he was tripped and brought down. The crowd fell on him in a rush of fear and rage, tearing with their nails, smashing their fists and shoes into his flesh.

At the end of the street a dozen guards came running. As if at a signal, the crowd suddenly scattered in all directions, running away mindlessly. They left another body with the dead boy, so battered and torn as to be barely human.

The following dawn there were riots across Baghdad. Trapped as he was in the Mongol camp, the caliph lost patience when he was told. It was true that his guards were outnumbered in the teeming city, but he had eight major guard houses built in good stone and three thousand men. He sent new orders, giving his personal permission to kill any malcontents or rioters. He made sure the order was read on every street corner. The guards heard the news with relish and sharpened their swords. One of their own had fallen to the mob and it would not happen again. They moved in groups of two hundred and scoured areas, with hundreds more employed to take the weapons to the walls and drop them over. If anyone protested, the guards used heavy sticks to knock him senseless and threw in a few kicks for good measure. If a blade was drawn in anger against them, they killed quickly and left the bodies where they could be seen. There was no shame or fear in them to spark the revenge heat of a crowd. Instead, the guards stared the citizens down while they went about their work.

The mobs shrank in the face of sanctioned aggression, fading back into the shadows of normal life. They whispered the name of the fallen boy to themselves like a talisman against evil, but the collections went on even so.

After eleven days, Hulegu was at the end of his patience when the message came that the disarming was complete and he could enter and inspect the city. The sheer weight of weapons had been impressive, forcing Hulegu to use a full tuman to cart them away. Most were buried to rust, with just a few choice pieces finding new owners among the Mongol officers. Baghdad waited before him, truly defenseless for the first time in its history. He savored the thought as he mounted his horse and waited for a minghaan of a thousand to form up around him. At the head, the caliph took his place in his chariot, his clothes filthy and his skin covered in flea bites. Hulegu laughed when he saw the man, then gave the order to go in.

There would still be an element of danger in entering the city, Hulegu was certain. Just a few hidden bows used from roofs as he passed could set off another riot. He wore full armor as well as his helmet, the weight and solidity making him feel invulnerable as he dug in his heels and rode through the gates at last. His tumans were ready to assault the city and he left men to hold the gates open at each point of entry. He hoped he had thought of everything and he was cheerful as he trotted his mount down a main road, empty and echoing.

In just a short time, the outer walls were long behind. The city was predominantly built from a brown baked brick. It reminded Hulegu of the smaller city of Samarra to the north. His tumans had fought a pitched battle there in his absence before looting it. By the time he had come south from the Assassin fortress, Samarra had been sacked, with blood running in the gutters and parts reduced to rubble. That was one reason the caliph’s city would not be relieved. Hulegu’s officers had been thorough.

Baghdad was many times the size of Samarra and the brown buildings were interspersed with highly decorated mosques. Bright blue tiles and extraordinary geometric patterns caught the sunlight, gleaming in the dun roads as splashes of color. Hulegu knew the Moslems were forbidden from using human forms in their art, so they made patterns of reflected and interwoven shapes. It was said their mathematics had grown out of the art, from men forced to consider angles and symmetry to worship their god. To his surprise, Hulegu found he enjoyed the style far more than the battle scenes Ogedai had commissioned in Karakorum. There was something almost soothing about the repeated shapes and lines that covered vast walls and courtyards. Above the city, minarets and towers loomed, more splashes of color. When Hulegu looked up, he could see the distant figures of men watching from the heights. No doubt they could see his army outside the city as they stared into the distance.

He passed the famous House of Wisdom and ducked down in his saddle to peer through an archway into the dark blue courtyard there. Nervous scholars peeped out of every window and he recalled that they were said to possess the greatest library in the region. If Kublai had been present, Hulegu knew his brother would have been salivating to get in, but he had other things to see. His minghaan followed a small group of the caliph’s guards through the city, passing over the Tigris at one point on a bridge of white marble. Baghdad was larger than Hulegu had realized, the sheer scale of it only truly visible from inside the walls.

The sun was high by the time he reached the caliph’s gated palace and passed through into sheltered green gardens. Hulegu snorted at the sight of a peacock, running from the armed men with its tail quivering.

Most of the minghaan stayed outside the caliph’s residence, with orders to visit all the banks in the city. Hulegu cared little for what the caliph thought of him. Even as he dismounted, a full tuman of ten thousand was entering the city in slow procession, disciplined men who would seek out its hidden wealth without touching off another riot.

Hulegu was in good spirits as the caliph’s servants led him through cool rooms and down steps to where their master waited. He knew he could be ambushed, but he depended on the threat of his men to keep him safe. The caliph would have to be insane to take him with so many Mongols already in the city—and so few weapons to fight them. Hulegu was certain there were still caches of blades in Baghdad. It was almost impossible to find every knife, sword, and bow in a population with basements and hidden rooms. It had been a symbolic act for the most part, though it increased the sense of helplessness in the city as they waited for him to keep his word and leave.

Caliph al-Mustasim was waiting at the bottom of a flight of stone steps that led on from two more above it, so that the treasure rooms were deep into the bedrock and lit only by lamps. No sunlight reached so far down, but it was dusty and cool rather than damp. Even in his soiled clothes, the leader of the city looked far more confident than he had in the Mongol camp. Hulegu watched for some sign of deceit as the caliph’s guards removed a heavy locking bar, a piece of iron so massive that two of them could barely lift it out of its brackets. Al-Mustasim then stepped in and pressed his hands on the doors, heaving at them until they swung open noiselessly. Unable to help himself, Hulegu edged forward to the threshold to get the first sight of what lay within. He was watched in turn by the caliph, who saw greed kindle in his eyes.

The treasure rooms must once have been a natural cave under the city. The walls were still rough in places, stretching far away. The servants of the caliph had obviously gone in before, as the place was well lit with lamps hanging from the ceiling. Hulegu smiled as he realized the grand opening of the doors had been staged for his benefit alone.

It had been worth the wait. Gold gleamed its unique color in stacks of bars as thick as a man’s finger, but that was just a small part of the whole. Hulegu swallowed dryly as he saw the extent of the cave, every corner of it packed with statuary and shelves. He could not help but wonder how much had been removed before that day. The caliph would want to keep some portion of his wealth back and Hulegu knew he would have a struggle finding the other rooms and chests, wherever they were hidden. Still, it was an impressive sight. Just that one room was equal to or greater than all Mongke’s vaults. Though Hulegu knew he would have to hand over at least half of it to his brother, he realized that at a stroke he had become one of the richest men in the world. He laughed as he stood there, seeing the wealth of ancient nations.

The caliph smiled nervously at the sound.

“When you check the lists I gave you, you will see I have accounted for it all. I have dealt honorably for my city.”

Hulegu turned to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. One of the caliph’s guards bristled and found a sword laid across his throat in an instant. Hulegu ignored them.

“You have shown me the visible treasures, yes. They are magnificent. Now show me the rest, the true wealth of Baghdad.”

The caliph looked at the smiling man in horror. He shook his head wordlessly.

“Please, there is nothing else.”

Hulegu reached out and took a firm grip on one of the caliph’s jowls, shaking him gently.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

“I swear it,” the caliph responded. He stepped away from the insulting grip as Hulegu spoke again to one of the Mongol warriors.

“Tell General Kitbuqa to begin burning the city,” he said. The man ran back up the steps and al-Mustasim watched him go, his face twisting in panic.

“No! Very well, there is a store of gold hidden in the garden ponds. That is all. I give you my word.”

“It is too late for that now,” Hulegu said regretfully. “I asked you to make an accurate tally of the tribute and you did not. You have brought this on yourself, O Caliph, and upon your city.”

The caliph drew a dagger from the folds of his robe and tried to attack, but Hulegu merely stepped aside and let his guards intervene, knocking the weapon from the man’s fleshy fingers. Hulegu picked it up, nodding to himself.

“I asked you to disarm and you did not,” he said. “Take him to a small room and keep him prisoner while we work. I am tired of his wind and promises.”

It was no easy task to drag the caliph’s bulk up the stairs, so Hulegu left his guards to it while he walked inside the vault to inspect what he had won. Kitbuqa knew what to do. He and Hulegu had set their plans weeks before. The only difficulty had been in securing Baghdad’s treasures before they destroyed the city.

THE WINTER WAS MILD IN THAT REGION AND KUBLAI’S TUMANS settled in around their new lands, secure in their gers. From records of Tsubodai’s Russian campaigns, Kublai knew winter was the best time to launch an attack, but so far to the south the natural Mongol advantage in cold weather fighting was almost nullified. Armies still moved through the cold seasons and he could not be assured of a respite from warfare. His enemies must have known the same discomfort. The Mongols had entered their lands and no one knew where they would strike next.

Kublai had expected to fight for every step across Sung territory, but after the first battle, it almost seemed as if he were being ignored. Kunming city had opened its gates to him without a struggle, then Qujing and Qianxinan. He wondered if a sense of shock and effrontery had paralyzed the Sung emperor. It had been centuries since anyone had last launched a conquest of their lands, but the lessons of the Chin would surely have been hard to ignore. If Kublai had been in power, he would have armed his entire population for all-out war, forcing millions of men against the Mongol war machine until it was ground down to nothing. He still feared exactly that. His only comfort was that the Yunnan region was isolated by a vast range of hills and mountains from the rest of Sung territory. To reach a major Sung city, his maps revealed broken land for two hundred miles, with no detail. Kublai fretted at every passing week as he sent men and money to locate the silver mines of the Sung emperor. It took far longer than he had hoped. Many of his scouts came in empty-handed, or with false leads that wasted time and energy. As two months passed without success, he was forced to head east into the first hills, leaving small groups of warriors in his pacified cities to ensure supplies continued to flow.

Ten tumans and his host of camp followers moved slowly across the land. Kublai had given Uriang-Khadai standing orders to buy food rather than take it, but the result was that his small treasury dwindled visibly. The orlok had insisted on a meeting to point out the idiocy in leaving Chin silver with peasant villages, but Kublai refused to discuss it and sent him back to the tumans without satisfaction. He knew he took too much pleasure in baiting the older man, but he would not explain himself to one who would never understand what he was trying to do. Mountain towns large and small were left intact behind the Mongol ranks and the coins had begun to flow month by month, so that the lowest unranked warrior could be heard to jingle when he trotted his mount. They carried the Chin coins on leather thongs around their necks or hanging from their belts like ornaments. The novelty of it had kept them quiet while they waited to see what such coins would buy them in the Sung cities. Only Uriang-Khadai refused his monthly payment, saying that Kublai would not make a merchant of him, not while he kept his rank. Under the orlok’s angry stare, Kublai had been tempted to strip that rank from him, but he had resisted, knowing it would have been from spite. Uriang-Khadai was a competent commander and Kublai needed all the ones he had.

The going was slow, though there were paths through the hills. There were no great mountains, just a distant horizon of peaks and troughs made green with heavy rain. The drizzle lasted for days at a time, turning the clay into sticky clods that slowed them all further and bogged down the carts. They trudged and rode onward, the women and children growing thin as the herds were butchered to keep the men strong. The grazing was the only good thing about the trek and Kublai spent his evenings in a leaking ger with Chabi and Zhenjin, listening to Yao Shu reading aloud from the poetry of Omar Khayyám. At every town, Kublai asked for news of soldiers or mines. Such remote places rarely had anyone who had been to the cities and he was relieved when his scouts called him to the farm of a retired Sung soldier named Ong Chiang. Faced with armed warriors, Ong Chiang had discovered he knew a great deal. The ex-soldier told Kublai of the city of Guiyang, which was barely forty miles from an imperial barracks and a silver mine. It was not a coincidence that the two things went together, he said. A thousand soldiers lived and worked in a town that existed only to support the local mines. Ong Chiang had been stationed there for part of his career and he spoke with relish of the harsh discipline, showing them a hand with just two fingers and thumb left on it to make his point. To be born in the towns around Guiyang was to die in the mines, he said. It was a poor place to live, but it produced great wealth. It was just possible that in all his life Ong Chiang had never had such an attentive audience. He settled back in his small home, while Kublai listened to every word.

“You saw the soil being brought to the surface, then heated?”

“In huge furnaces,” Ong Chiang replied, lighting his pipe as he spoke and sucking appreciatively at the long stem. “Furnaces that roar all day so that the workers go deaf after just a few years. I never wanted to get close to those things, but I was just there to guard them.”

“And you said they dig up lead …”

“Lead ore, mixed with the silver. They’re found together, though I don’t know why. The silver is a pure metal and the lead can be melted off. I saw them pouring ingots of silver at the site and we had to work to make sure the miners didn’t steal even a few shavings of it.”

He launched into an anecdote about a man trying to swallow sharp pieces of silver that made Kublai feel ill. He suspected the Sung veteran knew little more than he did himself about the actual process, but in his rambling speech, he gave away many useful details. The mine at Guiyang was clearly a massive undertaking, a town that existed only for the purpose of digging ore. Kublai had been imagining something on a smaller scale, but Ong Chiang talked of thousands of workers, hammering and shoveling day and night to feed the emperor’s coffers. He boasted of at least seven other mines in Sung lands, which Kublai had to dismiss as fantasy. His own people worked two rich seams, but Kublai had never visited the sites. To think of eight of them being hollowed out, their ores made into precious coins, was a vision of wealth and power he could hardly take in.

At last the man ran out of wind and settled into silence, made all the more comfortable by a flask of airag Kublai had produced from his deel robe. He rose and Ong Chiang smiled toothlessly at him.

“You have silver enough to pay a guide?” he said. Kublai nodded and the man rose with him, reaching out to jerk his arm up and down. “I’ll do it then. You won’t find the mine without a guide.”

“What about your farm, your family?” Kublai said.

“The land is shit here and they know it. Nothing but chalk and stones. A man has to earn money and I can smell it on you.”

Ong Chiang’s gaze traveled up and down Kublai’s clean deel robe and his mutilated hand twitched as if he wanted to touch the finely woven cloth. Kublai was amused despite himself. He became aware of the farmer’s wife glowering at him from the doorway. Kublai met her eyes for a moment and she looked down immediately, terrified of the armed men around her home.

“How will I know if I can trust you?” Kublai said.

“I am Ong Chiang the farmer now, but I was once Ong Chiang the officer in charge of eight men, before I lost my fingers to some fool with a spade. They told me to hand back my armor and my sword and they gave me my pay, then that was it. Twenty years and I was sent away with nothing. Don’t think I’ll cause you any trouble. I can’t hold a sword, but I will show you the way. I’d like to see their faces when they see your men riding in.” Ong began to cackle and wheeze and he sucked on his pipe again, like a teat that gave him comfort. His wheezing became gurgles and finally settled, leaving him red-faced.

“I pay my men four silver pieces a month,” Kublai said. “You will earn an extra payment when you find me a silver mine.”

Ong Chiang’s face lit up. “Four! For that much, I’ll walk night and day, anywhere you want.”

Kublai hoped Yao Shu hadn’t overdone his estimates of a soldier’s pay. It was one area where the Buddhist monk lacked experience. Kublai was losing half a million silver coins each month from his campaign funds and though Mongke had been more than generous, he had at best six months before the problem of looting was back. Kublai was still struggling to understand the impact of such a simple decision, but he had a vision of his men descending on a peaceful city with too much wealth in their pouches. Prices would soar. They would drink it dry, argue over the local whores, and then fight until they were unconscious.

He winced at the thought. Far to the north, Xanadu was being built by Chin workers who assumed he would return with their back pay. The new capital he imagined would be left as ruins if he didn’t find a new source of silver.

“Very well. From this day, you are Ong Chiang the guide. Do I need to warn you what will happen if you lead us wrong?”

“I don’t think you do,” the man said, showing his withered gums again.

TWENTY-ONE

THE CALIPH WEPT AS THE HOUSE OF WISDOM BURNED. THE science and philosophy of ages had been tinder-dry and the flames spread with a whoosh, quickly becoming an inferno and spreading to the close-packed buildings around it. His Mongol guards had left him alone, keen to take part in the looting of the ancient city. Al-Mustasim had waited for a time, then walked out of his palace, stepping over bodies and past the pools in the courtyards, where bars of gold had been hidden in the mud. The pools were brown and the fish all dead, choked in filth or speared for fun as the bars were dragged out.

He walked on, through streets that were marked with spattered blood trails. More than once, some Mongol warrior came charging out of a side street with a red sword. They recognized his bulk and ignored him, lending an odd feeling of nightmare to his progress. No one would touch the caliph, on Hulegu’s orders. The rest of the city did not enjoy the same protection and he began to weep as he saw the dead and smelled the smoke on the breeze. The House of Wisdom was only one of many fires, though he lingered there for a time, his eyes red in the bitter smoke.

Perhaps a million people lived in Baghdad at the time Hulegu’s tumans had surrounded it. There were whole districts devoted to perfumes, others to alchemy and artisans of a thousand different kinds. One area had been built around dye baths large enough for men to stand in and plunge their feet into the bright colored liquids. Flames had burned out there and al-Mustasim stood for a time looking over hundreds of the stone bowls. Some of them contained drowned men and women, their faces stained by the dyes, their eyes still open. The caliph walked on, his mind numb. He tried to accept the will of Allah; he knew that men with free will could cause great evil, but the reality of it, the sheer scale, rendered him mute and blank, like a staggering beggar in his own streets. The dead were everywhere, the stench of blood and fire mingling across the city. Still there was screaming: It was not over. He could not imagine the mind of a man like Hulegu, who could order the slaughter of a city with no feeling of shame. Al-Mustasim knew by then that Hulegu had intended the destruction from the beginning, that all their negotiations had been just a game to him. It was an evil so colossal that the caliph could not take it in. He stumbled for miles across the city, losing his sandals as he climbed a pile of bodies and going on barefoot. As the day wore on, he saw so many scenes of pain and torture that he thought he was in hell. His feet were bloody and torn from sharp stones, but he could not feel the pain. The words of the Koran came to him then: “Garments of fire have been prepared for the unbelievers. Scalding water shall be poured on their heads, melting their skins and that which is in their bellies. They shall be lashed with rods of iron.” The Mongols were neither Christian, Hindu, nor Jew, but they too would suffer in time, as the people of his city had suffered. It was his only comfort.

On a bridge of white marble, al-Mustasim looked down on the river that ran through the city. He rested his arms on the stone and saw hundreds of bodies tumbling past, locked together in the red water, their mouths open like fish as they were washed away. Their suffering was at an end, but his anguish only intensified until he thought his heart would burst in his chest.

He was still there as the sun set, locked in his despair, so that General Kitbuqa had to shake him to bring him back to understanding. Al-Mustasim stared blearily into the eyes of the Mongol officer. He could not understand his words, but the gestures were clear as Kitbuqa tugged him into movement. They headed back to the palace, where lamps had been lit. Al-Mustasim wished only for death to take him. He dared not think of the women of his harem, or his children. The smell of blood grew stronger in the air and, without warning, he bent over and vomited a flood of water. He was prodded on, his feet leaving bloody prints on the marble floor.

Hulegu was in a main chamber, drinking from a gold cup. Some of the caliph’s slaves were attending him, their faces growing pale as they recognized the man who had been their master.

“I told you to stay in the palace … and you did not,” Hulegu said, shaking his head. “I will enter your harem tonight. I am told the door to that part of the palace is known as the Gate of Pleasure.”

Al-Mustasim looked up dully. His wives and children still lived and hope kindled in him.

“Please,” he said softly. “Please let them live.”

“How many women are there?” Hulegu said with interest. His men had begun the labor of emptying the vaulted basement, stacking artwork like firewood alongside treasures of the ages. Beyond that, the main palace had been left untouched.

“Seven hundred women, many of them mothers, or with child,” al-Mustasim replied.

Hulegu thought for a time.

“You may keep a hundred of the women. The rest will be given to my officers. They have worked hard and they deserve a reward.”

The men around Hulegu looked pleased and their master stood up, throwing the cup of wine to the ground so that it clattered noisily.

Hulegu led the way through corridors and halls, coming finally to the locked door that hid the gardens of the harem from view. He looked expectantly at al-Mustasim but the caliph no longer had the key, or knew where it was. Hulegu gestured to the door and in moments his men had kicked it in.

“Just a hundred, Caliph. It is too generous, but I am in a fine mood tonight.”

Al-Mustasim hardened his soul, blinking back the tears that threatened. The women screamed when they saw who had come into the private gardens, but the caliph calmed them. They stood with their heads bowed and Hulegu inspected their lines like cattle, enjoying himself. He allowed al-Mustasim to pick a hundred of the weeping women, then sent the others out to his waiting men, who greeted them with cries of excitement. The children remained behind, clinging to women they knew, or wailing as their mothers were taken away.

Hulegu nodded to al-Mustasim.

“You have made some fine choices. I will take this hundred as my own. I do not need the children.”

He spoke in his guttural language to the guards and they began to pull the women out of the gardens one by one, knocking the children down if they tried to hang on. Al-Mustasim cringed at this final betrayal, though part of him had expected it. He called out words from the Koran to his wives and children. He could not look at them, but he promised them all a place in Heaven, with the Prophet and the love of Allah for all eternity.

Hulegu waited until he was finished.

“There is nothing more here. Take the fat man out and hang him.”

“And the children, lord?” one of his men asked.

Hulegu looked at the caliph.

“I asked you to surrender and you did not,” he said. “Perhaps I would have been merciful then. Kill the children first, then hang him. I have squeezed Baghdad dry. There is nothing more worth having.”

KUBLAI LAY ON HIS STOMACH AND CURSED SOFTLY TO HIMSELF. He had sent out his scouts looking for silver, paying men for information for hundreds of miles, without considering that the Sung emperor would eventually hear of his interest and respond. It was an error and, though he could curse his own naïveté, he could not wish away the army encamped around the Guiyang mines. His own tumans were still twenty miles or more to the west and he had come forward with just Ong Chiang, the newly fledged guide, and two scouts to see the details. Kublai grimaced as he kept low and stared across the hills at the mass of men and machines. This was no guard regiment sent to protect the silver, but a massive force, complete with cannon and pike, lancers and crossbowmen by the tens of thousands. They could not be surprised or ambushed and yet he still needed the silver that lay at the heart of them all. Even then, Kublai doubted the emperor had left much of value beyond the raw ore. He considered abandoning the attack, and only the thought that Mongke would eventually hear he had retreated kept him planning.

The mine was in a shallow valley, which would lend speed to his charging warriors. His cannon teams would be firing down, if they could get their weapons to the edge, whereas the Sung soldiers would have to fire upward into them. No advantage was too small to consider against so many. Kublai stared with a surveyor’s intensity, taking in every feature of the terrain that he might use. The cannon would be crucial, he realized. He had never yet seen them used in a fixed battle, at least in daylight, but the Sung commanders would surely have more experience of that than he had. He could not assume the officers had won their commissions with connections to the imperial court, or in examinations, no matter what he had heard. He thought back over everything he had read of Sung warfare, how even more than the Chin, battles took place in a ritualistic fashion, with strike and counterstrike. They rarely fought to annihilation, only until one side was satisfied. That too would be an advantage. His tumans fought to destroy, to shatter and break the will of an enemy until he was dust under their feet.

Kublai looked across the thick grass at Ong Chiang, who had been staring down at the Sung lines with just as much intensity. When the farmer felt Kublai’s gaze on him, he looked up and shrugged.

“There was talk of an extra payment when I found the mine, my lord,” he said. As he spoke, he began to search his pockets for his pipe and Kublai reached across and stopped his hand. It would not do to have a thin trail of smoke rising from their position.

“I have a battle to plan, Ong the suddenly wealthy,” Kublai whispered to him. “See me after that and I’ll give you a token to take to my quartermaster.”

Ong Chiang looked once again at the massive camp around the mining town and chewed his lips a little, wishing for his pipe.

“I think I would prefer it before the battle, my lord. In case it does not go so well for you.” He saw Kublai’s expression and carried on quickly. “I’m sure it will go well, but if you could let me take my payment now, I’ll start back to my family.”

Kublai raised his eyes for a moment. With Ong Chiang and the scouts, he crept back on his stomach until he was sure none of the Sung scouts could see them. He had not spotted any watchers during his careful approach and he did not know if that was because they had not been placed, or because they were simply much better than he was at remaining unseen. He wore no signs of rank, knowing that if they recognized him for who he was, they would hunt him down. Just riding the twenty miles to the site had been a risk, but he had needed to see.

When he returned to the tumans, Kublai paid Ong Chiang well, giving him a fat pouch of silver that had the man beaming. The farmer used two of the coins to buy the old mare he had been lent and was soon on his way, without looking back. Kublai smiled as he watched him go. The silver was an investment that would repay itself many times over, if he could win the mine.

The morning was fine and clear as he gathered his generals. Uriang-Khadai had lost some of his usual sourness at the prospect of a battle. Bayar too was pleased, hanging on every word Kublai uttered as he described the scene in incredible detail.

“So many soldiers must be fed,” Kublai said, “and the farms in the area cannot possibly support such an army. Bayar, send a minghaan out in a wide line around the site. Find their supply line, or wherever they cache their food. Destroy it all. They will not fight so well on an empty stomach.”

Bayar nodded, but stayed where he was.

“They outnumber us,” Kublai went on, “but if they have been told to protect the mine, they will fight defensively, rather than coming out when they are attacked. That is to our advantage. Uriang-Khadai, you will place our cannon in tight ranks, to pour fire into them. Begin with a ranging shot from the ridge, then move the cannon quickly to where we can reach their position. If anyone comes against our cannon, they must be destroyed. It will allow me to remove almost all the men behind and use them to charge the flanks.”

Uriang-Khadai nodded grudgingly. “How many horsemen do they have?” he asked.

“I saw at least ten thousand horses. I do not know how many were remounts. It could be five thousand cavalry. They must not be allowed to pin us from the sides, but we have enough good archers to keep them back.” Kublai took a deep breath, feeling his stomach tighten in anticipation and nervousness.

“Remember that they have not known war for generations, whereas our warriors have fought all their lives. That will make a difference. For now, your task is to get the tumans into strike range as quickly as possible, bringing the cannons up as fast as we have ever moved them before. The families will remain here with heavy carts and supplies. I need rapid movement, to appear against them before they know we are coming. I need that solid front if I am to hammer them on the wing.” He looked at his two most senior men and knew they were both different characters, but men on whom he could depend. “I will give you new orders as we engage. Until then, pray it does not rain.”

As one, they looked up, but there were few clouds and those were high above, white wisps in a spring sky.

MONGKE THREW A SHEAF OF REPORTS ONTO A PILE ALMOST as large as his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. He had put on weight since becoming khan and he knew he was no longer as fit as he had once been. For years he had taken his body’s massive strength for granted, but time stole away all things, changing men in such small ways that they hardly noticed until it was too late. He pulled in his stomach as he sat there, telling himself for the hundredth time that he would have to practice more with the sword and bow if he was not to lose all traces of his strength and vitality.

The problems of a vast khanate were nothing like those he had known as an officer. The Great Trek west with Tsubodai had been a simpler life, with more basic obstacles to overcome. He could not have dreamed back then that he would be trying to settle a complicated dispute between the Taoists and Buddhists, or that silver coins would become such an important part of his life. The yam lines kept him informed in a flood of information that almost overwhelmed him, despite the cadre of Mongol scribes who worked in the city. Mongke would deal with a hundred small problems each morning and read as many reports, making decisions that would affect the lives of men he would never see or know. In the sheaf he had thrown down was a request from Arik-Boke for funds, a few million silver coins that had to be dug out and smelted from the mines. Mongke might envy his youngest brother the simple life in the homeland, but the truth he had discovered about himself was that he loved the work. It was satisfying to solve problems for other men, to be the one they came to with their questions and catastrophes. As far away as Syria and Korea, they looked to Karakorum, as Ogedai Khan had once hoped they would. Bankers could cash drafts for silver in different countries because of the peace Mongke had fostered. If there were bandits or thieves, he had a wide net to catch them, thousands of families devoted to running the khan’s lands, in his name, with his authority backing them. He patted his stomach ruefully. As with all things, peace had its price.

His knees cracked as he stood up. He groaned softly as his chief adviser, Urigh, came trotting in with more papers.

“It is almost noon. I will see those when I have eaten,” Mongke said. He would enjoy an hour with his children when they had run home from their school in the city. They would speak Mandarin and Persian as well as their own language. He would see his sons as khans when they were grown, just as his mother had worked to raise her eldest over the rest.

Urigh put down most of the papers he carried, a bundle of scrolls bound in twine. He held just one and Mongke sighed, knowing the man too well.

“All right, tell me, but be quick.”

“It is a report from your brother Kublai’s domain in Chin lands,” Urigh said. “The costs of his new city have become immense. I have the figures here.” He handed over the scroll and Mongke sat down again to read it, frowning to himself.

“When he runs out of money, he will have to stop,” he said with a shrug.

Urigh looked uncomfortable discussing the brother of the khan. Mongke’s feelings for Hulegu, Arik-Boke, and Kublai were complex and no man wanted to come between them, no matter how Mongke complained.

“You can see he has spent almost all you gave him for the campaign, my lord. I have reports that he has been seeking out silver mines on Sung land. Could he have found one and not declared it to you?”

“I would know,” Mongke said. “I have men close to him who report every movement. The last message was a week ago on the yam lines and he had not found a mine yet. It cannot be that. What about these new farms of his? He leased thousands of plots two years ago. They will have been plowed and planted twice by now, more if they are growing rice in the floodplains. In Chin markets, that will have brought in enough silver to keep building his palaces.” Mongke frowned as he considered his own words, checking through the details of the accounting in Xanadu. Huge stocks of marble had been ordered, enough to build a palace to equal his own in Karakorum. He felt a seed of distrust grow in him.

“I have not interfered with his campaign, or Hulegu’s.”

“Hulegu has sent back vast revenues, my lord. Baghdad alone has brought in gold and silver to keep Karakorum for a century.”

“And how much have we had from Kublai?” Mongke asked.

Urigh bit his lip. “Nothing so far, my lord. I assumed it was with your permission that he put the funds into his new city.”

“I did not forbid it,” Mongke conceded. “But the Sung lands are wealthy. Perhaps he has forgotten he acts for the khan.”

“I am sure that is not true, my lord,” Urigh said, trying to walk a careful line. He could not criticize the khan’s brother, but the lack of proper accounting from Sung lands had troubled him for months.

“Perhaps I should see this Xanadu myself, Urigh. I have grown fat in peace and it may be my brothers have grown too sure of themselves without feeling my eye on them. Kublai has done enough, I think.” He fell silent and thought for a time. “No, that is unfair. He has done well with what I gave him, better than I dared to hope. By now, he will have discovered he needs me to finish the Sung. He may even have learned a little humility, a little of what it takes to lead tumans into battle. I have been patient, Urigh, but perhaps it is time for the khan to take the field.” He patted his belly with a rueful smile. “Send your men to me when they come back with their report. It will do me good to ride again.”

TWENTY-TWO

KUBLAI WATCHED AS THE CHIN REGIMENTS RAN FROM THEIR tents, forming up into well-disciplined lines. He could still hardly believe how close his tumans had gotten to the mine before the alarm horns sounded. At less than two miles, a distant blare of brass had begun to wail, muffled by the fall of the land. The Sung officer should have had more scouts further out, regularly relieved by men from the main camp. Kublai prayed silently for it to be the first of many mistakes they would make.

Kublai took strength from the long line of horsemen on either side of him as they trotted forward. Bayar’s minghaan had cut the Sung supply lines four days before, then waited to ambush whoever they sent. Not a single man of a hundred had made it back to the Sung camp. Kublai hoped they were getting hungry. He needed every edge he could find.

The bowl of land that led down to the mine ended on a flat field some miles across. Kublai tried to put himself in the place of the Sung general. The site was not a good one for a defensive battle. No leader would choose a spot where he could not command the closest heights. Yet it was exactly the sort of battle that came when an emperor thousands of miles away ordered one of his senior men to hold a position, no matter who came against it or how strong they were. There would be no retreat, Kublai was certain. He raised his fist and the Mongol ranks halted, curving slightly as they met the line of the valley ridge. The sun was high above them and the day was warm. He could see a long way, beyond the mine itself to the shantytown that fed it with workers each morning. The air itself shimmered over part of the sprawling site, revealing the location of the smelting furnaces. Kublai took heart from the fact that they were still working. Perhaps there would be silver in the warehouses after all. He could see a stream of workers leaving the site and as he waited for his cannons to come up, the distant shimmering ceased. The mine shut down and the air was very still.

Behind him, the cannon teams whipped horses dragging the heavy cannon, straining for the last burst of speed up the ridge. Kublai and Bayar had experimented with oxen and horses, even camels, trying to find the best combination of speed and stamina. Oxen were painfully slow, so he had left them in camp with the families and used teams of four horses. Once the guns were rolling, they could triple the speed to the front, though the cost in horses was enormous. Hundreds of them would be lame or have had their wind broken pulling the guns, as well as the carts full of shot and gunpowder.

Kublai readied his orders in his head. The Sung had formed quickly on the valley plain and he saw the dark shapes of their own cannons dragged to the front, ready with braziers to light the black powder. To charge that camp would be to ride through a hail of shot, and Kublai felt his gut tighten in fear at the thought. He scowled as he saw that the Sung regiments were holding their ground, certain that he had to come to them.

Kublai sent single warriors out ahead of the tumans. Thousands of eyes on both sides watched them walk their mounts down the gentle slope. The Mongol warriors waited to see if they found hidden trenches or spikes in the grass, while the Sung regiments tensed at what could have been the first outriders of a suicidal charge. The braziers by the Sung cannon smoked furiously as their tenders fed in fresh coal, keeping them hot. Kublai could feel his heart thumping as he waited for one of the riders to fall. His emotions were mixed when they reached the bottom safely and rode on to the edge of arrow range. They were young men and he was not surprised when they stopped to jeer at the enemy. It was more worrying that the Sung commander had not set traps. The man wanted them to ride in fast and hard, where he could destroy them. It was either justified confidence or complete foolishness and Kublai sweated without knowing which. His riders returned to the ranks amidst shouts and laughter from those that knew them. The tension had been unbearable, but with a glance Kublai saw four of his own cannon were ready, their braziers lit and smoking, well clear of the piles of powder bags and shot balls. The rest were still hitched to the teams that dragged them, poised to move closer once they saw the range. He told himself the Sung could not have expected so many of the heavy weapons.

He still hoped to surprise them. The Persian chemists working in Karakorum had produced a finer powder, with more saltpeter than the Chin mixture. Kublai understood little of the science, but smaller grains burned faster and threw the ball with more force. The concept was clear enough to anyone who had ever fried a slab of meat, or seen it cut into small pieces for cooking. He watched anxiously as the four cannon were hammered loose from their mountings and fresh wooden blocks put in to raise the black muzzles to the maximum elevation. The blocks often shattered on firing and the teams drew them from sacks of spares, each one hand-cut from birch. Powder bags were shoved down the iron tubes and on each team a powerfully built man lifted a stone ball, straddling it as if he were giving birth. With a massive heave, the balls were raised to the lip and another of the team made sure it did not fall back. For an instant, Kublai had almost ordered a second powder bag, but he dared not risk the guns exploding as they fired. He would need every one.

Three quarters of a mile below and across the valley floor, the Sung regiments waited in perfect, shining ranks. They could see what was happening on the ridge, but they stood like statues, their flags and banners flapping. Kublai heard his gun teams shout instructions, using those same flags to judge the wind. They began to chant, with an emphasis on the fourth beat. Almost as one, the iron weapons were heaved around, lifted by main force and groaning men. The shots would fire straight until the wind changed.

Kublai raised his hand and four tapers were lit and shielded from the breeze as the officers readied themselves to touch the reed filled with the same black powder, the spark that pierced the bag within and slammed the balls out into the air.

Kublai dropped his arm, almost flinching in anticipation. The sound that followed had no comparisons. Even thunder seemed less terrible. Smoke and flame spurted from each of the iron holes and blurs vanished upward. Kublai could see the curving lines and his heart raced faster as he saw they would surely reach the Sung. His mouth fell open as the cannonballs soared over the regiments, striking too far back for their damage to be seen.

There was a moment of stillness, then every man who could see suddenly roared and the rest of the cannon teams lashed their horses with fresh urgency, bringing them up. They could hit the enemy. Either the Sung had misjudged the benefit of the ridge, or the Mongol gunpowder was much better than their own.

Kublai shouted fresh orders, overcome with a sense of urgency to use his sudden advantage. He watched the painfully slow adjustment as the teams grabbed up heavy hammers and began to bang out the blocks while others lifted the iron barrels to make a space.

On the valley floor, horns wailed and conflicting orders were given in sudden confusion. Kublai could see that some of the Sung officers thought they merely had to pull back closer to the mine. Others who had seen the balls pass right overhead were shouting angrily and pointing up at the ridge. There was no safe spot for them to stand. They would either have to attack or abandon the mine and move out of range, in which case Kublai decided he would take the tumans in quickly and capture their guns. He tensed as his gun teams readied all the cannon for a massive volley.

When it came, the balls of polished stone skipped and bounced their way through the Sung ranks. Horses and men crumpled as if a point of hot iron had been laid onto them. Two of the Sung cannon were struck, flipping over and crushing men underneath. Kublai exulted and his teams worked on, pouring with sweat.

The shots came faster, rippling along the line as they sought to outdo each other. Kublai looked around in shock when one of the iron weapons burst its barrel, killing the men at the muzzle. Another man was killed when his companion failed to cool the barrel quickly enough with the long rammer and sponge. The powder bag went up while he was still pushing it down, tearing it open in his enthusiasm. The rush of flame could only find a path past him and he burned in an instant. The mad pace slackened slightly after that, the lesson not lost on the other teams.

Kublai was too far away to see Bayar’s expression, though he could imagine it. He had weapons designed to pulverize a city wall and the chance to use them against standing enemy ranks. The warriors around him were still stunned by the damage the cannons could inflict and Kublai wondered if they would be as fast to ride against the Sung weapons, now that they had seen in daylight what cannons could do.

The Sung lines re-formed over their dead, but Kublai did not think they would stand for long in the face of such murderous fire. He did not envy the Sung commander, whoever he was. He waited for the Sung to pull back, but they stood their ground while red claws sank into their ranks. Kublai glanced at the pile of stone balls nearest to him and bit his lip as he saw it was down to barely a dozen. Sheer weight made it as difficult to move the shot as the guns themselves and some of the carts had broken on the trip. He watched almost mesmerized as the pile dwindled until the final ball lay on its own. The barrel was sponged out for the last time. A billow of steam hissed and crackled over the men around them, part of a greater cloud that hid the entire ridge. It irritated Kublai by drifting across his sight, making him blind for long moments until the air cleared. He heard the cannon team fire the last shot, and by then most of the thundering guns had fallen silent, their teams standing proudly to attention. A few more shots sounded from slower teams and they were done at last, suddenly useless after the carnage and destruction.

Kublai felt the wrench to his emotions as his power to reach out and strike suddenly vanished. The air was thick with sulfur and steam and he had to wait while the breeze tore it into wisps and he could see again.

When they were revealed, the Sung regiments had taken a vicious battering. Thousands of men were clearing the dead and the officers rode up and down the lines, exhorting them, pointing up to the ridge and no doubt shouting that the worst was already over. Kublai swallowed dryly. They had not broken. As he stared into the distance, he saw their own cannon teams swarm around their weapons. Time slowed down for him and he could hear every beat of his heart as he raised his hand. His men had to cross half a mile of land, one hundred and twenty to one hundred and eighty heartbeats. He would feel every one of them. He roared the orders and his tumans came over the ridge, kicking their mounts into a gallop. Kublai remained still as they flowed past him, knowing he had to be the calm center, the eye above them that could read the battle and react to it, as the men below could not.

They poured down toward the Sung lines and a great shout of anger and challenge went up from those who had been forced to stand through the most terrifying moments of their lives. Kublai barked at his bannermen and they raised the flags that would send Uriang-Khadai and Bayar out wide against the flanks.

He could not trust his heartbeat to judge the time. When he held a finger to his neck, he could not find it at first, then felt such a rapid pulse that he gave up. The tumans hit full gallop on the short plain below the bowl and he could see the black needles of arrows fly before them, a different kind of terror for those Sung who still stood and dared them to come in close.

He winced as the first Sung cannons fired. Below, he could see the paths of the balls, chopping through the galloping ranks. The tumans covered the ground at reckless speed and as the Sung teams reloaded, his men sent arrow shafts whining in among them, so that the Sung gunners fell faster than they could be replaced. On the wings, Uriang-Khadai and Bayar had ridden in close, then halted at two hundred paces. From each ten thousand, arrows soared, punched out from bows too strong for other men to draw. There were no cannons on the wings, but most of Kublai’s archers could hit an egg at fifty paces. They could hit a man at two hundred and the very best of them could pick the spot.

On the ridge, thousands of warriors still poured past him. An entire tuman was pressing on, desperate not to be left out of the battle. The resting gun teams shouted encouragement, knowing they could play no further part. Kublai found himself trembling as the last warrior rode over the ridge. He had a mere twenty men left as a personal guard and a drummer boy on a camel to give signals. Every officer below could see him and he was the only one able to judge the entire battlefield. He wrestled with the urge to give new orders, but at that point it would have been more likely to hamper his officers.

For a time, he raised himself up, standing on his saddle so that he could see exactly what was happening. His mind still ticked away with ideas and plans and he knew he would have to set forges to make iron balls for the cannons. It was difficult work to make a true sphere with no imperfections that might snag on a barrel and burst it or send the ball slicing off in the wrong direction. Iron had to be heated until it ran like water, and the temperatures were far beyond the portable forges he had. Lead balls were a possibility, but the soft metal was too prone to becoming misshapen. Kublai wondered for a moment if the smelter of the mine could be used. It was far easier to polish stone, but the labor took weeks and, as he had seen, he could lose the best part of a year’s supplies in a morning.

He shook his head to clear it of the endless spinning thoughts. The Sung regiments were falling back on themselves, assaulted on all sides. More than half their number lay dead and anyone with an officer’s armor was already cold, fat with arrows. As Kublai watched, his two wings used the last of their shafts. The rear ranks passed lances forward and they kicked into a gallop, lowering the long weapons to open holes into the enemy that they could follow. Those behind drew swords and even at a distance Kublai could hear their battle cry.

HULEGU WAS TIRED. IN THE MONTHS SINCE HE HAD BURNED Baghdad, he had been busy with the administration of a vast area. He had entered Syria and taken the city of Aleppo, smashing a small army and slaughtering three tribes of Kurds who preyed on the local towns as bandits. The nobles of Damascus had come to him long before he attacked their city. The example of Baghdad had not been lost on them and they surrendered before they could even be threatened. He had a new governor there in his name, and beyond a few token executions, the city lay untouched.

He had been surprised to learn that Kitbuqa was a Christian, though it seemed not to blunt his righteous rage against the Moslem cities. Kitbuqa had begun holding Mass in captured mosques before burning them, a deliberate insult. Hulegu smiled at the memory. Together, they had captured more wealth than Tsubodai, Genghis, or Ogedai had ever seen, sending much of it back to his brother in Karakorum. More was used to rebuild the cities he had taken under new governors. Hulegu shook his head in amusement at the thought, still surprised that he could earn gratitude in such a way. Memories were short, or perhaps it worked because he had killed everyone who might object. Baghdad was being rebuilt with a tiny part of the caliph’s own treasury, made new under a Mongol governor. Merchant families came in daily to find homes in the city, where land and houses were suddenly cheap. Business was already growing and the first taxes were being collected, though the city was not a fraction yet of what it had been.

Hulegu rested for that night in a roadside inn, chewing his food slowly and wishing only that the Moslems would turn their considerable ingenuity to alcohol. He had tasted their coffee and found it bitter in comparison, not a drink for a man at all. His stocks of wine and airag had long gone and until they found a new supply, his army was running dry, making the men irritable and short-tempered. Hulegu knew he would have to import a few hundred families to make the fiery spirit he had enjoyed from childhood. With that small reservation, he was pleased with the lands he had won for himself. His sons would have a khanate and Mongke would honor him. Hulegu chuckled wearily to himself as he ate. It was strange how he still looked for Mongke’s approval. At their age, a difference of just a few years should not have mattered, but somehow it did. He emptied a glass of some fruit drink, grimacing at the sickly sweetness, with an aftertaste of metal.

“A little more, master?” the servant asked, holding up a jug.

Hulegu waved him away, trying not to think of how good airag would cut the sweetness and make his throat burn. He felt an ache begin in his abdomen and he massaged it with short, blunt fingers. He strained for a time, but there was no wind and the pain increased, sweat breaking out on his face.

“Bring me water,” he said, scowling.

The servant smiled. “It is too late for that, master. Instead, I have brought you a greeting from Alamut and a peace you surely do not deserve.”

Hulegu gaped at him, then tried to rise. His legs felt weak and he staggered, but he had the strength to shout.

“Guards! To me!”

He slumped against the table. The door slammed open and two of his men entered with their swords drawn.

“Hold him,” Hulegu snarled.

A wave of weakness washed over him and he slid to his knees, pushing two of his fingers deep into his throat. As his men watched in horrified confusion, Hulegu vomited up the contents of his stomach in a great flood. He had eaten well and he heaved again and again, the bitter smell filling the room. Still the pain increased, but his head cleared a little. The servant had not resisted and merely stood between the warriors, watching closely with a worried frown.

Hulegu was a bull of a man, but his heart was pounding and his face poured with sweat as if he had run all day. It dripped off his nose onto the wooden floor as he sagged.

“Charcoal,” he growled. “Grind up as much as you can find … in water. Take it from the fireplaces. Fetch my shaman …” He struggled through a wave of dizziness before he could speak again. “If I pass out, force charcoal slurry into me, as much as you can.” He saw the guards hesitate, neither man willing to let go of the servant. Hulegu snapped, anger rising in him with the pain.

“Kill him and go,” he shouted, falling back.

He heard a choking sound as they cut the man’s throat and then raced out of the room. Hulegu tried to vomit again, but his stomach was empty and every dry heave made lights flash before his eyes. His head felt enormous, fat with pounding blood. His heart was racing too fast, making him dizzy and weak. He was dimly aware of men clattering into the room and a wooden bowl being pressed to his lips, full of swirling blackness that he took in and immediately vomited in a gritty flood over his clothes. He forced himself to drink again, bowl after bowl until he felt his stomach would burst. His teeth grated against each other as he tried to clear his mouth and throat, gasping between gulps. There were a dozen men in the room by then, all working to reduce chips of charred wood to dust with any tool they could find. After a time, he fell into blackness, covered in his own bitter acids.

When he woke again, it was dark. His eyes were covered in something, so that his eyelids stuck together. He reached up and rubbed one of them, feeling his eyelashes tear away. The gesture was noticed and voices called that he was awake. Hulegu groaned, but the biting pain was gone from his stomach. His mouth felt raw and he could still feel the grit between his teeth from the charcoal that had saved him. The same filth had once saved Genghis and Hulegu gave silent thanks to the old man’s spirit for lending him the knowledge he needed. The Assassin had been confident at first, he recalled. It would have been a close thing, a certain death without the charcoal to soak it up. If the man had kept silent, Hulegu would have died without knowing why.

He could not believe how weak he felt. General Kitbuqa was looming over him, but Hulegu could not rise. He felt himself lifted up and saw he was in another room of the roadhouse, propped up on thick blankets under his head and shoulders.

“You were lucky,” Kitbuqa said.

Hulegu grunted, unwilling even to think back to the appalling moments before unconsciousness. It had come so suddenly: from eating a good meal to fighting for his life with his killer watching him complacently. He thought his hands were still trembling and he bunched his massive fists in the blankets so that Kitbuqa would not see.

“The charcoal worked, then,” he muttered.

“You are too stubborn to die, I think,” Kitbuqa said. “Your shaman tells me you will be shitting black for a few days, but, yes, you gave the right orders.”

“Have you been praying for me?”

Kitbuqa heard the mockery and ignored it.

“I have, of course. You are alive, are you not?”

Hulegu tried again to sit up straight, his thoughts suddenly sharpening.

“You must warn my brothers, especially Mongke. Send a dozen fast scouts along the yam lines.”

“They have already gone,” Kitbuqa said. “It happened yesterday, my lord. You have slept since then.”

Hulegu slumped back. The effort of rising and thinking had exhausted him, but he was alive and he had expected death. He shuddered as he lay there, flashing memories disturbing his peace. Had the leader in Alamut sent men to kill him even before he saw the fortress? It was possible. Yet it was more likely that he had men out already doing their work, men who would have returned to Alamut and found it in ruins. Hulegu could imagine them swearing vengeance against those who had broken their sect and killed its leaders. He closed his eyes, feeling sleep come swiftly. How many more could there be? Perhaps there was only one, now just another corpse in the road.

Kitbuqa looked down, pleased to see some color return to his friend’s face. He could only hope that the attack had been the last spasm of a dying clan. Even so, he knew it would be years before Hulegu went anywhere without a troop of guards around him. If even one Assassin still survived, there would always be danger. Kitbuqa only wished the poisoner had lived, so that he could have taken him out into the woods and questioned him with fire and iron.

TWENTY-THREE

KUBLAI HAD GIVEN STRICT ORDERS THAT THE WORKERS IN the mine town were not to be touched. For once, Uriang-Khadai had nothing to say on the subject. Someone had to continue to drag the ore out of the ground and none of Kublai’s men understood the processes involved, even when they had seen the smelters and the sacks of strange powders in the buildings around it. A huge heap of black lead and slag metal was part of the sprawling site and the smell of bitter chemicals was always in the air, somehow drying the throat so that warriors coughed and spat as they searched it.

Bayar brought the news himself when they found the silver ready to be taken out. Kublai had seen from his face that it had been worthwhile and the reality astonished him. Refined metal filled a long stone building, behind an iron door that had to be broken in when no one could find the key. Inside, slender bars were set out on trestle tables, black with tarnish and ready to be loaded into carts and taken to the emperor’s capital city.

Bayar had not even counted them and Kublai had the pleasure of making the first estimate. He counted two hundred and forty on a table, then multiplied it by eighty tables to reach a total that was dizzying. Each bar could be melted and pressed into at least five hundred small coins if he found the right equipment. For a time, Kublai just stood in the silent room, then a smile appeared and Bayar laughed. The contents of the room came to almost ten million coins, enough to pay his army at their current rate for two years in the field. He frowned at the thought of sending a tithe back to Mongke in Karakorum, but it was long overdue. Bearing in mind Ong Chiang’s response to his offer, Kublai wondered if there was a way of reducing the monthly pay without losing the trust of his men. He could hardly claim hardship after such a find. The news would already be winging its way around the camp.

“Find the most senior man in the town, whoever runs the mine,” he said to Bayar. “I need to know if this is the product of a month or a year. I’ll need to leave men to defend this place and keep it working.”

“The emperor will fight to get the mine back, if it’s worth this much,” Bayar replied, still looking around him in a kind of awe.

“I hope so. I want him to send his best, General. At the rate I’ve been going, I’ll be an old man by the time I reach his capital. Let them come and we will add rich new lands to the khanate.”

For a moment, he felt a pang that everything he won, everything he accomplished, would be for the glory of Mongke in Karakorum, but he stifled the thought. Mongke had been generous: with men, with his generals, with cannon, and even with lands. Kublai realized he no longer missed the life of a scholar in Karakorum. Mongke had set out to change him and in one important way he had been successful. Kublai could not go back to the man he had been. He had even grown used to the scale armor. He found he looked forward to the battles to come, the tests and trials that he would face with the elite tumans of his nation. Kublai clapped Bayar on the shoulder.

“A mining town will have something to drink, I am certain. We had better move quickly before the men run it dry.”

“I put guards on the inns in town, first thing,” Bayar said.

Kublai grinned at him. “Of course you did. Very well, show me.”

Both men turned at the sound of running footsteps. Kublai felt his mouth go dry at the sight of one of his scouts, sweat-stained and dusty. The man was close to collapse and he leaned on one of the tables, barely noticing the wealth it held as he gasped out his message.

“There is a Sung army, my lord, force-marching in this direction.” He went white for a moment as if he might vomit. Kublai gripped him by the shoulder.

“How far away?” he demanded.

The scout took gulping breaths, his body shuddering under Kublai’s touch.

“Maybe fifty miles, maybe less. I did it in one long reach.”

“How many?”

“More than the tumans. I don’t know for certain. I caught sight of them and then rode clear as fast as I could.” His eyes looked for approval, worried that he should have stayed longer.

“You did well,” Kublai assured him. “Get yourself food and find a place on a cart to sleep. We won’t be staying here.” He turned to Bayar, all the lightness gone from his manner. “It won’t stop now, General. I’d hoped for a little more time, but we have stuck a hand into the wasp nest and they will throw everything they have at us, every army they can raise and march.”

“We’ll destroy them,” Bayar said.

Kublai nodded, but his eyes were shadowed. “We have to win every battle. They only have to win one.”

“I’ve known worse situations,” Bayar said with a shrug.

Kublai blinked at him and then laughed, some of the tension going out of him.

“We have entered the heartland of the Sung, Bayar. You have not known worse situations.”

“Our people beat the Chin emperor,” Bayar replied, unabashed. “City by city, army by army. Have faith in your men, my lord. We will not let you down.”

For a moment, Kublai was unable to speak. He had led the tumans at first as an intellectual exercise, enjoying the challenge of maneuvers and tactics, of finding ways to confound his enemies. Bayar’s words made him think it all through again. He would ask them to die for him, for his family. It was madness of a sort that they would follow him at all. Kublai found himself touched by what he saw in the faces of Bayar and the scout. He stopped himself from explaining, remembering almost too late that he had to keep a distance. He had not yet managed to codify the skill of leading men. It happened around him like a strange form of alchemy. It was more than rank or discipline, more than the structure of the army his family had built, more even than the legend of his grandfather. Some of them followed for those things, or just because they enjoyed the life of the tumans. Others, the best of them, would risk it all for Kublai because they knew him. They had measured him and gave their lives freely into his hands. For once, Kublai was unable to express what it meant to him and he chose refuge in gruff orders.

“Get the silver packed up, General. I will send scouts back to the camp to let them know they are on their own for a while longer. Have your men find a good place for us to stand and face these Sung. We will walk over them all.”

Bayar grinned, seeing the fire kindle in Kublai once again.

CHABI WAS OUTSIDE HER GER AS KUBLAI CAME RIDING IN. She put down the goatskins she had been cutting and sewing when she saw him. Zhenjin spotted his father at the same moment and darted to the wall of the ger, where he had placed a stool. As Kublai reined in and dismounted, his son climbed onto the felt roof and clung precariously over the door. All around them, women were gathering for news. They would not interrupt the khan’s brother, but Chabi knew they would press in with questions the moment he left.

“Another army on the way,” Kublai said. He was panting slightly as she handed him a skin of airag and he took a long pull at it. “I need to change clothes and it’s time to break camp.”

“There’s a threat to us?” Chabi asked, trying to remain calm. Kublai shook his head.

“Not so far, but if the tumans have to move fast, I don’t want to leave you vulnerable. I must keep the families in range.”

Chabi looked up as a ger suddenly collapsed nearby, going from a home to spars and felt rolls in an instant. Kublai had not come in alone and she could hear shouts all over the camp as it went from peaceful stillness to rapid dismantling. Everything was designed to be moved quickly and she had servants for the task. She saw two of them coming with reins and harness over their shoulders for the ox cart.

“Come down, Zhenjin,” Kublai called to his son. He knew the boy had been waiting to jump on him as he passed, but there was no time for games. Zhenjin scowled at him, but clambered down.

“You look worried,” Chabi said softly.

Kublai shrugged and smiled at her.

“We have better men, but the numbers, Chabi! If the Sung lords band together, they can put an army in the field that makes mine look like a raiding group.”

“They don’t have anyone like you,” she said. He nodded.

“There is that,” he replied with a smile. “I am an unusual man.”

Chabi could sense his distraction as Kublai’s gaze flickered around the camp, taking in every detail.

“You don’t have to worry about us,” she said.

Kublai turned slowly, trying to listen to his wife at the same time as solving some other problem and failing at both.

“Hmm?”

“We are not defenseless, Kublai. There are, what, three hundred thousand in the camp? It’s a city, Kublai, and everyone is armed.” She drew a long blade from her belt. “Including me. There must be enough maimed men to make a few tumans more. Many of them can still ride or use a bow.”

Kublai dragged his attention back to his wife. He saw she was trying to ease his mind and stifled his irritable impulse to describe the savage terror of an attack on a camp. It would do no good to make her afraid. Thousands of lives rested on his ability to protect them. Words and promises meant nothing in the face of such a burden. In the end, he just nodded and she seemed relieved.

“There’s cold mutton and some spring onions in the pot. I’ll cut you some slices. I have flatbread you can use to wrap it and eat it as you go.”

“And garlic,” he said.

“I’ll get it, while you talk to your son. He’s been waiting to jump on you for three days. A man can’t ride past the ger without him scampering up the roof to be ready.”

Kublai sighed.

“Zhenjin! Come out here.”

The boy reappeared, still sulking. Kublai gestured at the ger.

“Go on then, I don’t have long.”

Chabi snorted with laughter as Zhenjin’s face lit up. The boy scrambled up the felt wall and once again waited like a spider above the door.

“I thought I could see my son,” Kublai said. “Perhaps he is inside.” He ducked to enter and Zhenjin leapt at him, his weight sending Kublai staggering backward as Kublai roared in mock surprise. After a moment, he let the boy down to the ground.

“That’s enough now. Help your mother and the servants. We’re moving camp.”

“Can I come with you?” Zhenjin asked.

“Not this time. When you’re older, I promise.”

“I’m older now.”

“That’s true, but older still.”

Zhenjin began to complain in a high voice as Chabi came out with two wrapped packages of food. In the time since his arrival, hundreds of gers had come down and been loaded onto carts, as far as they could see in any direction.

“You will beat them all, Kublai. I know it. You will show your brother he was right to send you against the Sung.” She reached up and kissed her husband on the neck.

KUBLAI WATCHED IN STRAINED SILENCE AS HIS TUMANS formed up ahead of him. The Sung would seek him out wherever he chose to stand, so he picked a grassy plain overlooked by a small hill and watched the gleaming regiments crawl across the land toward his men. Every one of his warriors knew he was there, the hand that held a sword over them. They would fight well in his sight.

The sun was shining, but his mood remained sour. He could not fathom the enemy tactics. His scouts reported more than one army heading toward his main camp, but they did not join together. Each one came in as if they were not part of a greater nation. He thanked the sky father for it, even as he cursed the numbers they could bring against him.

Kublai nodded to a boy seated on a camel near him, watching as the lad raised a long brass horn to his lips and blew a wailing note. It was answered by Bayar and Uriang-Khadai, taking four tumans each and advancing on the enemy squares. Twenty thousand men remained behind as the reserve, mounted and patient as they strained their eyes into the distance. Kublai took a stone from his pocket and rubbed his thumb along the curved lines. Yao Shu had said it would relax him.

His generals split up to ride along the flanks of the Sung force, finding the perfect distance just outside the range of crossbows. As Kublai watched, a sudden blur of shafts crossed the open air between the forces, like a cloud shadow moving across the open land.

The first arrows were followed by crushing volleys, loosed every six or eight heartbeats. The Sung foot soldiers compressed as their flanks jerked inward. The pace slowed and they left a trail of screaming men and the dead as they marched. They could not answer the tumans and Kublai clenched his fists as he saw sword regiments try to push through the terrible thorns that came punching into their shields and armor. Uriang-Khadai drew back as they charged, but the arrow storm didn’t falter and the rush of swordsmen collapsed. The orlok’s tumans came back into a straight firing line.

Kublai waited, his heart thumping. The last few shafts soared into the Chin and almost before the final one had landed, they were kicking their mounts into a gallop. Lances came down, but the Sung lowered their pikes and jammed the butts into the ground. The tumans hit like closing jaws, mirrored in Bayar’s men on the other flank. Kublai shook his head at the thought of men and horses running onto the vicious metal weapons, but there seemed to be no hesitation. They were close enough by then for him to see bright red slashes as horses and men were impaled.

“Send in the reserve,” he said clearly.

The drummer boy was staring at the battle with his mouth open and Kublai had to repeat the order before he raised his horn once again. Two more tumans began to trot and then canter toward the enemy. The lances worked well against the pikes bristling along the Sung front line, but Kublai had to struggle not to flinch in anticipation. He did not envy his men at that moment.

From the small hill, he saw the Sung regiments boxed in, still held on the flanks as their forward progress was halted by the new attack. He could not see as far as their rear, but he hoped some of them would be streaming away in terror.

He looked around at the sound of horses and his eyes widened. Some forty horsemen came galloping out of the woods at the bottom of the hill. He could see the heads of the animals lunging as they thundered up the gentle rise.

His guards were not idle. Before Kublai could give the order, all twenty of them were racing to meet the threat, galloping down the slope with bows bending as they went. Kublai jerked around in the saddle, looking for other threats. The battle went on ahead of him, barely eight hundred paces from his position, but he was suddenly alone with the drummer boy, who had gone as white as new felt. Kublai drew his sword, furious with himself for not scouting the copse. Humiliation burned in him as he thought of his confidence that morning, picking the best spot to secure a good view. Some Sung officer had guessed where he would stand and hidden men to wait for the right moment. Kublai flushed to have been outthought in such a way. He saw the first arrows soar, many of them caught on shields by the Sung horsemen. Even so, three of the horses fell in a spasm of kicking hooves, whinnying in pain.

The Mongol guards heaved back again, sending more of the Sung crashing down. They had left it late and barely had time to throw down the bows and draw swords before they were together, their speed combining so that men and animals crunched and fell stunned or dead. Kublai could hear high screams and fresh sweat broke out on him. He glanced at the battle still going on, but there was no signal to call reinforcements to his own position.

Barely a hundred paces along the slope, his guards were fighting like maniacs to stop the enemy getting closer. Kublai swallowed, feeling a heaviness in his limbs. It was fear, he realized. The Sung commander would have sent the best he had for such a task. They did not expect to live through it, but they would reach him.

His guards were swordsmen and archers from boyhood and they did not fall easily. Kublai stared as five of the enemy broke around his men and kicked their mounts on. Their swords were bloody and they yelled at the sight of him on his horse, with just one camel boy.

One of the guards threw his sword with vicious strength. It plunged into a Sung back, making the man cry out in agony. He fell with his arms tight in the reins, bringing the mount down with him. Kublai saw the guard cut down, suddenly defenseless. He had given his life by the act, but it would not be enough. Four Sung horsemen reached the crest and accelerated, holding their blades ready for the strike that would take his head. Kublai watched them, terror making him numb. He could not run. Some part of him knew his best chance of survival was to gallop away from them, but he would never recover from it. Cowardice was the least forgivable sin and if he ran he knew he would never command tumans again.

Some of his guards were still struggling with the enemy below, but two of them had seen the threat to him and cut their way free. Kublai saw them surging up the hill after the four enemy soldiers. He could feel every heartbeat as his mind worked clearly, assessing the chances. He shook his head, seeing his own death in the men who were coming for him. He raised his sword and the fear suddenly vanished, leaving him almost dizzy. He breathed again, aware only then that he had been holding it. It was almost a moment of joy to have the crippling terror leave him. He could move and the sound of the battle came back to him as his senses woke.

The four horsemen bore down on him and the drummer boy suddenly moved, yelling and digging in his heels. The camel lurched forward with a groaning bray of sound, directly into the path of the enemy. With a thump, the man in the lead struck the shaggy side of the animal and went flying over the boy. His horse smashed the camel to its knees and it bellowed, stretching its neck as it fell.

The men on Kublai’s left yanked their reins savagely, cursing as they missed the chance to strike. Kublai faced only one and his arm moved without thought to meet the blade he saw as a gray blur coming at his face. There was a clang as the man galloped past and Kublai felt the shock of it ripple up into his shoulder. Whoever the man was, he kept control of his snorting mount, reining in fast and turning to hack down in a wild blow. Kublai met it calmly. He was strong and his senses were all burning, giving him speed. It was not a conscious decision to counter, but his body moved from thousands of hours of training. As soon as the blades touched, he knew instinctively to slide the blade into a straight lunge. The Sung soldier jerked as the tip of Kublai’s blade sank into his throat and snagged on the cartilage. Blood sprayed and Kublai blinked through the sting.

The camel lurched to its feet with an unearthly noise, kicking out in panic and making Kublai’s horse skitter sideways. Another of the riders came in as the first slumped and slid away. Kublai felt his confidence swell as he turned a lunge to the side and reached out as Yao Shu had once taught him, half opening his sword hand to grab the man’s sleeve and yank him off balance.

His horse moved at the wrong moment then, walking backward as Kublai pulled. Instead of landing a punch on the exposed chin as the soldier’s head came forward, Kublai could only hang on and pull the man free of his saddle. He saw the man’s foot caught in a stirrup and as Kublai let go, the leg twisted and snapped. The soldier screamed and flailed as he hung helplessly with his head close to the ground, every movement wrenching the splintered bone.

Kublai grunted in pain as something striped his arm and he turned to see the one who had struck the camel’s shaggy side raising his sword for another blow. The man’s face was a bloody mess from hitting the ground and he staggered as he drew back. Kublai took his feet from the stirrups and kicked out, hitting the man in the jaw. As he moved, he felt a thump across his chest armor as someone strained to reach him. Kublai reeled in the saddle, swinging his sword desperately. He had a glimpse of his attacker snatched away as someone on the ground dragged him down and Kublai stared as one of his guards smashed savagely with his boots, over and over until the man’s ribs gave way.

Panting as if he had run for miles, Kublai met the eyes of the guard. The man nodded to him, not as a warrior to his officer, but as two men who had just survived a fight. Kublai blew air out slowly, looking around him. The Sung were all dead, but just four of his guards were still on their feet. Three of them stalked among the bodies down the hill, bringing their swords down in sharp blows at the slightest movement of wounded men. They were still raging and Kublai was alone with the last one standing, the man who had saved him.

The camel bellowed again in pain and Kublai saw its leg was broken, hanging as if only stretching skin kept it attached. His mind cleared and he looked around for the drummer boy who had thrown himself at the attackers. Kublai closed his eyes for a moment as he saw a sprawled figure on the ground. He dismounted, growling as his bruises made themselves known. The cut on his arm would have to be stitched. He could feel something dripping from his fingers and he raised his hand in surprise to look. There should have been more pain to produce so much bright red blood.

The boy had been knocked senseless, a large lump visible on his forehead. Kublai opened one of his eyes with a rough thumb and saw it twitch at the light. He was about to speak when he froze and remembered the battle he was meant to be commanding. His legs and back protested as he stood again. He did not try to mount, instead shading his eyes as he stared out.

The Sung had broken. Thousands of them stood in dejected silence, holding their hands up to show they had laid down their weapons. Many of them had already been bound and knelt with their heads down in exhaustion. In the distance, a few were racing away from the bloody field, hunted down in twos or threes by Mongol warriors. Kublai let go of his held breath, desperately relieved. The boy groaned and Kublai went back to him as he stirred.

“What is your name?” Kublai asked. He should have known it, but his mind felt thick and slow.

“Beran, my lord,” the boy replied, his voice weak. One of his eyes was red as blood seeped into it, but he would live.

“Your bravery saved me. I will not forget it. When you are old enough, come to me and I will give you command of a hundred men.”

The boy blinked through his pain and a smile began to spread before he turned to one side and vomited onto the grass.

Kublai helped him up and watched as Beran staggered to the camel, the boy’s swollen face distraught at what he saw.

“I will find you another mount, lad. That one is finished.”

The boy winced, though he understood. For a moment, Kublai met the gaze of the guard standing near him, the man’s expression somehow out of place. He too had been battered in the fight and Kublai could hardly find words to express his thanks. He wanted to reward him, but at the same time the man had done nothing more than his duty.

“Come and find me tonight, in my ger,” Kublai said. “I think I have a sword you’ll like. Something to remember our little fight on the hill.”

The guard grinned at him, revealing a bloody mouth and more than one missing tooth.

“Thank you, my lord. With your permission, I’d like to take my son back to his mother. She’ll be worrying.”

Kublai nodded stiffly, his mouth slightly open in surprise as the guard tapped the staggering drummer boy on the shoulder and walked him away down the hill. He could not help wonder if the man would have fought with such berserk energy if he had not seen his son knocked down, but it did not matter. Alone, Kublai sagged against the flank of his horse. He had survived. His hands began to shake and he held them up, seeing the sword calluses that ridged each finger of his bloody right hand. They were no longer ink-stained. For the first time, Kublai felt truly comfortable in the armor that had certainly saved his life. He began to laugh as he leaned against his mount, reaching out to rub its muzzle and leaving a bright smear of blood that the animal licked away.

TWENTY-FOUR

XUAN, SON OF HEAVEN AND HEIR TO THE CHIN EMPIRE, looked over the glassy surface of Hangzhou lake and listened to his children laughing as they splashed one another in the sun. He could see the ripples they made in the shallows spreading out over the deeper water, where a boatman fished for trout and stared too obviously in the direction of the Chin emperor’s family. Xuan sighed to himself. It was unlikely so lowly a man was a spy for the Sung court, but you never knew. In his years of peaceful captivity, Xuan had learned to trust no one outside his wife and children. There was always someone watching and reporting his every word and action. He had thought once that he would grow used to it in time, but in fact the opposite was true. Whenever he felt eyes on him, it was like already tender skin being prodded again and again until he wanted to rail and shout at them. He had done so once and the unlucky scribe who had made him angry had been quietly removed from his post, only to be replaced by another before the day was out. There was no true privacy. Xuan had come into Sung lands to escape a Mongol army and they had never been quite sure what to do with him. He was a cousin of the Sung emperor by blood and had to be treated with respect. At the same time, the twin branches of the family had not been friends or allies for centuries, and more importantly, he had lost his lands, his wealth and power—a sure sign that bad luck stalked his house. The truth was that luck had played a very small part in the tragedies he had known. The armies of Genghis had taken Yenking, his capital city. Xuan had been betrayed by his own generals and forced to kneel to the khan. Even decades later, the memories stirred restlessly beneath the calm face he showed the world. Yenking had burned, but the wolves of Genghis had still hunted him, relentless and savage. He had spent his youth running from them, city by city, year by year. The sons and brothers of Genghis had torn his lands apart until the only safe place was across the Sung border. It had been the worst of all choices, but the only one left to him.

Xuan had expected to be assassinated at first. As he was moved around the Sung regions from noble to noble, he used to jump up from his bed at every creak in the night, convinced they had come to end it. He had been certain they would stage his death to look like a robbery and hang a few peasants afterward for show. Yet the first decade had passed without his ever feeling a knife at his throat. The old Sung emperor had died and Xuan was not even sure the man’s son still remembered his existence. He looked at the wrinkled skin on the backs of his hands and made fists, smoothing them. Had it truly been sixteen years since he had crossed the border with the last of his army? He was forty-nine years old and he could still remember the proud little boy he had been, kneeling to Genghis in front of his capital city. He still remembered the words the khan had said to him: “All great men have enemies, Emperor. Yours will hear that you stood with my sword at your neck and not all the armies and cities of the Chin could remove the blade.”

The memories seemed part of another age, another lifetime. Xuan’s best years had vanished while he remained a captive, a slave, waiting to be remembered and quietly killed. He had seen his youth wither, blown away on silent winds.

Once again, he looked to the lake, seeing the young men and women bathing there. His sons and daughters, grown to adulthood. The figures were blurred, his eyes no longer sharp. Xuan sighed to himself, lost in melancholy that seemed to spin the days away from him, so that he was rarely in the world and sometimes only dimly aware of it. Their fates saddened him more than his own. After all, he had known freedom, at least for a time. His eldest son, Liao-Jin, was a bitter young man, petty in his moods and a trial to his brother and sisters. Xuan did not blame Liao-Jin for his weaknesses. He remembered how his own frustration had gnawed at him, before he managed at last to become numb to the passing seasons. It helped to read. He had found a freshly copied scroll of the Meditations of Marcus Aurelius in a library. Though he did not understand all of it, there was something about its message of accepting fate that fitted his situation.

Xuan still missed his wife, dead these ten years of some disease that ate her up from the inside. He had written many letters then, breaking his silence to beg the Sung court for doctors to save her. No one had come and each time he had been allowed to visit, she had grown a little weaker. His mind skittered away from the topic as it did with so many things. He dared not let his thoughts drift into the angry roads within.

A flight of ducks passed over his head and Xuan looked up at them, envying them their ability to fly and land wherever they wanted. It was such a simple thing, freedom, and so completely unappreciated by those who had it. Xuan was given a stipend each month for clothes and living expenses. He had servants to tend him and his rooms were always well furnished, though he was rarely allowed to stay in one place for more than a year. He had even been allowed to live with his children after the death of his wife, though he had discovered that was a mixed blessing at best. Yet he knew nothing of the outside world, or the politics of the Sung court. He lived in almost complete isolation.

Liao-Jin came out of the lake, dripping water from his lean body. His chest was bare and finely muscled, with his lower half covered in belted linen trousers that clung to him. The young man’s skin roughened in the breeze as he shivered and shook his long black hair. He toweled himself dry with brisk efficiency, looking over at his father and resuming his habitual scowl. At twenty, he was the oldest of the children, one of three Xuan had brought across the Sung border so many years before. The last, now a girl of twelve, had been born knowing no other way of life. Xuan smiled at her as she waved to him from the water. He was a doting father to his girls in a way that he found difficult with his two sons.

Liao-Jin pulled a simple shift over his head and tied his hair back. He could have been a young fisherman, without any sign of rank or wealth. Xuan watched him, wondering what sort of mood he would be in after the swim. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched his son walk up the small pebbly beach toward him. Sometimes, he could hardly recall the bright, cheerful boy Liao-Jin had once been. Xuan could still remember when his son had truly understood their situation for the first time. There had been tears and rages and sulky silences almost ever since. Xuan never knew what to expect from him.

Liao-Jin sat on the pebbles and pulled his knees up, clasping his hands around them to keep warm.

“Did you write to the prefect, as you said you would?” he asked suddenly.

Xuan closed his eyes for a moment, weary of the conversation even before it had begun.

“I did not say I would. He has not answered me for a long time.”

Liao-Jin’s mouth twisted unpleasantly.

“Well, why would he? What good are you?”

The young man gripped a handful of pebbles and threw them into the water in a jerky motion. One of his sisters yelped, though she had not been hit. When she saw who had thrown the stones, she shook her head in admonishment and waded out deeper.

When Liao-Jin spoke again, the tone was almost a whine.

“You know, there is no law to prevent me joining the Sung army, father. Whatever they think of you, I could rise. In time, perhaps I could have a house of my own. I could take a wife.”

“I would like that for you,” Xuan agreed distantly.

“Would you? You haven’t written to the one man who might agree. You have done nothing, as usual, while every day passes so slowly I can’t bear it. If my mother was alive …”

“She is not,” Xuan said, his own voice hardening to match his son’s. “And there is nothing I can do until this prefect moves on to another post, or dies. I do not believe he even reads my letters any longer. He has not replied to one for eight, no ten years!” His mood was spoiled, the peace of the day gone under his son’s fierce glare.

“I would rather be in prison than here with you,” Liao-Jin hissed at him. “At least there, I might dream of being released. Here, I have no hope at all. Shall I grow old? Do you expect me to tend you when your mind is gone and I am wrinkled and useless? I won’t. I’ll walk into the lake first, or put a rope around my neck. Or yours, father. Perhaps then they would let me walk away from my captivity.”

“There are servants to tend me, if I grow ill,” Xuan said weakly.

He hated to hear the bitterness in his son, but he understood it well enough. He had felt the same for a long time; part of him still did. Liao-Jin was like a stick stirring the muddy depths of his soul and he resisted, pulling away physically and coming to his feet rather than listen to any more. He raised his head to call his other children and paused. The distant towers of Hangzhou could be seen around them, the lake a creation of some ancient dynasty more than a thousand years before. On the rare days he was allowed there, he was rarely bothered by anyone, yet he saw a troop of cavalry trotting down from the road onto the shores of the lake. As he watched in vague interest, they turned in his direction. Xuan came to himself with a start.

“Out of the water, all of you,” he called. “Quickly now, there are men coming.”

His daughters squawked and Liao-Jin’s brother, Chiun, came out at a rush, spattering droplets onto the dry stones. The riders rode around the curving shore and Xuan became more and more certain they were coming for him. He could not help the spasm of fear that touched his heart. Even Liao-Jin had fallen silent, his face set in stern lines. It was not impossible that the soldiers had been told to make them disappear at last and both of them knew it.

“Did you write to anyone on your own?” Xuan asked his son, without looking away from the strangers riding in. Liao-Jin hesitated long enough for him to know he had. Xuan cursed softly to himself.

“I hope you have not drawn the attention of someone who might wish ill on us, Liao-Jin. We have never been among friends.”

The soldiers drew to a halt just twenty paces from the shivering girls as they moved back to stand close to their father and brothers. Xuan hid his fear as the officer dismounted, a short stocky figure with gray hair and a wide, almost square face that was ruddy with health. The man flicked his reins over his horse’s head and strode to the small group watching him.

Xuan noted the small lion symbol etched into the officer’s scaled armor as he bowed. He did not know every rank of the Sung military, but he knew the man had proven himself as an archer and swordsman, as well as passing an exam on tactics in one of the city barracks.

“This humble soldier is Hong Tsaio-Wen,” the man said. “I have orders to escort his majesty Xuan, Son of Heaven, to the Leopard barracks to be fitted with armor.”

“What? What is this?” Xuan demanded incredulously.

Tsaio-Wen stared at him with unblinking eyes. “His majesty’s men have been assembled there,” he replied, stiff with the formal idiom that would not allow him to address Xuan directly. “His majesty will want to join them there.” He raised an arm to gesture to his men and Xuan saw they had brought a spare horse, saddled and waiting. “His majesty will desire to come with me now.”

Xuan felt ice touch his heart and he wondered if the moment had come when the Sung emperor had finally tired of his existence. It was possible that he would be taken to a place of execution and quietly made to vanish. He knew better than to argue. Xuan had known many Sung soldiers and officials in the sixteen years of his captivity. If he demanded reasons or explanation, Tsaio-Wen would simply repeat his orders with placid indifference, never less than polite. Xuan had grown used to the stone walls of Sung manners.

To his surprise, it was his son who spoke.

“I would like to come with you, father,” Liao-Jin said softly.

Xuan winced. If this was an order for his execution, his son’s presence would only mean one more body at sunset. He shook his head, hoping it was answer enough. Instead, Liao-Jin stepped around to face him.

“They have allowed your men to assemble, after how long? This is important, father. Let me come with you, whatever it turns out to be.”

The Sung officer could have been made of stone as he stood there, giving Xuan no sign he had even heard. Despite himself, Xuan looked past his son and spoke.

“Why am I needed now, after so long?”

The soldier remained silent, his eyes like black glass. Yet there was no aggression in his stance. It had been a long time since Xuan had judged the mood of fighting men, but he sensed no violence from the rest of the small troop. He made his decision.

“Liao-Jin, I commission you as yinzhan junior officer. I will explain your duties and responsibilities at a later time.”

His son flushed with pleasure and he went down on one knee, bowing his head. Xuan rested his hand on the back of his son’s neck for a moment. Years before, he might have resisted any sign of affection, but he did not care if some honorless Sung soldiers saw it.

“We are ready,” Xuan said to Tsaio-Wen.

The officer shook his head slightly before speaking.

“I have only one spare horse and orders to bring his majesty to the barracks. I have no orders about any other.”

The man’s tone was sour and Xuan felt an old anger stir in him, one he had not allowed himself to feel in years. A man in his position could have no honor, could allow himself no pride. Yet he stepped closer to the soldier and leaned in, his eyes bright with rage.

“Who are you to speak to me in such a way? You, a dog-meat soldier of no family? What I choose to do is no concern of yours. Tell one of your men to dismount and walk back, or give up your own mount.”

Hong Tsaio-Wen had lived his life in a rigid hierarchy. He responded to Xuan’s certainty as he would have to any other senior officer. His head dipped and his eyes no longer challenged. Xuan was certain then that this was no execution detail. His thoughts whirled as Tsaio-Wen snapped orders to his men and one of them dismounted.

“Tell your brother to take your sisters home,” Xuan said loudly to Liao-Jin. “You will accompany me to the barracks. We will see then what is so important that I must be disturbed.”

Liao-Jin could hardly hide his mingled delight and panic as he passed on the word to his siblings. He had ridden a few times in his life, but never a trained warhorse. He dreaded embarrassing his father as he ran to the mount and leapt up into the saddle. The animal snorted at the unfamiliar rider and Xuan’s head snapped around, suddenly thoughtful.

“Wait,” he said. He passed his eyes over the other horses and found one that stood placidly, without any of the bunched tension of the first mount. Xuan looked across at Tsaio-Wen and saw the man’s hidden anger. Perhaps the officer had not deliberately chosen the most unruly mount in his troop, but he doubted it. It had been many years since Xuan had managed soldiers, but the old habits came back to him. He strode across to another rider and looked up at him with complete certainty that he would be obeyed.

“Get down,” he said.

The soldier barely looked at Tsaio-Wen before he swung his leg over and jumped to the shingle.

“This one,” Xuan called to his son.

Liao-Jin had not understood what his father was doing, but he too dismounted and came over, taking the reins.

Xuan nodded to him without explanation, then raised his hand briefly to the rest of his family. They stood forlorn, watching as their father and brother mounted up and rode away along the shore of the lake, heading back into the city of Hangzhou.

TWENTY-FIVE

HANGZHOU HAD MANY BARRACKS FOR THE EMPEROR’S ARMIES. The best of them enclosed training grounds and even baths, where the soldiers could learn their trade, strengthen their bodies, and then sleep and eat in huge dormitories.

The Leopard barracks showed signs of having been abandoned for many years. The roofs sagged and the training ground was overgrown with weeds poking through the sand and stones. Xuan rode under an archway covered in lichen and drew to a halt with Tsaio-Wen’s men in an open courtyard. He was flushed from the ride, long-unused muscles complaining in his legs and back. Yet he felt better than he had in years at just that taste of freedom and command.

Tsaio-Wen dismounted without a word or a glance at the two men he had brought with him. Xuan could see the traces of anger in the man’s walk as he strode into the first building. Xuan looked over to his son and jerked his head for him to get down from his borrowed horse. He did not know what to expect, but there had been so little novelty in recent years that almost anything would be welcome.

The troop of riders stood in silence and waited. After a time, Tsaio-Wen came out and took his reins. To Xuan’s surprise, he mounted, turning his horse back to the gate. Two of his men gathered the reins of the horses Xuan and his son had ridden and began to lead them away.

“What is this?” Xuan said. He knew Tsaio-Wen had heard him from the way the man stiffened. The officer chose to have his revenge in impoliteness and there was no reply. The troop rode away, leaving father and son to stare at each other in confusion.

A loud cry sounded from close by and Xuan spun around. Running toward him, he saw faces he knew, memories of a different life. Liao-Jin tensed as if they were about to be attacked, but his father laid a hand on his arm. When he spoke, his eyes were bright with tears.

“I know these men, Liao-Jin. They are my people.” He smiled, realizing that his son would not recognize any of the men coming out and crowding around them. “They are your people.”

Xuan had to work hard to keep the smile on his face as he began to recognize men he had not seen for sixteen years. Time was never kind. Age had never made a man stronger, or faster, or more vital. He felt wrenched within, shocked over and over. He kept seeing faces he remembered as young, unlined, and somehow they were still there, but become wrinkled and weary. Perhaps at home they would have been less marked by the years. He doubted they had ever been well fed or allowed to stay fit.

They pressed in close and some of them even reached out to touch his clothes, almost to reassure themselves he was real. Then voices he had not heard for too long shouted orders and they fell back. The courtyard continued to fill as more and more came out from the dormitories, but those who had been officers were snapping orders at them to form ranks for an inspection. They smiled as they did so and there were many questions called from their number. Xuan could not answer them. He could hardly speak for the swelling emotions that filled him. He stood straight, his eyes shining as they made ragged groups of a hundred and marched out to take position on the weed-strewn parade ground.

It was not long before he realized the numbers coming out were thinning. Xuan’s heart sank. He had brought some forty thousand men into Sung lands. Some would always have died—the oldest among them would have been close to seventy by then. Natural causes would have taken a toll, but when he counted the silent squares, the total was only eight thousand men.

“Where did you all go?” he murmured to himself.

One man who had been shouting orders was dressed in little more than filthy rags. He was emaciated and where his skin showed it was marked in dirt that had almost been tattooed into him. It was pitiful to see such a figure trying to stand tall. Xuan did not recognize him, but he walked over and met the man’s eyes. They searched his, glimmering with hope where there should have been none.

“It has been a long time,” Xuan said. He was about to ask the man’s name when it came to him, with the rank first, flashing into his head from over the years. “Shao Xiao Bohai.”

Xuan blinked back pain as Bohai smiled to reveal just a couple of long yellow teeth in an empty jaw. The man had once commanded thousands, one of his experienced sword officers, but it was almost impossible to reconcile the memories with the skeletal figure who stood before him.

“Is this all the men?” Xuan asked.

Bohai dipped his head, then dropped prostrate on the ground. The rest of them followed on the instant, so that only Xuan and his son remained standing.

“Up, all of you,” Xuan ordered. His eyes had dried and he knew he could show no more emotion to these men. They needed more than that from him.

“Well, Shao Xiao Bohai? You have not answered my question. You may speak freely to me.”

The man’s voice only creaked at first. He wet his lips and gums with his tongue until he could shape words.

“Some of us ran. Most were brought back and killed in front of us. Others never returned.”

“But so many?” Xuan said, shaking his head.

“His majesty will not want to hear the complaints of soldiers,” Bohai said, staring off into the middle distance.

“I order you to tell me,” Xuan replied softly. He waited while the man wet his lips once more.

“There were fevers each summer and some died from bad food. One year, some six thousand of us were taken away to work in a coal mine. They did not return. Each month, we lose a few to the guards they set, or Sung nobles looking for entertainment. We do not always know the fates of those who are taken away. They don’t come back. Your majesty, I have not seen the whole group together for sixteen years. I did not know until three days ago that we had lost so many.” A spark appeared in the man’s dull eyes. “We endured in the hope of seeing his majesty one last time before death. That has been granted. If there is to be no rescue, no release, it will be enough.”

Xuan turned and saw his son standing with an expression of horror on his face.

“Close your mouth, my son,” he said softly. “These are good men, of your blood. Do not shame them for what they cannot control.” His voice rose in volume, so that Bohai and those close by heard his words.

“They are filthy because they have not been given water. They are starved because they have not been given food. See beyond the rags, my son. They are men of honor and strength, proven in their endurance. They are your people and they fought for me once.”

Xuan had not heard the Sung officer Tsaio-Wen approach behind him until the man spoke.

“How touching. I wonder if their emperor will embrace them in their shit and lice?”

Xuan spun around and stepped very close to Tsaio-Wen. He seemed oblivious to the sword that hung from Tsaio-Wen’s belt.

“You again? Have I not yet taught you humility?” To Tsaio-Wen’s astonishment, Xuan prodded him in the chest with a stiffened finger. “These men were allies to your emperor, but how have they been treated? Starved, left in their own dirt without proper food? My enemies would have treated them better than you.”

Sheer surprise held Tsaio-Wen still for a moment. When his hand dropped to his sword, Xuan stepped even closer, so that their noses came together and angry spittle touched Tsaio-Wen’s face.

“I have lived long enough, dog-meat. Show a blade to me and see what these unarmed men will do to you with their bare hands.”

Tsaio-Wen looked past him and was suddenly aware of all the ranks of furious men watching the scene. Carefully, he stepped back. Xuan was pleased to see a line of sweat along his forehead.

“Personally, I would let you all starve,” Tsaio-Wen said. “But instead, you are to be sent out against the Mongol tumans. No doubt the emperor would rather see Mongol swords blunted on your skulls than on Sung soldiers.”

He handed over a package of orders and Xuan took them, trying to hide his astonishment. He broke the imperial seal he knew so well and read quickly as Tsaio-Wen turned away. The Sung officer managed to cross some forty paces of the parade ground before Xuan raised his head.

“Stop,” he shouted. The soldier marched on, his stiff back showing his anger. Xuan raised his voice to a bellow. “You are mentioned in these orders, Hong Tsaio-Wen.”

The Sung officer scraped to a halt. His face red with rage, he came back. Xuan ignored him, continuing to read while the man stood quivering in indignation.

“It seems my cousin the emperor is not a complete fool,” Xuan said. Tsaio-Wen hissed at the insult, but he did not move. “He has recalled that there is only one group in his lands who have faced the Mongols before—and held them off. You see those men before you, Tsaio-Wen.” To his pleasure, the closest ranks pulled their shoulders back as they heard. “It says that I should expect armorers and trainers to fit them once more for war. Where are these men?”

“On their way,” Tsaio-Wen grated through a clenched jaw. “Where is my name mentioned?”

“Here,” Xuan said, showing him the page of thick vellum covered in tiny black characters. It surprised him that the officer could read. Things had changed since his day.

“I do not see it,” Tsaio-Wen said, squinting at the page.

“There. Where it says I may choose Sung officers to help with the supplies and training. I choose you, Tsaio-Wen. I enjoy your company too much to let you go.”

“You can’t,” Tsaio-Wen replied. Once again his hand fell to the sword and then dropped away at a guttural snarl from the closest men.

“Your emperor has written that I can, Tsaio-Wen. Choose to obey me or choose to hang, I do not care which. The emperor has said we will march again. Perhaps we will be destroyed, I do not know. Perhaps we will triumph. It will be easier to decide when we have eaten well and grown strong, I know that. Have you made your decision, Hong Tsaio-Wen?”

“I will obey the orders of my emperor,” the man said, promising death with his eyes.

“You are a wise man to show such obedience and humility,” Xuan said. “You will be a lesson to all of us. Now it says here that there are funds available, so send runners into the city for food. My men are hungry. Send for doctors to tend the weak and sick. Employ servants to clean the barracks and painters to make it fresh. Find roofers to repair broken tiles, carpenters to rebuild the stables, butchers and ice men to fill the basements with meat. You will be busy, Tsaio-Wen, but do not despair. Your work benefits the last Chin army and there is no better cause.”

Tsaio-Wen’s eyes drifted to the papers Xuan held in his hand. Whatever the injustice or humiliation, he dared not refuse. Just a word from one of his senior officers that he had balked at a lawful order and he would be finished. He bowed his head as if he had to break bones to do it, then turned on his heel and walked away.

Xuan turned to the incredulous smiles on the faces of his men. His son could only stare and shake his head in amazement.

“None of us thought today would end like this,” Xuan said. “We will grow strong in the months to come. We will eat well and train again with sword, pike, and bow. It will be hard. None of us are young men any longer. When we are ready, we will leave this place for the last time. It does not matter whether we ride against the Mongols. It does not matter if we ride into hell. What matters … is that we will leave.”

His voice broke as he said the last words and they cheered him, their voices growing stronger and louder until they echoed across the parade ground and the barracks beyond.

IN THE GERS OF THE CAMP HEALERS, KUBLAI SAT IN GRIM silence as the wound on his arm was bandaged by a harried shaman. The man’s hands were deft and practiced, working by instinct. Kublai grimaced in pain as the shaman tied off the knot and bowed briefly before moving on. General Bayar was just two cots down, wearing the cold face of indifference as another shaman worked to sew a gash on his leg that slowly dripped dark red blood.

Yao Shu approached, bearing a sheaf of paper with hastily scrawled figures.

“Where are the Sung guns?” Kublai asked Bayar suddenly. He did not want to hear the numbers of maimed and dead from Yao Shu, not then. He was still shaking slightly from his own fight on the hill, a quivering deep inside him that had lasted far longer than the swift struggle itself. Bayar stood to answer him, flexed his leg with a wince.

“We found them still being brought up, my lord, a mile or so back. I have our own men looking them over.”

“How many cannon?”

“Only forty, but enough powder and balls for a dozen shots each. Smaller shot than the ones we had.”

“Then abandon our own. Have oil wiped over them and cover them with oiled linen, but leave them where they are until we have a respite or we make more shot and powder.”

Bayar looked wearily at him. They had received news of two more armies approaching the area, marching hard and fast to support the ones that had gone before. Their only chance was to ride to the first and smash it before they faced a battle on two fronts.

“Have you retrieved the arrows?” Kublai asked.

Bayar was swaying as he stood, utterly exhausted. Kublai saw him summon his will to answer, a visible effort that reduced him to awe.

“I have a minghaan out among the dead, collecting any that can be reused. We’ll get perhaps half of them back. I’ll have more sent to the camp to be repaired. They’ll bring them up to us when the work is done.”

“Send them with the wounded men who can’t fight,” Kublai said. “And check the stocks in the camp. I need the fletchers working day and night. We can’t run out.” He clenched his fist and looked at Yao Shu, waiting patiently. “All right. How many men have we lost?”

The old man did not need to consult his lists for the total.

“Nine thousand and some hundreds. Six thousand of those dead and the rest too badly cut to go on. The shamans say we’ll lose another thousand by morning, more over the next week.”

Bayar swore under his breath and Kublai shuddered, his arm throbbing in time with his pulse. A tenth of his force had gone. He was sore and tired, but he knew the dawn would bring another fight against fresher soldiers. He could only hope the long march had taken the edge off the Sung troops.

“Tell the men to eat and sleep as best they can. I need them ready before dawn for whatever comes. Send Uriang-Khadai to me.”

“Lord, you have been wounded. You should rest.”

“I will, when I am certain the scouts are all out and the wounded are being taken back to the main camp. It will be a cold meal tonight.”

Bayar bit his lip, then decided to speak again.

“You need to be alert for tomorrow, my lord. Uriang-Khadai and I have everything else in hand. Please rest.”

Kublai stared at him. Though his body ached and his legs felt weak with weariness, he could not imagine sleeping. There was too much to do.

“I’ll try,” he promised. “When I have spoken to the orlok.”

“Yes, my lord,” Bayar said.

A scout came through the camp, searching the wounded and those tending them. Kublai saw him first and his heart sank. He watched the man out of the corner of his eye, seeing him ask someone who pointed in Kublai’s direction. As the scout came up, Kublai glared at him.

“What is it?”

“A third army, my lord. Coming from the east.”

“Are you sure this isn’t the same report I had before?” Kublai demanded. The man paled to see him angry and Kublai tried to get ahold of himself.

“No, my lord. They have been marked. This is a new one, around sixty thousand strong.”

“The wasp nest,” Bayar murmured at Kublai’s side. He nodded.

Kublai wanted to ride again immediately, but Uriang-Khadai came to him as he was spooning a bowl of cold stew into his mouth and chewing, his eyes glazed.

The orlok had a strange expression on his face as he stood before Kublai. In less than a week, they had survived three major battles, each time outnumbered. Uriang-Khadai had expected the younger man to falter a hundred times, but he had always been there, giving calm orders, shoring up a failing line, sending in reinforcements as necessary. The orlok saw exhaustion in the khan’s brother, but he had not broken under the strain, at least not yet.

“My lord, the third army is smaller and won’t be in range until tomorrow or the day after. If we ride toward them now, we can rest before the battle. The men will be fresher and if we have to fight twice tomorrow, they have a better chance of living through it.”

Uriang-Khadai was tense as he waited for an answer. He had grown used to the younger man ignoring his advice, but out of a sense of duty, he still gave it. He was ready to be rebuffed.

“All right,” Kublai said, surprising him. “We’ll ride east and break contact with the large force.”

“Yes, my lord,” Uriang-Khadai said, almost stammering his answer. It did not seem enough. “Thank you,” he said.

Kublai put down the empty bowl and rubbed his face with both hands. Apart from being unconscious for a time, he could not remember when he had last slept. He felt dizzy and ill.

“I may not always listen, Orlok. But you have more experience than I. I don’t forget that. We’ll move the main camp out of their range as well. I need to find a safe place for them, a forest or a valley where they can rest. We have to keep moving and they can’t match our pace.”

Uriang-Khadai murmured a response and unbent enough to bow. He wanted to say something to raise the spirits of the young man who sat with his legs sprawled, too tired to move. Nothing came to mind and he bowed again as he withdrew.

Bayar had seen the exchange and strolled over, his mouth quirking as he watched Uriang-Khadai begin to issue the new orders.

“He likes you, you know,” Bayar said.

“He thinks I am a fool,” Kublai said without thinking, then chewed his lips irritably. Tiredness made it hard to keep his mouth shut. He had to lead without any show of weakness, not invite confidences.

“No, he doesn’t,” Bayar replied. He nodded to himself, still watching Uriang-Khadai. “Did you see him this morning when the Sung overran the wing? He didn’t panic, just pulled back, re-formed the men, and shored up his position. It was good work.”

Kublai wished Bayar would stop talking. The last thing he wanted was to invite one officer to comment on another.

“He isn’t a natural leader, Uriang-Khadai,” Bayar said.

Kublai closed his eyes with a sigh, seeing green lights flash across the darkness.

“The men respect him,” Bayar went on. “They have seen his competence. They don’t worship him, but they know he won’t throw them away for nothing. That means a great deal to the ranks.”

“Enough, General. He’s a good man and so are you. We all are. Now get on your horse and drag the tumans twenty more miles so we can intercept a Sung lord.”

Bayar laughed at the tone, but he ran to his horse and was wheeling the mount and giving orders before Kublai dragged his eyes open again.

IN THE YEARS SINCE MONGKE HAD BECOME KHAN, THE NUMBERS in the nation had grown beyond anything Genghis would have recognized. His brother Arik-Boke had benefited from peace on the plains of home and the birth rate had soared. Karakorum had become a settled city, with a growing population outside the walls in new districts of stone and wood, so that the original city was hidden from view. The soil was good and Mongke had encouraged large families, knowing that they would swell the armies of the khan. When he rode out in spring, he took with him twenty-eight tumans, more than a quarter of a million men, traveling light and fast. They took no cannon and only the minimum of supplies. With horsemen just like those, Genghis and Tsubodai had swept across continents. Mongke was ready to do the same.

He had tried to be a modern khan, to continue the work Ogedai had begun in making a stable civilization across the vast territories of his khanate. For years, he had struggled with the urge to be in the field, to ride, to conquer. Every instinct had pulled his mind away from the petty rule of cities, but he had strangled all his doubts, forcing himself to rule while his generals, princes, and brothers cut the new paths. The great khanate had been won quickly, in just three generations. He could not escape a sense that it could be lost even faster unless he built and made laws to last. He had fostered trade links and yam stations, strings across the land that bound men together, so that the poorest sheep farmer knew there was a khan as his lord. Mongke had seen to it that each vast region had its khanate government reporting to him, so that those who had suffered could make their complaint and perhaps even see warriors come to answer for them. At times, he thought it was too big, too complicated for anyone to understand, but somehow it worked. Where there was obvious corruption, it was rooted out by his scribes and those responsible were removed from their high positions. The governors of his cities knew they answered to a higher authority than their own and it kept them quiet, whether from fear or security, he did not know. The taxes came in a flood, and rather than bury them in vaults, he used them to build schools, roads, and new towns for the nation.

Peace was more effort than war, Mongke had realized early on in his time as khan. Peace wore a man down, where war could give him life and strength. There had been times when he thought his brothers would return to Karakorum to find him a withered husk, ground to nothing under the great stone of responsibility that was always turning above his head.

As he rode with his tumans, Mongke felt himself shedding the weight of the years. It was hard not to think of his trek with Tsubodai, facing Christian knights and battering foreign armies into submission. Tsubodai would have given fingers from his right hand for such an army as the one Mongke now commanded. Mongke had been young then and being back in the saddle with armed ranks before and behind was rejuvenating, an echo of his youth that filled him with joy. His horizons had been too small for too long. Chin lands lay to the south and he would see this new city Kublai had created on the good black soil. He would see Xanadu and decide for himself if Kublai had overstepped his authority. He could not imagine Hulegu ever turning away from the great khan, his brother, but Kublai had always been independent, a man who needed to know he was watched. Mongke could not shake the suspicion that he had better not leave Kublai too long alone.

Hulegu’s letter to him under personal seal had been the only sour moment in months of preparation. Mongke told himself he did not fear the Assassins his brother had stirred from their apathy, but what man would not? He knew he could hold his nerve in a battle, with everything going wrong around him. He could lead a charge and face men. His courage was a proven thing. Yet the thought of some masked murderer pressing a knife to his throat as he slept made him shudder. If there were Assassins dedicated to his death, he had surely left them behind for another year or two.

Arik-Boke had come to Karakorum to take over the administration while he was away. Mongke had made sure he too understood the risk, but his youngest brother had laughed, pointing to the guards and servants that scurried everywhere in the palace and the city. No one could get in unseen. It had eased Mongke’s mind to know his brother would be safe—and to leave the city behind him.

In just fourteen days, his tumans were in range of Xanadu, less than two hundred miles north of Yenking and the northern Chin lands. Half his army were barely twenty years old and they rode the distances easily, while Mongke suffered from lack of fitness. Only his pride kept him going when his muscles were ropes of pain, but the worst days came early and his body began to remember its old strength after nine or ten in the saddle.

Mongke shook his head in silent awe at the sight of a new city growing on the horizon. His brother had created something on the grand scale, turning fantasies into reality. Mongke found he was proud of Kublai and he wondered what changes he would see when they met again. He could not deny his own sense of satisfaction in bringing it about. He had sent Kublai into the world, forcing his younger brother to look beyond his dusty books. He knew Kublai was unlikely to be grateful, but that was the way of things.

They stopped in Xanadu long enough for Mongke to tour the city and work his way through the dozens of yam messages that had gone ahead or reached him while he traveled. He grumbled as he dealt with them, but there were few places he could ride where the yam riders couldn’t find him eventually. The khanates did not remain still simply because Mongke was in the field. On some days, he found himself working as hard as he had in Karakorum and enjoying it about as much.

He stripped Xanadu of food, salt, and tea in the short time he was there. The inhabitants would go hungry for a while, but his was the greater need. So many tumans could not scavenge as they went. For the first time in his memory, Mongke had to keep a supply line open behind him, so that there were always hundreds of carts coming slowly south in the wake of his warriors. The supplies backed up while he rested in Xanadu, but when he left, they spread out again, paid for thousands of miles away in Karakorum and the northern Chin cities. Mongke grinned at the thought of his shadow stretching so far. Their food would catch them up whenever they stopped and he thought bandits were unlikely to risk raiding his carts, with the khan’s scouts never too far away.

He pushed the tumans south, reveling in the distances they could travel, faster than anyone but a yam rider able to change horses at every station. For the great khan, the tumans would ride to the end of the world without complaint. On minimum rations, he had already lost some of the flesh that clung to his waist and his stamina was increasing, adding to his sense of well-being.

Mongke crossed the northern Sung border on a cold autumn day, with the wind blustering along the lines of horsemen. Hangzhou lay five hundred miles to the south, but there were at least thirty cities between the tumans and the emperor’s capital, each well garrisoned. Mongke smiled as he rode, kicking in his heels and enjoying the rush of air past his face. He had given Kublai a simple task, but his brother could never have succeeded on his own. The twenty-eight tumans Mongke had brought would be the hammer that crushed the Sung emperor. It was an army greater than any Genghis had ever put in the field and as he galloped along a dusty road, Mongke felt his years in Karakorum slowly tear into dusty rags, leaving him fresh and unencumbered. For once, the yam riders were behind. Without the staging posts, they could make no better time than his own men and he felt truly free for the first time in years. He understood at last the truth of Genghis’s words. There was no better way to spend a life than this.

TWENTY-SIX

KUBLAI AND BAYAR SAT WITH THEIR BACKS AGAINST THE same massive boulder of whitish gray stone. Uriang-Khadai watched them, his face unreadable. The twin of the huge stone loomed nearby, so that between them was a sheltered area that local sheep must have used every time it rained. The ground there was so thick with droppings that no grass showed at all and everyone who walked through it found their boots getting heavier and heavier as they went.

The sheep had gone, of course. Kublai’s tumans had rounded up eighty or so, and for some lucky warriors there would be hot meat that night. The rest would have to make do with blood from their spare mounts, along with a little mare’s milk or cheese, whatever they had.

Ponies grazed all around them, whickering and snorting as they cropped grass that grew in clumps so thick that it made progress slow over the hills. They could not even trot on such an uneven surface. The horses had to be walked slowly, their heads drooping with weariness.

“We could circle back to the last site,” Bayar said. “They won’t expect that and we need those arrows.”

Uriang-Khadai nodded wearily. Though he had gone with Tsubodai into the west, he had never known such a constant run of battles before. There had been a time when he had scorned reports of swarming Sung cities, but the reality was every bit as bad as he had been told. Kublai’s tumans had run out of gunpowder, shot, and arrows, the sheer numbers of the enemy overwhelming them. Uriang-Khadai could still hardly believe they had been forced to retreat, but he had lost track of the armies they had beaten, and the one struggling to reach them was fresh and well armed. The tumans were down to swords for the most part, with even their lances broken and thrown away. Faced with new regiments racing toward them, Kublai had withdrawn at speed, seeking out the high ground.

“Are they still there?” Kublai asked.

Bayar stood up with a groan on aching legs, peering past the boulder. Below, he could see Sung regiments in ragged squares, seeming to inch their way up the slopes of the mountain.

“Still coming,” Bayar said, slumping back. Kublai swore, though it was no more than he had expected. “We can’t fight on this ground, you know that?”

“I know, but we can stay ahead of them,” Kublai said. “We’ll find a way out of the hills and when it’s dark, we’ll ride clear of them. They won’t catch up, not today anyway.”

“I don’t like leaving the main camp unprotected for this long,” Uriang-Khadai said. “If one of those armies comes across them, they’ll be slaughtered.”

Kublai tensed his jaw, irritated at Uriang-Khadai for reminding him. Chabi and Zhenjin were safe, he told himself again. His scouts had found a good spot in a forest that stretched for hundreds of miles. The families and camp followers would have headed for the deepest part of it, as far from a road as they could get. Yet it only took one scout to spot smoke from a fire or hear the bleating of the herds. They would fight, of course. Chabi’s calm courage made his chest grow tight in memory, but he agreed with Uriang-Khadai about the outcome. A small voice within him worried as much about the stocks of arrows held in the camp. Without them, his tumans were a wolf whose teeth had been drawn.

“You find me a way to make this Sung bastard vanish and I’ll ride back and see how they are getting on,” Kublai said irritably. “Until then, we’ll just stay ahead of them and hope we aren’t riding into the arms of another noble out hunting for us.”

“I would like to send a small, fast group for arrows,” Uriang-Khadai said. “Even a few thousand shafts would make a difference at this point. Twenty scouts riding fast should be able to get past the Sung forces.”

Kublai multiplied numbers in his head and blew air out slowly. He didn’t doubt his scouts could survive the ride out, but coming back, with a quiver under each arm, one on their back, two tied to the saddle? They would be defenseless, easy prey for the first Sung cavalry to spot them. He needed more than two thousand arrows. He needed half a million at a minimum. The best stocks of fletched birch shafts lay on battlefields for fifty miles behind them, already warping from damp and exposure. It was infuriating. He had prided himself on his organization, but the Sung armies had just kept coming, giving his men no time to rest.

“We need to find another city, one with an imperial barracks,” he said. “They have what we need. Where are the maps?”

Bayar reached inside his tunic and pulled out a sweat-stained sheet of goatskin, dark yellow and folded many times, so that whitish lines showed as he opened it out. There were dozens of cities shown on the map, marked in characters painted by some long-dead scribe. Bayar pointed to one that lay beyond the range of mountains where the tumans sprawled in exhaustion.

“Shaoyang,” he said, jabbing a finger at it. Sweat dripped as he leaned over, so that dark spots appeared on the material. With a curse, he wiped his face with both hands.

“That’s clear then,” Kublai said. “We need to reach this city, overcome their garrison and somehow get to their stores of weaponry before the army behind catches up, or the population turns out and finishes us.” He laughed bitterly to himself.

Uriang-Khadai spoke as Kublai leaned back. “There is a chance the garrison is already out,” he said thoughtfully. “For all we know, we may have already beaten them. Or they could be out looking for us, like every other Sung soldier in the region.”

Kublai sat up, struggling to think through his exhaustion.

“If they’re in place, we could draw them away. If we sent a few men into the markets with information to sell, maybe. Rumors of a Mongol army fifty miles in the wrong direction would surely bring the garrison out. We know by now there are standing orders to attack us on sight. They could not remain in the city with the right bait.”

“If they are there at all,” Uriang-Khadai agreed.

“If they ignore the news, we will be waiting to enter a hostile city, with another army coming up fast behind us,” Bayar pointed out. He was surprised to be the one urging caution, but Uriang-Khadai seemed to be caught up in the idea.

Kublai stood up, stretching his aching legs and looking down the mountain to the Sung regiments plodding after them. The ground was so broken with its clumps and hillocks of grass that they could not move any faster than those they chased. He could be thankful for that at least. He felt his head clear with the movement and gave a low whistle to the closest minghaan officers, jerking his head in the direction of travel. It was time to move on again.

“You know I’d love to get into their stores,” he said, “but even if the garrison is already out, the prefect of the city won’t let us just walk in and take what we need.”

“The citizens of Shaoyang won’t know how the war is going,” Uriang-Khadai said. “If you gave them the chance, he might surrender to you.”

Kublai looked closely for some sign of mockery, but Uriang-Khadai’s face was like stone. Kublai grinned for a moment.

“He might,” he agreed. “I’ll think about it as we go. Come on, the ones following are getting too close. What do you say to a fast ten miles over the peak to put some distance between us?”

All those who heard made some groaning noise at the prospect, but they lurched to their feet. With the ground so broken, it was all they could do to stop the Sung regiments below snapping at their heels.

MONGKE HATED SIEGES, BUT WITHOUT A MASSIVE FORCE of catapults and cannon, he faced the same problems Genghis had once known. Cities were designed to keep out marauding armies such as his, though for once they were not his main objective. Somewhere to the south, Kublai was engaging the Sung armies. Mongke would have liked to smash down the walls of the cities he passed, but his primary aim was to reach Kublai. It suited his purposes well enough if every city barred its gates against him—and the garrisons stayed safely inside. His problem lay in the supply line, which grew more and more vulnerable with every mile he rode south. Cities who hid from a quarter of a million warriors would not mind sallying out against a long line of carts, guarded by just a few thousand. When the line broke somewhere behind him, he had been forced to reduce the rations. He had sent scouts out for well over a hundred miles to report any herds he might snap up. It was one resource the Sung cities could not protect behind their walls, and as he entered a region of rich grassland Mongke saw so many cattle that his supply lines became unnecessary. For a glorious few days, his men feasted on charred beef still dripping with blood, putting back some of the body fat they had lost in hard riding. In its way, the problems of a campaign were equal to anything Mongke had dealt with in Karakorum, but he took more satisfaction in simple obstacles he could face and overcome.

As he went on, Mongke noted the cities he would return to when he had finished sweeping through the south with Kublai. He looked forward to seeing his brother more and more, imagining Kublai’s face when he saw the host Mongke had brought to support him.

Towns were easy prey compared to the great cities. Mongke’s tumans could fell trees and leave stubs of branches in just a morning, using them as rough ladders to climb lesser walls. Yet even then, Mongke had let hundreds of towns survive intact while his tumans swept on. They would keep until his return.

A little more than a month had passed since entering Sung lands when his outlying scouts reported a huge Sung army marching south with banners flying. The news spread through the tumans as fast as Mongke heard it himself, so they were ready to move when he raced to his horse. No infantry alive could stay ahead of them for long and his tumans were eager to fight.

His twenty-eight tumans followed the scout’s directions at full speed, sighting the enemy at evening three days later. Mongke was pleased to see they were less than half the size of his force. For once his generals would not have to think their way around an army that outnumbered them. It had always been his plan to bring a bigger hammer to the Sung than anyone had managed before. The Sung emperors had survived Genghis, Ogedai, and Guyuk. They would not survive his own khanate.

As night fell, the tumans herded their spare mounts behind them. If the enemy attacked in the dark, the animals were likely to panic and stampede, or at the least get in the way of a countercharge. They chewed sticks of dried beef to a soft mush and washed it down with airag or water, whichever they had to hand. The warriors wrapped reins around their boots and lay down on the damp grass to sleep. Every man there knew they would be off before dawn and fighting at first light.

As the camp settled, Mongke’s servants created a ger for him, taking the felt and spars from half a dozen packs. While they worked in the moonlight, he lay out a thin blanket and knelt on it, pulling his deel robe closer over his armor to keep him warm. He could see his breath as mist and he slowed his heart, letting the cares of the day ease from him. With the stars achingly clear overhead, he spent a moment praying to the sky father for the battle to go well, for Kublai to be safe, for the nation to prosper. Even in his private prayers, he thought as a khan.

He did not want to enter the ger they had prepared for him. Sleep was very far away and he felt strong and at peace. The dew had frozen on the grass so that he could hear every whispering footstep from his guards as they walked their shift. Mongke was surrounded by his people. He could hear them snoring, calling out in their sleep and mumbling to themselves. He chuckled as he stretched out on the blanket, deciding to spend the night under the stars like the rest of the warriors.

He woke in silence, with his head hidden in the crook of his arm. The cold ground seemed to have reached into him so that he could hardly move for stiffness. He felt his neck crunch as he sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. A shadow moved nearby and Mongke’s right hand darted for his sword in the scabbard, half drawing the blade before he realized whoever it was held out a bowl of tea to him.

He smiled ruefully at his own nerves. The camp was coming to life around him, though dawn was still some way off. Horses suckled waterskins held high for them, though they would have found moisture in the frozen dew. There was movement everywhere and Mongke sipped his tea, letting the anticipation grow within him. He could not leave anyone alive from the Sung force marching ahead of his tumans. As tempting as it was to spread terror with a few survivors, he needed to use the speed he could bring to the battlefield. His task was to push the men and animals to their limits, crushing a vast track south and running ahead of the news until he had Hangzhou in sight. The Sung would have no time to entrench and prepare for him. Kublai had cannon, two hundred good iron weapons. Mongke would use those to smash down the emperor’s city.

He rose to his feet and stretched, wondering at the strange mood that had led him to sleep on the frozen grass. There was still frost in his hair and he rubbed at the strands with one hand while he finished the tea. He could feel the salt and heat hit his empty stomach and he sighed at the thought of cold meat to break his fast.

His horse was made ready by servants, already fed and watered with its coat brushed to a gleam. Mongke walked over to inspect the animal’s hooves, though it was just old habit. Some of the men were already mounted and waiting, sitting idly in the saddle and talking to their friends around them. Mongke accepted a thick wedge of stale bread and cold lamb, with a skin of airag to wash it down his throat.

“Do you want to discuss tactics, my lord khan, or shall we just ride right over them?”

His orlok, Seriankh, was smiling as he spoke. Mongke chuckled through a mouthful. He looked up at the brightening sky and breathed deeply.

“It will be a fine morning, Seriankh. Tell me what you have in mind.”

As befitted a senior officer, Seriankh responded without hesitation, long used to making quick decisions.

“We’ll ride their flanks at the limit of their arrow range. I don’t want to surround them and make them dig in. With your permission, I’ll make a three-sided box and match their pace. The Sung cavalry will try to break out and stay mobile, so we’ll take them first with lances. For the infantry, we can cut them from behind, working our way up to the front.”

Mongke nodded. “That will do. Use the bows first, before the young men go in hand-to-hand. Keep the hotheads back until the enemy is reeling. There aren’t so many of them. We should be finished with this by noon.”

Seriankh smiled at that. It was not so long ago that a force of a hundred thousand would have been a battle to the last man, a bloody and desperate struggle. The force of tumans Mongke had brought had never been seen before and all the senior men were enjoying themselves with such strength at their backs.

Somewhere nearby, Mongke heard a jingle of saddle bells and he cursed softly. Another yam rider had caught up. Without the way stations to change his horse, he would have ridden to exhaustion to bring his letters.

“I am never left alone,” Mongke muttered.

Seriankh heard.

“I could lose a yam rider at the rear until the battle is over,” he said.

Mongke shook his head. “No. The khan never sleeps, apparently. Isn’t that what they say? I know I sleep, so it is a mystery to me. Form the ranks, Orlok. Command is yours.”

Seriankh bowed deeply and strode away, already issuing orders to his staff that would ripple down to every warrior in the tumans.

The yam rider was so caked in dust and mud as to appear almost one with his horse. As he dismounted, fresh cracks appeared in the muck that covered him. He wore only a small leather pack across his shoulders and he was very thin. Mongke wondered when the man had last eaten, without yam stations to keep him going in Sung lands. There would have been little or nothing to scavenge in the wake of the tumans, that much was certain.

Two of the khan’s guards approached the rider. He looked surprised, but stood with his arms outstretched and his palms visible as they searched him thoroughly. Even the leather pack was opened, its sheaf of yellow papers handed to the rider before it was tossed down. He rolled his eyes at such caution, clearly amused. At last they were finished and turned away to mount with the rest. Mongke waited patiently, his hand outstretched for the messages.

The yam rider was older than most, he saw, perhaps approaching the end of his career. He did indeed look exhausted through the grime of hard riding. Mongke took the sheaf from him and began to read, his brow creasing in puzzlement.

“These are stock lists from Xanadu,” he said. “Have you brought me the wrong pack?”

The rider stepped closer, peering at the pages. He reached for them and Mongke didn’t see the thin razor he had kept concealed between his outstretched fingers. It was no wider than a finger itself, so that just the very edge of it glinted as he drew it sharply across Mongke’s throat, forward then back. The flesh opened like a seam under tension, a white-lipped mouth that spattered them both with blood.

Mongke choked and raised his right hand to the wound. With his left, he shoved the man away so he fell sprawling. Shouts of rage and horror went up and a warrior threw himself from the saddle at the khan’s attacker as he tried to scramble up, pinning him to the ground.

Mongke felt the warmth pouring out of him, leaving his flesh like stone. He stood, his legs locked and braced against the earth. His fingers could not hold the wound closed and his eyes were desperate. Men were shouting everywhere, racing back and forth and calling for Seriankh and the khan’s shaman. He could see their open mouths, but Mongke could not hear them, just a drum pulsing in his ears and a rushing sound like water. He eased himself down to a sitting position, showing his teeth as the pain grew. He was aware of someone binding a strip of cloth around his neck and hand, pressing hard on the wound so that he could not breathe. He tried to fight them off, but his great strength had deserted him. His vision began to constrict and he still could not believe it was truly happening. Someone would stop it. Someone would help him. His skin grew pale as blood left him in a pulsing stream. He sagged to one side, his eyes growing dull.

Seriankh stood over him, his eyes wide with shock. He had spoken to the khan only moments before and he stared in disbelief at the twisted figure with the right hand bound into bloody bandages tied tightly around the throat. Blood was sinking into the grass, making it black and wet.

Seriankh turned slowly to see the yam rider. His face had been smashed in by fists while Mongke died. His teeth and nose were broken and one of his eyes had been speared by a thumb. Even so, he laughed at Seriankh and spoke in a language the orlok did not know, his slurred speech sounding triumphant. His cheeks were pale under the dirt, Seriankh saw, as if he had shaved a beard and revealed skin long hidden from the sun. The Assassin was still laughing as Seriankh had him bound for torture. The Sung army was forgotten as Seriankh ordered braziers and iron tools made ready. The Mongols understood both suffering and punishment. They would keep him alive as long as they could.

TWENTY-SEVEN

KUBLAI STARED AS HE TROTTED ALONG THE ROAD TO SHAOYANG. The city was deep into the Sung heartland and he suspected it had not been attacked in centuries. Instead of a solid outer wall, it sprawled over square miles, a central hub surrounded by smaller towns that had grown together over centuries. It made Xanadu look like a provincial town and even Karakorum would have been lost in it. He tried to make an estimate of the numbers of people who must live in such a vast landscape of buildings, shops, and temples, but it was too much to take in.

His tumans were drooping with exhaustion, having forced themselves to trot and walk, trot and walk for seventy miles or more, leaving their pursuers as far behind as possible. He had sent light scouts to the city, but he doubted they were more than a day ahead of him, such was the pace he had set. Both his men and their mounts were close to collapse. They needed a month of rest, good food, and grazing before they went back to the fighting, but they would not find it in Shaoyang, with enemies all around.

As the first of the tumans walked their horses into an open street, there was no sign of the inhabitants. Such a place could not be defended and he could only wonder at a society where walls had been torn down to build new districts. It was hard even to imagine such a settled life.

There was no sign of a garrison riding out to meet them. Kublai’s scouts had already questioned the inhabitants, alternating between bribery and threats. He had been lucky, but after months of hard fighting, he was due a little luck. The garrison was apparently in the field, ten thousand of the Sung emperor’s finest sword and crossbowmen. Kublai wished them a long hunt, many, many miles away.

He heard Uriang-Khadai give a horn signal that sent two groups of three tumans on wider paths to the center of the city, so that they would not all approach along the same road. Kublai supposed Shaoyang had a center, that its oldest places would have been swallowed in the rambling districts. He did not enjoy riding along streets where the roofs loomed over him. It was too easy to imagine archers appearing suddenly, shooting down into men who had little room to maneuver. Once again, he was glad of the armor Mongke had made him wear.

Shaoyang seemed deserted, but Kublai felt eyes on him in the silence and he could see the closest officers were nervous, jerking their heads at the slightest hint of movement. They almost drew swords when a high voice sounded nearby, but it was just a child crying behind closed doors.

The tumans who rode with Kublai carried his banners, hanging limp in the windless roads. He was marked by them as leader for anyone who might have been watching and he felt his heart beating faster, convincing himself in the silence that it was a trap. As he passed each side street, he tensed, craning his neck to see down it, past the stone gutters and roadways to shuttered shops and tall stone buildings, sometimes three or four stories high. No one came rushing out to drag his men from their horses. When he heard hooves clattering ahead, he assumed the sound came from some of his own men. He had single warriors out as scouts, but the streets were a labyrinth and there was no sign of them as he saw a small group of horsemen ahead.

The strangers were not armored. They wore simple leggings and tunics and two of them were bare-armed, guiding their horses easily. Kublai took in the details as he looked around him once again for an ambush. The roofs remained clear and nothing moved. The Sung horsemen just sat and stared at them, then one of them spoke to the others and they began to walk their mounts slowly forward.

Around Kublai, swords came out of scabbards with a silk whisper. Bows creaked as they were made ready. The strangers moved stiffly under that close attention, very aware that the street could become their place of death with just one wrong step.

“Let them come,” Kublai murmured to those near him. “I can’t see any weapons.”

The tension grew as the small group closed on the line of Mongol warriors. One of the Sung men sought out Kublai in the ranks, assuming his identity from the bannermen on both sides of him. As if he had heard Kublai’s voice, he raised his arms very slowly and twisted in the saddle, first one way and then the next so they could see there was nothing on his back.

“Ease off,” Kublai said to the warriors.

Arms grew tired holding drawn bows; fingers could slip. He did not want the man killed when he had gone to so much trouble to speak to him. Around Kublai, bows and swords lowered reluctantly and the Sung men began to breathe again.

“That’s near enough,” Kublai said when they were just a dozen paces away.

The Sung group looked to the one who had ridden closest. His bare arms were heavy with muscle though his cropped hair was white and his face was deeply seamed.

“My name is Liu Yin-San,” the man said. “I am prefect of Shaoyang. I am the one who met your scouts.”

“Then you are the one who will surrender Shaoyang to me,” Kublai replied.

To his surprise, Liu Yin-San shook his head, as if he were not facing thousands of armed men stretching from that point to the outer towns of the city. Kublai had a sudden vision of a knife plunged into Shaoyang, with himself at the head. No, three knives, with Bayar and Uriang-Khadai. At the edges behind him, there would be warriors who had yet to enter, waiting impatiently for news from the front.

“I have come unarmed to say I cannot,” Liu Yin-San said. “The emperor has given orders to all his cities. If I surrender to you, Shaoyang will be burned as a lesson to the others.”

“You have met this emperor?” Kublai asked.

“He has not visited Shaoyang,” Liu Yin-San replied.

“Then how does he command your loyalty?”

The man frowned, wondering if he could explain the concept of fealty to men he had been told were little better than wild animals. He took hope from the fact that Kublai spoke in perfect Mandarin to him, the language and dialect of the Chin noble classes.

“I took an oath when I was made prefect of the city,” he said. “My orders are clear. I cannot give you what you want.”

The man was sweating and Kublai saw his dilemma clearly. If he surrendered, the city would be destroyed by a furious master. If he resisted, he expected Shaoyang to suffer the same fate from the tumans. Kublai wondered if Liu Yin-San had a solution, or whether he had ridden toward them expecting to be cut down.

“If I became the emperor, would your oath of loyalty extend to me?” he asked.

Liu Yin-San sat very still as he considered it.

“It is possible. But, my lord … you are not my emperor.”

He tensed as he spoke, aware that his life hung in the balance. Kublai fought not to smile at his reaction. The prefect would have made different decisions if he’d known a Sung army was marching toward the city as they spoke. Kublai would not allow himself to be trapped in Shaoyang. He glanced up at the sun and thought he would have to ride clear soon.

“You leave me with few choices, Liu Yin-San,” he said. The man paled slightly, understanding his own death in the words. Kublai went on before he could reply. “I did not intend to stop in Shaoyang. I have other battles. From you, I merely needed supplies for my men, but if you will not surrender the city, you force me to give this order.”

Kublai turned in the saddle and raised his hand. Once more his men drew swords and raised their bows.

“Wait!” Liu Yin-San called, his voice strained. “I can …” He hesitated, making some inner decision. “I can not lead you to the barracks that lie less than a mile down this very road.”

Kublai turned slowly back to him, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

“I will not surrender Shaoyang,” Liu Yin-San said. Sweat was pouring from him, Kublai noticed. “I will order my people to barricade themselves in their homes. I will pray that the storm passes the city without bloodshed, that you take whatever you need and leave.”

Kublai smiled. “That would be a wise decision, prefect. Ride home past the barracks and be sure to fight if you are attacked. I do not think you will be, not today.”

Liu Yin-San’s hands were trembling as he turned his horse and began to walk it away. His men were driven before the Mongol army so that they rode awkwardly, expecting arrows in their backs at any moment. Kublai grinned, but he followed closely, taking his column in further until they reached the barracks of the city garrison. An open square eased some of the tension in the Mongol warriors. At the edges, double-story buildings stretched, enough to house thousands of men.

Liu Yin-San halted then and Kublai could see the prefect was still expecting to be cut down.

“There will come a time,” Kublai said, “when I stand again before you and ask you to surrender Shaoyang. You will not refuse me then. Now go home. No one will die today.”

Liu Yin-San left with his small group, many of them looking back over and over as they dwindled into the distance, finally vanishing into the streets of the city. No one else was in sight, Kublai realized. The people of Shaoyang had indeed hidden themselves behind locked doors rather than face the invader.

His men began throwing open the buildings of the Shaoyang garrison, revealing vast stables, armories, dormitories, and kitchens. One of them put his fingers to his mouth and whistled sharply, drawing Kublai’s attention. He walked his horse over the training ground and saw Uriang-Khadai’s column enter the other side as he went. Kublai turned to the scouts that were always at his side.

“One of you run to the orlok and tell him to report to me. Another to General Bayar, wherever he has gone to.”

They galloped away over the stones, a pleasant clattering that echoed back from the buildings around the open space. Kublai dismounted and walked into a long hall that had him grinning in the first few steps. He could see pikes by the thousand in racks, then as he walked further, he found shields stacked against each other in wooden frames. He walked past bows that could not match the range of his own. Rooms opened onto rooms and by the time Uriang-Khadai had reached the outer ones, Kublai was standing in a fletchers’ hall, with the smell of glue and wood and feather strong in the air. Dozens of benches showed where men worked each day and the results could be seen in the stacks of perfect quivers on every side. He pulled out a shaft and inspected it, rubbing the flights with his thumb. The Sung regiments were served by master craftsmen.

Kublai removed his bow from its loop over his back and strung it with quick movements. He heard someone gasp behind him and he turned to see Uriang-Khadai standing with a rare expression of satisfaction on his face. Kublai nodded to him and drew the bow, sending an arrow at the far wall. It punched through the wood and vanished beyond it, leaving a visible spot of light as the flights fell to the wooden floor. For the first time in days, Kublai felt his weariness lift.

“Have your men gather them up quickly, Uriang-Khadai. Get the scouts out looking for a place where we can sleep and eat, somewhere clear of the city. Tomorrow is soon enough to begin fighting our way clear.”

Kublai smiled as he looked around the hall. Someone would have to work it out, but there had to be a million shafts in new quivers, perhaps even more.

“We have teeth again, Orlok. Let’s use them.”

XUAN, SON OF HEAVEN, HAD NEVER SEEN THE SUNG AT WAR. The sheer scale of it was impressive, but he thought the pace was dangerously slow. It had taken them a month to escort him to a meeting of Sung lords in the city. More than a hundred had been in attendance, placed according to their ranks in tiered seating, so that the most powerful had positions on the actual debating floor and the least were leaning over the upper balconies to listen. They had fallen silent as he’d walked in, flanked by Sung officials.

His initial impression had been of a mass of color, staring eyes, and stiff robes of green and red and orange. There were as many different styles as men in the room. Some wore simple tunics beaded in pearls, while others sweltered in high collars and headgear decorated with everything from peacock feathers to enormous jewels. A few of the younger ones looked like warriors, but many more resembled ornate birds, hardly able to move for the layers of silk and finery.

Xuan’s presence had flustered servants with no clear instructions. In terms of his nobility, he outranked all the men in the room, but he was the nominal ruler of a foreign nation and commanded a tiny force of aging soldiers. The servants had found him a place on the lower floor, but toward the back, a typical compromise.

At first, Xuan was content merely to watch and listen, learning the personalities and politics as he suffered through another month of detailed talks. He recognized few faces or names from his time in Sung lands, but he knew the lords in that room could put a million men in the field if they chose to do so or were given a direct order by the emperor. Xuan had yet to see his cousin. The elderly emperor rarely left his palace and the actual business of the war was the concern of the lords. Yet the emperor had insisted Xuan attend the council, as one of the few men who had faced Mongol hordes and survived. His presence was tolerated, though he was not exactly welcomed as a long-lost son. Proud Sung nobles stopped just short of snubbing him completely. They had to endure his presence, but when he did not put his name down as a speaker, many of them were privately pleased, assuming he was intimidated by the powerful assembly.

They met twice every month, though it was rare for the seats to be filled as they had been on his first entrance. Through more regular attendance than half the lords there, Xuan learned of the second massive army Mongke Khan had brought into their lands. For a morning, the threat had almost swept aside the petty politics of the court. Two lords whose lands adjoined each other spoke without their usual barely concealed bitterness. It had not lasted beyond that first sense of truce and by the afternoon one of them had stormed out with his trail of servants and the other was frozen in rage at whatever insult he had perceived to his house and rank.

Despite the chaotic lack of leadership, actual fighting did take place. Xuan learned that in the south, the tumans with Kublai had smashed eleven armies, some three quarters of a million men. Rather than allow them to grow strong on captured weapons, the only choice had been to throw regiment after regiment at the Mongols, forcing Kublai to keep moving and fighting, wearing him down. In his time in the debating chamber, Xuan had seen four nobles stand and make their farewells to take the field. None of them had returned and, as the news came in, their names were added to a scroll of the honored dead.

As the third month began, Xuan entered the chamber with a lighter step. It was barely half full, but more were coming in behind him and taking their accustomed places. Xuan made his way to one of the scribes who reported the debates and stood in front of him until the man looked up.

“I will speak today,” Xuan said.

The scribe’s eyes widened slightly, but he nodded, bowing his head as he added Xuan’s formal name with his brushes and ink. It took some time for him to complete it but the scribe knew his business and did not have to check his records. The gathering lords had not missed the event. Many of them were staring at him as he returned to his seat and others sent runners to their allies. While Xuan waited patiently, more and more lords came from their homes in the city until the room was as packed as it had been on his first day.

Xuan wondered if any of them knew he had been summoned to the emperor’s palace the night before, taken from the barracks where he stayed with his men. It had been a short meeting, but he had been pleased to find his elderly cousin was not unaware of the war, or its lack of progress. The emperor of the Sung was just as frustrated as Xuan himself and had left him with one command—to shake the lords out of their complacency. The rest of the night had been spent with Sung scribes, and for once Xuan had been allowed to see any record he wanted. He had given up sleep to learn everything he could, and as he sat peacefully in the debating chamber his mind twitched with facts and stratagems.

He waited through the ritual opening of the council, though the formalities took an age. Two other men spoke before him and he listened politely until they were finished and minor votes took place. One of them appeared to know the assembled lords were waiting for Xuan and hurried his presentation, while the other was oblivious and rambled on for an hour about iron ore supplies in the eastern provinces.

When they sat down, the scribe announced him and Xuan stood. Heads craned to see him and on a whim he walked forward to the center of the room, so that he faced them all in half circles rising up to the balconies above. No one whispered or shuffled. He had their complete attention.

“According to the imperial records in Hangzhou, more than two million trained soldiers are under arms, not counting the losses to date. The honorable lords in this room have eleven thousand cannon between them. Yet a Mongol force of barely a hundred thousand has made them look like children.”

A ripple of outrage ran around the room, but the calculated reference to records had not been lost on them. Only the emperor had such information and it silenced those who might have shouted him down. Xuan ignored the murmuring and went on.

“In time, I believe sheer numbers would have brought success despite the lack of a unified command. Mistakes have been made, not least the assumption that the army of Kublai is in the field and must eventually return home to resupply. They have no need to do so, my lords. They are not in the field. They are merely in a new place, as all places are new to them. They cannot be waited out, as I have heard so eloquently argued in this chamber. If they are not destroyed, they will come to Hangzhou in a year, or two years, or ten. It took them longer than that to take control of Chin lands in the north, lands far larger than those of the Sung.”

He had to wait as voices spoke over him, but the majority wanted to hear what he had to say and the fiery arguments died for lack of support.

“Even so, they would eventually have failed against the Sung regiments. But now the Mongol khan has brought a new army to the Sung, greater than any he has wielded before. The reports give the numbers as more than a quarter of a million men—this time without their camps. They have no cannon and so their strategy becomes clear.”

The silence was total then, as every lord strained to hear. Xuan deliberately dropped his voice so that no one would dare to interrupt him again.

“He ignores Sung cities and moves incredible distances. If I had not read the scout reports in the emperor’s offices, I would not have believed it, but they are crossing vast stretches of land each day, heading south. Their intention is clearly to join up with Kublai’s tumans, clearing the field of any army in their way. It is a bold strategy, one that shows contempt for the armies of the Sung. Mongke Khan will destroy the men in the field and then take the cities at his leisure, either using captured cannon, or by siege. Unless he is stopped, he will be at the gates of Hangzhou in less than a year.”

As one, the lords began to shout indignantly at the slur on their courage and strength. To be lectured in such a way by a failed emperor was too much, insufferable. Cooler heads considered once again that he had the ear of the emperor, his cousin by blood. The noise died down to just a few, who eventually subsided back to their seats with angry expressions. Xuan continued as if there had been no interruption.

“There must be no more personal actions by individual lords. Those have failed to end the threat—a threat that has now grown. Nothing less than the complete mobilization of Sung forces is necessary.” Two Sung lords rose from their seats in silence, indicating to the emperor’s chancellor that they wished to speak. “This is the moment to strike,” Xuan went on. “The Mongol khan is with his armies. If he can be stopped, there will be a period of time when both Chin and Mongol lands can be conquered.” Four more stood to speak. “It will no longer be a mere defensive war, my lords. If you gather your armies under a single leader, we have a chance to unite Chin and Sung once again.”

He paused. A dozen Sung lords had risen, their eyes moving from him to the emperor’s chancellor, whose task it was to impose some order to debates. Until Xuan sat down, he could not be formally interrupted, though the rule was often ignored. For once, they waited, aware of the importance of the debate to come. Xuan frowned, knowing the men who would speak were not those likely to add to a clear resolution.

“This war can no longer be fought as individuals. Appoint a leader who will command complete authority. Send half a million men against Kublai and as many against the Mongol khan. Surround their small armies and crush them. In that way, you will be spared the sight of Hangzhou in flames. I have seen Yenking burn, my lords. That is enough.”

He sat down under the silent pressure of so many eyes, wondering if he had reached anyone in the room.

The voice of the emperor’s chancellor rang out.

“The chamber recognizes Lord Sung Win.”

Xuan hid his grimace at the name and waited. He had a right to reply before the end.

“My lords, I have just two questions for the esteemed speaker,” Lord Sung Win said. “Do you have the emperor’s direct order to unite the armies? And is it your intention that the command of the Sung should fall to your hands?”

A roar of derision went up from the rest of the men in the room and Xuan frowned more deeply. He recalled the watery eyes of his cousin at their brief meeting. The emperor was a weak man and Xuan could still feel the clutch of his hand on his sleeve. He had asked for a letter of authority, an imperial mandate, but the man had waved his hand in dismissal. Authority lay in what the lords would accept and Xuan had known then that his cousin feared to give such an order. Why else would he have summoned an old enemy to his private rooms? If the emperor ordered it and they refused, his weakness would be exposed and the empire would fall apart into armed factions. Civil war would accomplish everything the Mongols could not.

All this flashed through Xuan’s mind as he stood stiffly once more.

“I have the emperor’s confidence that you will listen, Lord Sung Win. I have his faith that you will not allow the Sung to be destroyed for petty politics, that loyal Sung lords will recognize the true threat. And I am not the one to lead you against the Mongols, my lord. Whoever does so must command complete confidence from this chamber. If you will take the responsibility, my lord, I will support you.”

Lord Sung Win blinked as he rose again, clearly wondering if Xuan had just ruined his chance to do exactly that. The Chin emperor was a thorn in the side of the lords there and his support was worthless.

“I had hoped to see the emperor’s personal seal,” Lord Sung Win said, his eyes bright with dislike. “Instead, I hear vague words with no substance, no opportunity to verify their accuracy.”

The chamber grew hushed and Lord Sung Win realized he had gone too far in almost accusing Xuan of lying. He recalled Xuan’s lack of status and grew calm once again. There would be no demand for reparation or punishment from such a fallen power.

Sung Win’s hesitation cost him with the imperial chancellor, who knew better than most what had gone on the night before between his master and the Chin cousin.

“The chamber recognizes Lord Jin An,” he bellowed.

Sung Win closed his mouth with a snap and took his seat with bad grace as a younger lord nodded to the chancellor.

“Does anyone here deny the existence of the khan’s army and its smaller brother in the south and west?” Lord Jin An said, his voice clear and confident. “Will they refuse to accept the threat to us all, until those armies are battering at Hangzhou gates? Let us move to a vote at once. I put my name forward to lead one of the two armies we must send.”

For a moment, Xuan lost his frown and looked up, but the young lord’s voice was lost in the uproar. Even the number of armies was in dispute and Xuan felt his heart sink as he realized they could not be shaken from their apathy. In moments, Lord Jin An was angrily vowing that he would take his own men against Kublai, that he would act alone if no one else had the good sense to see the need. Xuan rubbed his eyes as the lack of sleep caught up with him. He had seen it four times before, when young lords set out to battle the tumans. Their martial fervor had not been enough. Accusations and threats were thrown back and forth across the chamber, as each of the lords shouted over their neighbors. There would be no resolution that day, if at all, and all the time the Mongol armies grew closer. Xuan shook his head at the insanity of it. He could try to reach the emperor once again, but the man was surrounded by thousands of courtiers who would consider such a request and whether they should even pass it on. Xuan had seen too much of Sung bureaucracy in his years as a captive and he did not have much hope.

When the meeting broke up at noon, Xuan approached the young lord, still talking furiously to two others. They fell silent at his presence and Lord Jin An turned to him, bowing instinctively to his rank.

“I had hoped for a better outcome,” Xuan said.

Lord Jin An nodded ruefully.

“I have forty thousand, Son of Heaven, and the promise of support from a cousin.” He sighed. “I have good reports this Kublai has been seen around Shaoyang. I should not even be here in this chamber, arguing with cowards. My place is there, against the weaker of the two armies. Forty thousand would be lost against the khan’s army in the north.” His mouth twisted in irritation and he swept his arm across to indicate the last of the departing lords. “Perhaps when these fools see him riding through Hangzhou’s streets, they will see the need to work together.”

Xuan smiled at the younger man’s indignant expression.

“Perhaps not even then,” he said. “I wish I had a strong army to send with you, Lord Jin An. Yet my eight thousand are yours to command, if you will have us.”

Lord Jin An waved his hand, as if at a trifle. In truth, Xuan’s force would make little difference and both men knew it. In their prime, they would have been valuable, but after years of poor food and worse conditions, a few months had barely begun to restore them. Nonetheless, the young lord was gracious.

“I will leave on the first of the month,” he said. “It would be an honor to be accompanied by such men. I hope you will be available to advise me.”

Xuan’s smile widened in genuine pleasure. It had been a long time since he had been treated graciously by any Sung lord.

“Whatever service I can provide is yours, Lord Jin An. Perhaps by the time we leave, you will have found other lords who might share your views.”

Lord Jin An looked back at the empty chamber.

“Perhaps,” he murmured, looking doubtful.

ORLOK SERIANKH PACED AS HE ADDRESSED HIS ASSEMBLED officers. Twenty-eight tuman generals stood before him. At their backs, two hundred and eighty minghaan officers stood in ranks.

“I have sent scouts north to join the yam lines,” Seriankh said. His voice was hoarse from giving a thousand orders, keeping the army from falling into chaos as a thousand voices argued over what to do. Mongke Khan lay dead, wrapped in cloth inside a lone ger. The rest of the army had packed up and were ready to move in any direction as soon as Seriankh gave the order.

“General Hulegu will be informed of the khan’s death in a month, two at most. He will return. The khan’s brother Arik-Boke will get the news faster still, in Karakorum. There will be another quiriltai, a gathering, and the next khan will be chosen. I have a dozen men riding south to find Kublai and pass on the news. He too will come home. Our time here is at an end until there is a new great khan.”

His most senior general, Salsanan, stepped forward and the orlok turned to acknowledge him.

“Orlok Seriankh, I will volunteer to lead a force to Kublai, to support his withdrawal. He will not thank us for abandoning him in the field.” The man paused and then continued. “He may be the next khan.”

“Guard your mouth, General,” Seriankh snapped. “It is not your place to guess and spread rumors.” He hesitated, thinking it through. Mongke had many sons, but the succession of khans had never been smooth since the death of Genghis.

“To support his withdrawal, very well. We have lost a khan, but Lord Kublai has lost a brother. Take eight tumans and bring him safely out of Sung territory. I will take the khan home.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

WITH ANCIENT OAKS OVERHEAD, KUBLAI SAT OUT IN THE open air. He bore the pain in silence as Chabi washed a cut on his right hand with a skin of airag, taking pulls from it himself to keep him warm. They had both known men who walked away from battles with just a gash, then died in feverish delirium days or weeks later. Humming to herself, Chabi sniffed at his hand and wrinkled her nose. Kublai hissed through his teeth as she squeezed the livid edges, making a thin stream of pus dribble down to his fingers.

“I do have shamans for this, you know,” he said affectionately.

She snorted. “They’re busy and you wouldn’t bother them with it until your arm was green.”

She gave his skin another sharp pinch, making him jerk. The flow of pus grew red and she nodded, satisfied, resting one hand on the curve of her belly as new life grew within. Kublai reached out and patted the bulge affectionately as she rewrapped the cut with a clean strip of cloth.

The families and followers had moved deeper into the forest while he had been fighting the Sung, obscuring all signs that might be found by enemies looking for them. Kublai had been forced to send hundreds of his men into the green depths.

Just to reach the area, he had fought his way back past two Sung armies and seen his stocks of arrows and lances dwindle once again, though he salvaged as many as he could. Without healers and rest, some of his wounded men had died each day.

He looked overhead, oddly uncomfortable as the thick branches reduced the forest floor to gloom. At least they were hidden. The families and camp followers had been kept safe by the dense forest, but he couldn’t shake the fear that they could also hide an enemy creeping up. Even for a man of Karakorum, the forest felt stifling compared to the open plains.

He looked closer at his wife as she stood, seeing dark smudges under her eyes. She looked thin and he cursed himself for not having made better preparations. He should have known the families would be forced to butcher the flocks while they waited for him to return. The vast herds usually replenished themselves each spring, but the one thing the forest did not have was good grazing. The ground was covered in rotting leaves and what little greenery there was had been stripped down to bare earth in the first month. The families had eaten deer and rabbits, even wolves when they found them, but it had not been long before the forest was trapped out for fifty miles. The herds of sheep and goats had shrunk to the point where everyone was on a meal a day and not much meat in that.

When Kublai had ridden in at last, the sight of his people had not been inspiring. They had rallied around as the tumans came in and he made a point of praising them for their survival, even as he seethed at how badly they had done without him. It was possible to count the ribs on the precious oxen and he wondered how many would have the strength to pull carts when the time came to move. His son and pregnant wife had been given barely enough meat to survive and Kublai wanted to lash out in rage at the rest of them. He would have done so if they hadn’t been just as thin and pale as Chabi.

“We have to move the camp,” Chabi said softly. “I don’t want to think what would have happened if you’d stayed out much longer.”

“I can’t take you out. They just keep coming,” he said. “You’ve never seen anything like it, Chabi. There isn’t any end to them.”

Her mouth firmed as he spoke.

“Even so, we can’t stay here. There isn’t a rabbit for twenty miles and when the last of the flocks are gone, we’ll starve. Some of the men were saying they’d strike out on their own if you didn’t come back soon.”

“Who?” he demanded.

Chabi shook her head. “Men with families of their own. Can you blame them? We knew we were in trouble, Kublai.”

“I’ll drive herds back from the Sung hills and villages. I’ll get new animals to pull the carts.”

He swore under his breath, knowing it wouldn’t work. Even if he could drive a herd toward the forest, the marks of their passing would be there for any Sung scout to read. He had already endangered the position by bringing his tumans back to the camp. To do it again would leave a wide road through the forest. He pushed his fingers into the corners of his eyes, easing away some of the tiredness. The camp supported the warriors with everything from arrow shafts to shelter and hot food, but he had reached an impossible position.

“I can send out the tumans to gather food and draft beasts to be butchered, or replace the weakest of our stock …” He swore under his breath. “I can’t be thinking of this, Chabi! I have made tracks into the Sung, but I need to keep going, or everything I’ve done will have been wasted.”

“Is it so terrible to rest up for the winter? You’ll be here when the child is born, Kublai. Send out your men to bring back anything that lives, raid the local towns and you’ll be ready to go out again in the spring.”

Kublai groaned at the thought. Part of him ached at the idea of simply stopping to rest. He had never felt so tired.

“I’ve cleared a route as far as Shaoyang and beyond, Chabi. If I can keep moving, I’ll be able to reach their capital by spring or summer. If I stop now, I’ll see another dozen armies coming out against me, fresh and strong.”

“And you will lose the camp if you go on,” she snapped. “You will lose the fletchers, the tanners and saddlers, the hardworking wives and men who keep you in the field. Will the tumans still fight well while their families starve behind them?”

“You will not starve,” Kublai said.

“Saying it does not make it so. It was getting ugly before your scouts found us, husband. Some of the men were talking about taking the last food stocks for themselves and letting the weakest ones die from hunger.”

Kublai grew still, his eyes hard.

“This time you will tell me their names, Chabi. I’ll hang them from the branches.”

“That is a distraction! It doesn’t matter now. Find a way to solve the problem, husband. I know the pressure on you, or I think I do. I know you will work it out.”

He walked a few paces away from her, staring into the green undergrowth all around.

“This land is rich, Chabi,” he said after a time. “I can take a month to raid new flocks. We can drive them back here, but then I’m sending half the camp home to Karakorum.” He held up a hand to forestall her as she opened her mouth. “These aren’t the battles Genghis knew, where he could take the entire nation and raid with tumans from the center. The Sung are like ants in their numbers, army after army. I need to think like a raider, with the bare minimum of supplies. The women and children can go home, with enough warriors to keep them safe. You and Zhenjin will leave with them. There. You asked for a decision and that’s it. I can take a month, I think.”

“You can, but I am not going. I won’t lose another child on a hard journey home, Kublai. I’m staying with the camp until the birth.”

He saw the resolution in her face and sighed.

“I’m too tired to argue with you, woman.”

“Good,” she said.

KUBLAI BEGRUDGED EVERY DAY LOST AS HIS TUMANS SCOURED the land for herds for a hundred miles and more. In the winter, it took longer than he hoped and he saw the full moon twice before he brought the families out of the forest. The dark months were colder than the previous year. Ice crackled in the boughs of the forest, beautiful and dead at the same time. There was always wood for the stoves and the gers were surrounded by firewood piled higher than a man’s head.

The ground was still frozen when they began to pack up and leave the forest depths. Behind them, they left the usual marks, from black circles of ground under dismantled gers, to the graves of those who had died. Most were wounded men the shamans could not save, but there were many smaller graves as well, of children who had not lived through their first year. There were no mountains to lay them out for sky burial, where the carrion birds would feast. Cremation fires were too likely to spread or be seen by an enemy, so the frozen ground was broken just deep enough to cover them.

Kublai gathered the camp on an open plain. Hundreds of oxen had been yoked and they were better fed than when he had come upon them. Grain from Sung towns had been brought back with the herds and the massive animals were glossy with care, their muzzles wet and pink. He had ordered two hundred thousand of his people home, mostly the wives and children. Ten thousand men would go with them, those who had been wounded, or maimed in some old war. They could still fight if they had to.

His men griped out of habit at the order, but they too had seen the Sung armies and there was relief amidst the final embraces. The families would go fast to the Chin border, crossing in the spring to safer lands. From there, Kublai had sent scouts to his own estates. They would be safe on their journey north. He had kept only the most skillful craftsmen and herders, the metalsmiths, rope-makers, and leather-workers. Most of the gers would go, so the tumans would sleep uncovered in the rain and frost.

Kublai had to keep some carts for the forges and equipment supplies—his silver would go with him into the east. He knew the camp would be less cheerful from that point. It was no longer a moving nation but a war camp, with every man there dedicated to the tumans they supported.

The two massive groups slowly drew apart, with many shouting last words. The mounted tumans watched grimly as their families grew smaller in the distance. Chabi and Zhenjin remained with her servants, but no one dared object to the decisions of the khan’s own brother. They had scouted to the Chin border and there were no armies in that direction. The danger lay only in the east and every man in the tumans knew the work was not finished. It was hard to be cheerful on such a day.

It was still a host that trundled deeper into Sung lands, but there was already a sense of having cut away the fat. They kept a good pace and if there was no singing in the camps at night, at least the men were quietly determined. Without the individual wives, the warriors were fed from communal pots, filled to the brim with a thick broth each night.

As the days began to lengthen, Kublai passed sites of his own battles. He rode in sick horror through fields of rotting corpses. Foxes, wolves, and birds had feasted and flesh sloughed off the bones, enemies and friends sliding into one another as they were made soft in sun and rain. His tumans rode through with utter indifference, making Kublai wonder how they could keep their food in their stomachs. His imagination forced him to consider his own death, left in a foreign field. He did not know whether such concerns troubled men like Uriang-Khadai, or whether they would admit the truth if he asked.

His scouts reported contact with a force of cavalry forty miles shy of Shaoyang, but whoever it was retreated at speed before the tumans, staying out of range and riding as if all hell was on their heels. Without an order being given, Kublai’s warriors began to increase their pace each day. The carts in the reduced camp fell back to the maximum range of twenty miles, within reach of a sudden assault if they came under attack. During the cold days, the men drank warm blood from the mares, sharing the slight wounds between three or four spare mounts so that none of the animals grew too weak. They were in their own battle trail and there were no fresh supplies to be had until they passed Shaoyang. Kublai wondered how the prefect there would react when he saw them return. He would survive their passing for a second time, something few men could say.

Kublai had understood at last that he had too few warriors to smash their heads against Sung walls. Eventually, the swarming enemy would grind his tumans into dust. He had made his decision and wondered if he was even the same man who had entered Sung lands with such youthful confidence. He could not have gambled it all back then. Now, he would drive them on to the heart of the empire in one great push. He would not stop for Shaoyang. He would not stop for anything.

His tumans could see men on the roofs of the sprawling city as they rode past. Kublai raised a hand to them, in greeting or farewell, he did not know. He would cut the heart out of the Sung dragon in one strike. The other cities had nothing to fear from him.

Past Shaoyang, the land had not been stripped of everything that might feed a hungry soldier. The first small towns were looted for food, though Kublai forbade their destruction. Back in the forest camp, his men had seen the great store of silver he had taken, handed down from a thousand horses, the bars passing from man to man and then placed in piles on the wet leaves. Though the tumans had not been paid in months, they knew at least that it existed and did not grumble too loudly or too often.

He did not expect yam riders, so far to the south. The lines of way stations had ended in Chin lands and when he saw not one but two of the men, they barely resembled the fast-moving endurance riders he knew. His scouts brought the pair in together and Kublai drew to a halt on a wide plain as he heard the jingle of bells from their saddlecloths. He nodded to Uriang-Khadai and the orlok bellowed orders to dismount and rest.

“They look half dead,” Bayar murmured to Kublai as the men rode up with his scouts on either side.

It was true enough and Kublai wondered how the men had been finding food without the yam stations to feed them or give them fresh mounts. Both were unkempt and one of them moved with obvious pain, grunting at every step of his horse. They came to a halt and Bayar told them to dismount. The first one slid from the saddle, staggering slightly as he landed. While he was searched, Bayar looked up into the gray face of his companion.

“I have an arrow somewhere in my back,” the yam rider said weakly. “It’s broken off, but I don’t think I can get down.” Bayar saw how his right hand hung limp, flopping in the reins that were wrapped around it. He called one of his men and together they pulled the rider clear of his saddle. He tried not to cry out, but the strangled sound of agony he made was worse.

On the ground, Bayar lowered the man to his knees and looked at the arrow stump sticking out high on his shoulders. Every breath would have hurt and Bayar whistled softly. He reached down and prodded the stub, making the rider jerk away with a stifled curse.

“It’s rotting the flesh,” Bayar said. “I can smell it from here. I’ll have a shaman cut it out and seal it with fire. You’ve done well.”

“Did anyone else reach you?” the man said. He leaned forward on his locked arms, panting like a dog. Bayar shook his head and the yam rider swore and spat. “There were twelve of us. I’ve been searching and riding for a long time.” The eyes were angry and Bayar bristled in response.

“We were enjoying ourselves, seeing a bit of the local country. You found us in the end. Now would you like to deliver your message, or shall I have that arrow cut out first?”

The second rider had been searched and allowed to approach Kublai, opening his leather bag and handing over a folded sheet sealed with Mongke’s mark in wax. Bayar and the wounded man watched in silence as Kublai broke the seal and read.

“No need now. He already knows.”

The wounded yam rider sagged and Bayar took him under the arms, ignoring the stink of sweat and urine. He could feel heat radiating from the flesh, a sure sign of fever. Even then, Bayar was surprised at the lack of weight. The young man had almost starved to bring the message and he wondered what could have been so important as to send twelve riders with the same message. Bayar knew enough to suspect no good news ever arrived in that way. He called one of his officers over.

“Fetch a shaman. If he’s to live, the arrowhead will have to be dug out and the wound cleaned. Take him from me.” He passed the dazed rider over and stood, unconsciously wiping his hands down his leggings.

Kublai had grown pale as he read. The sheet with its broken seal hung forgotten from his hand. He stared into the distance, his eyes like dull glass. Bayar’s mood sank further as he walked across to him.

“As bad as that?” the general said quietly.

“As bad as that,” Kublai confirmed, his voice hoarse with grief.

XUAN FELT ALIVE FOR THE FIRST TIME IN YEARS AS HE RODE west. The old skills were still there, long dormant, like seeds beneath the autumn leaves. He could see his men felt the same. They had grown old in captivity, their best years wasted and thrown away, but with every mile they rode from Hangzhou, the past was further behind. More important than that was the news that had come as they left the city. Mongol scouts had been captured as they came south. Each carried an identical message written in the script of their homeland.

Xuan had seen one of the originals, still stained with the blood of its owner. Only a suspicious mind could have seen the benefits of announcing the khan’s death as he rode south. Xuan had that mind, made so by years of captivity. Even so, he longed for the news to be true. He knew the traditions the Mongols followed so slavishly. If they returned home, it would be an answer to his prayers, indeed the prayers of the Sung nation.

He shook his head in the wind, clearing his thoughts with the physical movement. Whether Mongke Khan was truly dead or engaged in some dark game did not matter to him. Xuan did not know if he would live when they found Kublai’s tumans, but he was certain he would never return to Hangzhou.

He looked across at his elder son, riding on his right hand. Liao-Jin was still swept up in the sheer ecstasy of freedom, no matter where they rode or what might face them. He had thrown himself into the training with all the energy of his youth. Xuan smiled to himself. The men liked him. He would have made a fine emperor, if there had been an empire for him to rule. None of that mattered. They were free. The word was like sweet summer to every man there.

In the chaotic activity of preparing eight thousand men to ride with Sung regiments, it had not been hard to bring Xuan’s other children out of captivity. Xuan had simply sent two of his men on horseback through the city streets, with orders in his own hand. No one had dared to question his new authority, or if they had, the responses had been too slow to stop them. Xuan had even hired servants for them with his Sung cousin’s silver. Given just one moonless night, he would send them north with a few of the best Chin men remaining to him. They would survive in their old lands, somehow. He had not yet told Liao-Jin that his son would travel with them, away from the Mongol tumans coming east.

On either side of the Chin force, Sung lords rode. Lord Jin An had been as good as his word and provided almost fifty thousand soldiers, half of them cavalry. Xuan had not known the young lord was a man of such power, but it seemed his clan had been leaders in the field of war for many generations. Lord Jin An had managed to persuade one other to join him, a cousin who brought another forty thousand to the ranks. To Xuan, it felt like a huge host, though both the Sung lords still seethed at the lack of support from the council, or the emperor himself.

They had brought hundreds of cannon that cut their pace down to a third of what it could have been, but Xuan took heart from the sight of those black tubes trundling along good Sung roads. There were times when Xuan could even dream of futures where he destroyed the Mongol army that was cutting its way through the Sung territories. A solid victory would unite even the council of lords, so that they would move as one against the greater threat in the north. On his most optimistic days, Xuan allowed himself to imagine his old lands returned to him. It was a good thought, but he smiled at his own foolishness. The Mongols had not been beaten for generations. He only wished Tsaio-Wen was there to see Chin soldiers riding with pride. The surly Sung officer had managed to vanish at the same time as the orders for him to report to the barracks had been sent. A coward at the last, Xuan thought. That too did not matter.

Shaoyang was not many miles ahead and the scouts were out, watching for the first sign of Kublai’s tumans. The Mongols had been in the area months before and Xuan did not expect them to be close, but he would find them. He would run them down. Xuan reached out and patted his horse’s neck, feeling again the exultation of being out at last. He turned to Liao-Jin and shouted above the noise of horses and men.

“Take out the banners, Liao-Jin. Show the Sung who we are.”

He saw the flash of white teeth from his son as he passed on the orders to bannermen on either side. In its way, it had been the hardest task of the previous few months. Finding cloth had not been difficult, but Xuan had been forced to give the task to his own men, in case the news reached the lords or his emperor cousin and was forbidden before he could ride. They had shaped and sewed and cut the long banners, marking yellow silk with the painted chop of Xuan’s noble house. Xuan found he was holding his breath as the bannermen unfurled the cloth. The streaming banners fluttered in the wind, stretching out in lines of gold.

The last Chin army raised their heads. Many of them grew bright-eyed with tears at a sight they had never expected to see again. They cheered the banners of a Chin emperor and Xuan felt his throat grow thick with pride and grief and joy.

TWENTY-NINE

AS THE AFTERNOON WORE ON, THE TUMANS REMAINED IN the same place, just a few miles east of Shaoyang. The warriors saw that Kublai’s ger was being assembled and the constant, slight tension vanished. There would be no sudden order to mount and ride while the white ger was up. Between them, the eighty thousand men had three hundred thousand spare horses that ran together in a herd like the leaves of a forest, brown and gray and black and dun. As well as providing blood and milk for their riders, the ponies all carried some item of kit, from spare armor scales, ropes, and glue, to hard blocks of cheese. It was the secret of their success that alone of all nations they could raid for hundreds of miles from the main camp.

Kublai seemed almost in a trance as he stood on the empty grassland, surrounded by the sea of horses and men. The carts of his camp could be seen in the distance, slowly coming up behind them. He was aware of Bayar walking over again to speak to him, but he did not reply, just stood in silence, drawn utterly into himself.

It had been Bayar’s order to raise the ger. The general was filled with apprehension. Whatever Kublai had read had left him pale and dumbstruck on the grassy plain. It was a crime punishable by flogging for a man to question a yam rider about his messages, but even so, Bayar watched closely as the man accepted tea and a pouch of bread and meat. The rider chewed with the same long stare that Bayar saw in Kublai and the general itched to take him for a walk and discover the truth.

The carts arrived without fanfare or any great welcome, now that the wives and children had gone. Oxen and camels were turned loose to graze. Forges were set up on the grass and fed with charcoal until the heavy iron glowed red. Warriors who needed something strolled in with no great urgency. All over the plain, others sat down to ease their legs and backs. Many of them took the chance to defecate in a place where they would not stay, or urinate into the grass. Others sharpened weapons and checked their bows and shafts as they liked to do at every opportunity. Some of them ate, others talked, but the strange stillness at the heart of the tumans was spreading out, so that more and more of them knew something was wrong.

When the ger was complete, Bayar approached Kublai again.

“There is a place to rest, my lord,” he said.

Kublai dragged his gaze back from very far away.

“Bring my packs to me,” he said softly. “There are things I need in them.”

Bayar bowed and trotted away. The strangeness of the day made him want to return to Kublai as soon as possible. He sent four scouts into the baggage carts to bring back the great rolls, tied with rope.

“Put them inside,” Bayar ordered the men. Kublai had not moved. “My lord, is the news so terrible? Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

“The khan is dead, General,” Kublai replied, his voice barely a whisper. “My brother is dead. I will not see him again.”

Bayar recoiled in shock. He shook his head as if he could deny the words. He watched as Kublai ducked into the ger, disappearing in the gloom within. Bayar felt as if he had been kicked in the chest, the air hammered out of him. He leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees as he tried to think.

Uriang-Khadai was close enough to see Bayar rocked by whatever Kublai had said to him. He approached the younger general with a wary expression, needing to hear, but at the same time deeply worried about what he might be told.

Bayar saw that there were many men nearby who had witnessed his reaction to the news. They had almost abandoned the pretense of not listening. Regardless of the penalties, he doubted the two yam riders would be left alone for long. The news could not be contained. Bayar found himself sweating at the thought. It would spread across the world. Campaigns would come to a halt, cities would grow still as they heard. The men of power in the khanates would know they were thrown back into the maelstrom once again. Some of them would fear the future; others would be sharpening their swords.

“Mongke Khan is dead,” Bayar told his superior.

Uriang-Khadai blanched, but gathered himself quickly.

“How did it happen?” he said.

Bayar raised his hands helplessly. Everything Kublai had achieved in Sung lands was thrown into chaos by a single message. He could hardly think and Uriang-Khadai noticed, his mouth becoming a thin line of pale flesh.

“Get a hold of yourself, General. We have lost khans before. The nation goes on. Come with me to speak to the yam riders. They will know more than we have been told.”

Bayar stared. He followed as Uriang-Khadai strode away, heading to the unwounded rider, who stared at him like a rabbit faced with a wolf.

“You. Tell me what you know.”

The yam rider swallowed a mouthful of bread and meat painfully, then stood.

“It was an Assassin, General.”

“Orlok,” Uriang-Khadai snapped.

The man was trembling as he repeated the title.

“Orlok. I was sent out with a dozen others. More went north to the Chin yam lines.”

“What?” Uriang-Khadai stepped closer to him. “You were in Sung territory?”

“The khan was coming south, Orlok,” the man stammered, his nervousness growing. He knew yam riders were meant to be untouchable, but sooner or later, he was going to have to tell the manner of the khan’s death. It struck at the heart of every yam rider in the khanates. They would never be as trusted again.

“How far away are they?” Uriang-Khadai demanded. “How many men? Must I ask for every detail before it spills from your mouth?”

“I … I’m sorry, Orlok. Twenty-eight tumans, but they will not come further. Orlok Seriankh is taking them back to Karakorum. The khan’s other brothers will have heard by now, certainly Lord Arik-Boke as he was in the capital. Lord Hulegu may hear any day now, if he has not already.” The scout searched for something else to say under Uriang-Khadai’s cold stare. “I was there when the body of Guyuk Khan was found, Orlok. The nation will pull back to Karakorum until there is a new khan.”

“I was there when Tsubodai had the news of Ogedai’s death, young man. Do not tell me what I already know.”

“No, Orlok, I’m sorry.”

Uriang-Khadai turned to Bayar, frustrated with the yam rider and his nervousness.

“Do you have questions for him?”

“Only one,” Bayar replied. “How did an Assassin reach the khan in the middle of such an army?”

The exhausted young man looked as if his bread and meat had lodged in his throat.

“He … dressed as a yam rider. He was let through. He was searched, but I heard he kept a razor hidden.”

“Jesus Christ,” Uriang-Khadai growled.

Bayar looked at him in surprise, though the Christian curses were spreading even to those who had no knowledge of the faith itself.

KUBLAI STOOD INSIDE THE GER WITHOUT MOVING FOR A long time. He wanted Chabi to come to him, but he could not summon the energy to send for her. He could hear the noises of his people around him, but at least the small space kept out their stares. It was a relief to be apart from them, though he did not weep. His thoughts moved sluggishly. As a boy, he had once swum in a frozen river and felt his arms and legs become numb, helpless, so that he thought he might drown. It had been Mongke who pulled him out, the older brother who laughed as he shivered and curled up on the bank.

He had a hundred memories, a thousand conversations vying for space in his mind. He remembered Mongke sending him out to hammer the Sung, but he also remembered the old ger they had found in a valley when they were fifteen or so. While the rest of their family slept, Kublai and Mongke had taken iron bars and destroyed it. The rotting wood and felt had collapsed on itself as they flailed and swung, lucky not to hit each other in their enthusiasm.

It was not a grand tale of the sort to tell at a khan’s funeral, just two boys doing something stupid one night, for fun. They had discovered later that the ger had not been abandoned at all. When its owner had returned, he had been incandescent with rage and vowed to find the ones who had done it. He never had. Despite all the adult years that had passed since that day, Kublai smiled at the memory. He had lost friends before, but he had thought his brothers would always be there, good times and bad. To lose Mongke was to take an axe to the foundations of everything he was.

Kublai was barely aware of falling as his legs gave way. He found himself sprawled on thick rolls of carpet, dust rising into the air around him. He felt choked and his hands moved unconsciously to the leather ties of his armor, tugging them loose until the lacquered chest plate of scales yawned open. He snapped the last tie in a spasm of anger, throwing it down. The motion spurred him on and he pulled off his helmet and thigh plates in rough movements, tossing them aside to clang against the other pieces on the canvas floor. It was not long before the last of the armor was on the pile and he sat in simple leggings and a stiff silk tunic with long sleeves that reached past his hands and had been folded into cuffs. He felt better without the armor and sat with his arms around his knees, thinking through what he must do.

BAYAR SAW THE GALLOPING SCOUT BEFORE URIANG-KHADAI. He tapped the older man on the shoulder and they both turned to watch as the scout angled his mount toward the only ger he could see in the assembly of grazing horses and resting men.

The scout dismounted at the ger, but Bayar intercepted him, taking him by the arm and walking him away until he could be sure Kublai would not hear the interruption.

“Report,” Bayar said.

The scout was flushed and his face gleamed with sweat. He had ridden far and fast. With only a glance at the ger, he bowed to both men.

“Orlok, General. There is a Sung army in range. Ten foot regiments or more. Five of horse and many cannon. They have their own riders out and I only had time to make a rough estimate before I came back.”

“How far?” Uriang-Khadai said. His gaze fell on the ger that sat alone.

“Thirty miles east, about.” The scout made a gesture showing a movement of the sun in the sky.

“With cannon, they won’t be here until tomorrow,” Bayar said in relief.

“Unless they react to contact and push on without the guns,” Uriang-Khadai replied sourly. “Either way, it does not matter. We must withdraw.”

The scout looked from man to man in surprise. He had been riding out far ahead of the tumans and had no idea of the news that had come in his absence. Neither of them chose to inform him.

“Change mounts and get back out as soon as you can,” Uriang-Khadai said to the scout. “I need eyes close to them. Better still, take three others and place them at the quarter points so they can relay whatever you see to me quickly.”

The scout bowed and jogged away.

Whatever Bayar might have said next was lost when Kublai walked out of the ger. He had left his armor inside and both men gaped at the change in him. He wore a robe of gold silk with a wide belt of dark red. The chest was embroidered with a dark green dragon, the highest symbol of Chin nobility. He held a long sword, his knuckles white on the scabbard as he looked over and approached his two most senior men.

Bayar and Uriang-Khadai went down on one knee, bowing their heads.

“My lord, I am sorry to hear such news,” Uriang-Khadai said. He saw Kublai look up as four scouts mounted nearby and began to gallop away to the east. Uriang-Khadai chose to explain before he could be asked.

“There is a Sung army coming west, my lord. They will not be here in time to prevent our withdrawal.”

“Our withdrawal,” Kublai echoed, sounding as if he did not understand. Uriang-Khadai faltered under the yellow gaze.

“My lord, we can stay ahead of them. We can be back in Chin lands by spring. The yam rider said your brothers will have received the news already. They will be making their way home.”

“Orlok, you do not understand me at all,” Kublai said softly. “I am home. This is my khanate. I will not abandon it.”

Uriang-Khadai’s eyes widened as he understood the significance of Kublai’s Chin robes.

“My lord, there will be a quiriltai, a gathering of princes. Your brothers—”

“My brothers have no say in what happens here,” Kublai interrupted. His voice grew hard. “I will finish what I have begun. I have said it. This is my khanate.” He spoke the words with a kind of wonder, as if he had only then understood the turmoil inside him. His eyes were chips of bright gold in the sun as he continued.

“No, this is my empire, Uriang-Khadai. I will not be made to leave. Ready the tumans for battle, Orlok. I will face my enemies and I will destroy them.”

XUAN PACED IN THE DARKNESS. HIS MIND BUZZED TOO LOUDLY to rest, stinging him with questions and memories. Armies were strange things, sometimes far greater than the individual strengths of the soldiers in them. Men who might have run on their own would stand with their friends and their leaders. Yet they all had to sleep and they all had to eat. Xuan had camped near to an enemy before and it remained one of the oddest experiences of his life. The armies were so close that he could see the Mongol campfires as points of light on the darkling plain. The two Sung lords had guards and scouts at all points around the camp, but no one expected the Mongols to attempt a night attack. Their strength was in speed and maneuvers, strengths that would vanish in the blind dark. Xuan smiled at the thought of men sleeping peacefully next to those they would try to kill in daylight. Only humanity could have conceived such a strange and artificial way to die. Wolves might tear the flesh of deer, but they never slept and dreamed near their quarry.

Somewhere close, Xuan could hear the deep snoring of some soldier lying flat on his back. It made him chuckle, though he wished he too could find the balm of sleep. He was no longer young and he knew he would feel it tomorrow, when the horns sounded. He could only hope the battle would not last long enough for his weariness to get him killed. It was one of the great truths of battle, that nothing exhausted a man as quickly as the rush and struggle of fighting hand-to-hand.

Shadows moved in the darkness and Xuan raised his head, suddenly panicky. He heard his son’s voice and relaxed.

“I am here, Liao-Jin,” he whispered.

The small group came to him and though it was dark he knew each one of them. His four children were all the mark he had made on the world. Lord Jin An had understood that. Xuan thought with affection of the young Sung noble. He might have spirited his children away without speaking to Jin An, but it was just as likely they would have been discovered. Xuan had taken a risk in speaking honestly to him, but he had not misjudged his man. Lord Jin An had understood immediately.

Xuan pressed a bag of coins into his son’s hand. Liao-Jin looked at him in surprise, straining to see his father’s features in the starlight.

“What is this?” he said softly.

“A gift from a friend,” Xuan replied. “Enough to keep you all for a time. You will survive and you will be among your own people. I do not doubt you will find others willing to help you, but no matter what happens, you have a chance at a life and children of your own. Isn’t that what you wanted, Liao-Jin? Someone was listening, perhaps. Go now. I have given you horses and only two men to accompany you, my son. They are loyal and they want to go home, but I did not want to send so many that they might think of robbing you.” Xuan sighed. “I have learned not to trust. It shames me.”

“I am not going!” Liao-Jin said, his voice too loud. His sisters shushed him, but he passed the bag of coins into their hands and stood close to his father, bending his head to speak into Xuan’s ear.

“The others should go. But I am an officer in your regiment, father. Let me stay. Let me stand with you.”

“I would rather see you live,” Xuan said curtly. “There will be many here who die tomorrow. I may be one of them. If it happens, let me know my sons, my daughters are safe and free. As your commander, I order you to go with them, Liao-Jin, with my love and my blessing.”

Liao-Jin did not reply. Instead, he waited while his sisters and brother embraced their father for the last time, standing aloof from them all. Without another word, Liao-Jin walked them away into the darkness, to where the horses waited. Xuan could see little, but he listened as they mounted and his younger girl sobbed for her father. His heart broke at the sound.

The small group moved away through the camp and once again Xuan was pleased he had thought to seek permission from Lord Jin An. There would be no startled cries from Sung sentries in the night. Jin An had enjoyed the idea of it all and had even signed papers for Xuan that would help them if they were stopped in Sung lands. Everything else was down to fate. Xuan had done his best to give them a chance.

Footsteps approached and his heart sank with heavy knowledge. He was not surprised when the dark figure spoke with Liao-Jin’s voice.

“They are gone. If you are to die tomorrow, I will be at your side,” his son said.

“You should not have disobeyed me, my son,” Xuan said. His voice grew less harsh as he went on. “But as you have, stay with me as I walk the camp. I won’t sleep now.”

To his surprise, Liao-Jin reached out and touched him on the shoulder. They had never been a family given to open displays of affection, which made it worth all the more. Xuan smiled in the dark as they began walking.

“Let me tell you about the enemy, Liao-Jin. I have known them all my life.”

KARAKORUM WAS FULL OF WARRIORS, THE PLAINS BEFORE the city once again filled with tumans and every room in the city housing at least a family. Two hundred thousand of them had come home and the land was hunted out for a hundred miles around the city. In the cramped camps, the talk was often of Xanadu in the south, apparently crying out for citizens.

Arik-Boke stood in the deepest basements of the palace, with all life and movement far above his head. It was cold in that place and he shivered, rubbing at bumps on his arms. His brother’s body lay there and Arik-Boke could not look away. Traditionalist to the end, Mongke had left instructions for his death, that he should be taken to the same mountain as his grandfather and buried with him. When he was ready, Arik-Boke would take him there himself. The homeland would swallow his brother into the earth.

The corpse had been wrapped and the terrible white-lipped gash across the throat had been sewn shut. Even so, it made Arik-Boke shudder to be alone in the dimly lit room with a pale mockery of the brother he had known and loved. Mongke had trusted him to rule Karakorum in his absence. He had given him the ancestral homeland as his own. Mongke had understood that blood and brotherhood was a force too strong to break, even in death.

“I have done what you wanted, my brother,” Arik-Boke told the body. “You trusted me with your capital and I have not let you down. Hulegu is on his way, to honor you and everything you did for us.”

Arik-Boke did not weep. He knew Mongke would have scorned the idea of red-eyed brothers growing maudlin. He intended to drink himself unconscious, to walk among the warriors as they did the same, to sing and be sick and drink again. Perhaps then he would shed tears without shame.

“Kublai will be home soon, brother,” Arik-Boke said. He sighed to himself. He would have to go back to the funeral feast above soon enough. He had just wanted to say a few words to his brother. It was almost as hard as if Mongke had been there alive and listening.

“I wish I had been there when our father gave his life for Ogedai Khan. I wish I could have given my life to save you. That would have been my purpose in the world. I would have done it, Mongke, I swear it.”

He became aware of the echo in the basements and Arik-Boke reached out and took Mongke’s hand, surprised at the weight of it.

“Goodbye, my brother. I will try to be the man you wanted. I can do that much for your memory.”

THIRTY

BEFORE THE SUN ROSE, BEFORE EVEN THE GRAY LIGHT THAT heralded the dawn, both camps began to wake and get ready. Tea was brewed in ten thousand pots and a solid meal eaten. Men emptied their bladders, often more than once as internal muscles tightened with nerves. On the Sung side, the cannon teams looked over their precious weapons for the thousandth time, rubbing down the polished shot balls and checking that the powder bags had not grown damp and useless.

When the pale light known as the wolf dawn came, both armies could see each other. The Mongols were already mounted, forming up into minghaans of a thousand that would act independently in the battle to come. Men eased tight backs as they rode up and down the lines. Many of them tested the strings on their bows by pulling back without a shaft, loosening the heavy muscles of their shoulders.

Some things had to wait for light, but as soon as he could tell a white thread from a black one, Lord Jin An had the cannon teams pulled into position on the front rank. Others went to the sides, where they would present their black mouths to any flanking attack. He could see Mongol officers staring over at his regiments, noting their positions and pointing out features of the formation to others like them. Lord Jin An smiled. No matter how brave or how fast the Mongols were, they would have to ride through roaring shot to reach his ranks. He had learned from the defeats of other men and he had cavalry by the tens of thousands on his wings. He tried to put himself in the Mongols’ position, to see how they might counter such a display of force, but he could not. They were lice-ridden tribesmen, while he was of the noble class of an ancient empire.

The Sung regiments formed up behind the lines of cannon. Lord Jin An sat his horse and watched as his subordinates assembled the gun soldiers in the first ranks back. Their heavy hand cannon were slow to reload and notoriously inaccurate, but they would hardly be able to miss as they poured fire alongside the cannon. Behind those, his swordsmen waited in their lacquered armor of iron and wood, standing in disciplined silence. Lord Jin An had placed the Chin contingent there, behind the protection of his guns and cannon.

He liked the man who had once been an emperor. Lord Jin An had expected Xuan to be one of those obsessed with his status, having lost so much of it. Yet Xuan reminded the Sung lord of his own father, dead for almost a decade. He had found the same world-weariness in both men, tempered with a dry humor and the sense that they had seen more than they cared to remember. Lord Jin An did not think the Chin soldiers would run, but at the same time he dared not trust his strategy to such elderly men. They were keen enough at dawn, but if the fighting went on all day, they would not be able to keep up with those half their age. Lord Jin An made a mental note to keep an eye on them through the fighting, to be sure a weakness in the lines did not develop.

The sun seemed to take forever to creep above the eastern horizon. Jin An imagined it showing its face to the citizens of Hangzhou and to the lords who still disdained the threat to their culture and the emperor. They were fools. Before it set, he hoped to have broken the foreign army that had dared to enter Sung lands. With such a victory behind him, a man might rise far indeed. It was just one day, he told himself, feeling sweat break out on his skin. Just one, long day.

KUBLAI SAT HIS HORSE, WITH BAYAR AND URIANG-KHADAI on either side of him. The other officers had formed the tumans, though they remained ready for any orders from the three men watching the Sung positions.

“I do not understand how imperial Chin banners can be flying there,” Kublai said, frowning into the distance. “Is it mockery to present the colors of men we have defeated? If so, they are fools. We beat the Chin. They hold no fear for us.”

“My lord, it is more important that the cannon ranks reduce their ability to maneuver,” Uriang-Khadai said. He was flushed with a slow-burning indignation over Kublai’s refusal to listen to any idea of a retreat. In his frustration, he became ever more stilted in his manner, his tone lecturing. “They put too much faith in the heavy weapons, my lord, but we can still move. With respect, I must point out that I have been against engaging them from the beginning. This formation only reinforces my view. Why commit suicide against their guns?”

It irritated Kublai that Uriang-Khadai was so obviously right. Before hearing the news of his brother’s death, he knew he would have ridden around the Sung regiments, forcing them to come after him and leave their guns behind, or make such slow progress with them that they would never catch up. He could then choose the best ground to attack.

It was the merest common sense not to let an enemy have his main advantage. All Kublai’s cannon, both captured and brought from home, lay rusting on fields hundreds of miles away. The weapons were terrifyingly powerful in the right place and time, but until someone found a way to move them quickly, they were more often a hindrance to fast-moving cavalry. The Sung commander did not seem to understand that at all.

Yet under the stillness, Kublai felt a part of him clamoring and clawing its way out. It was red-mouthed in savagery, demanding that he attack just where the enemy were strong. He wanted to take all the grief and pain of his brother’s death and dash it out against those iron guns. He wanted to show Mongke that he had courage, whether his brother’s spirit knew it or not.

“Sun Tzu said there are seven conditions for victory,” Kublai said. “Shall I list them for you?”

“Sun Tzu never saw gunpowder used in war, my lord,” Uriang-Khadai said stubbornly.

“One. Which of the two sovereigns is imbued with Moral Law? Who is in the right, Orlok? It matters to the men. The Sung are defending their lands, so perhaps they must take that first point. Yet I am the grandson of Genghis Khan and all lands are mine.”

Uriang-Khadai stared at him in worried silence. He had never seen Kublai so intensely focused. The scholar had been burned out of him and Uriang-Khadai feared the effects of his grief.

“Two. Which of the generals has most ability? I give you that one, Uriang-Khadai, and you also, Bayar. These Sung have made a house that cannot move, with walls of guns. Three. With whom lie the advantages of Heaven and Earth? I call that equal, as the land is flat and the skies are clear.”

“My lord—” Uriang-Khadai tried to interrupt.

“Four. On which side is discipline most rigorously enforced? That would be ours, Orlok, men who live hard lives from birth, men who endure. They have not grown soft in Sung cities. Five. Which army is stronger? In numbers, perhaps the Sung, but we have beaten their armies before. I will have that one, I think.”

“Six. On which side are the officers and men more highly trained? That is ours. Every man here has fought and won many times. We are veteran soldiers, Uriang-Khadai. We are the elite tumans of the nation. The Sung have had peace for too long.” He paused. “The last is a strange one. Which army is most constant in reward and punishment? Sun Tzu valued good leadership, I think, if I have understood it correctly. Without knowing the Sung, I cannot be certain, so I will call that one equal. The balance is with us, Orlok.”

“My lord, the guns …”

“The guns must be swabbed down between shots,” Kublai snapped. “The barrels must be cleaned of burning scraps of cloth or embers. A new powder bag must be jammed down and carefully pierced by a hollow reed filled with black powder. The ball must be lifted into the barrel and shoved down. It all takes time, Orlok, and we will not give them time. They will have one shot and then we will be in range to kill the cannon teams. We can face one shot.”

He had been staring out to the Sung regiment waiting for them, but he turned to face Uriang-Khadai, his yellow eyes blazing.

“Should I treat them with respect, these Sung men who know nothing of war? Should I fear their weapons, their black powder? I do not, Orlok. I will not.”

“My lord, please reconsider. Let them stand and run dry for a few days without water. Let them grow hungry while we forage the land and remain strong. They cannot remain forever in one place, leaving us to ride unchecked around them. Let me burn the closest towns to us and they will be forced to answer, to come out.”

“And by then, there will be another Sung army on its way to support them,” Kublai said bitterly. “Have you not learned yet that there is no end to these people? Today, I think I will answer their arrogance with arrogance of my own. I will ride down the mouths of their guns.”

Uriang-Khadai was horror-struck.

“My lord, you must stay clear of the battle. If you are killed …”

“Then I will be killed. I have made my decision, Orlok. Stand with me, or join the ranks under the orders of others.”

Uriang-Khadai slowly bowed his head, understanding at last that he would not move the younger man from his choice. He looked again at the Sung guns, in the new light of knowing he would ride into them.

“Then, my lord, I suggest wide-spaced ranks as we go in, coming back after the first shot for massed arrow volleys and a lance charge. If I may, my lord, I would also hold back two groups of five hundred heavily armored riders to strike as gaps appear in their lines.”

Kublai grinned suddenly.

“You are an interesting man, Orlok Uriang-Khadai. I hope you live through today.”

Uriang-Khadai grimaced.

“As do I, my lord. With your permission, I will pass on those orders to the minghaans, telling them to target the cannon teams first.” When Kublai nodded, he went on. “The Sung have not placed as many cannon at their rear, my lord. General Bayar is reasonably competent. He should swing out with a tuman and attack them from behind.”

Bayar chuckled at the grudging description of him.

“Very well,” Kublai replied. He felt lighter now he had made the decision. It was done. He would ride against the guns with his men, the bones of his fate tossed high into the air.

Uriang-Khadai passed on the new orders to the minghaan officers. Through them, the news reached the jagun commanders of a hundred and the most junior officers in charge of just ten men. The sun had hardly moved before every warrior there understood what Kublai intended them to do. He made no speeches to them. Even if he had, only a small number would have heard the words. Though he watched them, they seemed unsurprised by the orders and simply readied themselves, checking their mounts and weapons one last time. Kublai sent a silent prayer to his brother’s spirit. Men would die that day who might have lived if he had made different choices.

He stopped, the moment stretching in his head. It felt as if a veil had lifted, as if the sun shone through his grief for the first time. He could almost hear Mongke’s voice speaking in anger or mockery. For just an instant, it was as if his brother were standing behind him. Kublai dug in his heels and rode to where Uriang-Khadai and Bayar were discussing the battle plan with a group of other men. Kublai did not dismount.

“I have new orders, Orlok Uriang-Khadai. We will ride around this army and head for Hangzhou. If the enemy leave their guns to chase, we will turn and tear them to pieces. If they bring them, we will attack while the cannon are still attached to oxen.”

“Thank God,” Uriang-Khadai said.

The men around him were grinning and Kublai could suddenly see how much strain they had been under before. Yet they had not balked at what he had asked of them. His heart filled with pride.

“We are the tumans of Mongke Khan,” Kublai said. “We move, we strike, and we move on again. Mount up. Let us leave these Sung fools behind.”

There was laughter in the ranks as the news spread and Kublai’s words were repeated hundreds of times. The tumans surged forward into a trot and the Sung regiments less than a mile away watched in confusion as they swung clear of the battlefield, leaving only dust, manure, and cropped grass in their wake.

GENERAL SALSANAN HAD NOT EXPECTED IT TO BE SUCH A task when he volunteered to leave the khan’s tumans and come south. Though he did not know exactly where Kublai was, he expected to track him down by following a trail of burned towns and cities. Instead, the Sung countryside seemed hardly to have been affected by the passage of armies. It was true that there were few animals grazing and the peasants ran to hide from his soldiers as they searched for anything they could eat. Even so, it was a far cry from the trail of devastation he had thought to see.

His eighty thousand had not even brought the usual supplies. Each man had only two spare mounts, and as they pushed on Salsanan’s tumans lost a few ponies each day to lameness. Unable to keep up, the mounts were quickly butchered, providing enough meat to give two hundred men a hot meal. The tumans left only bones and often split those for the rich marrow before moving on.

After a month of searching, Salsanan would spend much of each day wishing Mongke Khan were still alive. The land was wide and the endless stream of small towns tempted him to stop and loot. Only his sense of duty kept him going. His men were disciplined, but he was beginning to wonder where Kublai had gone. It seemed impossible to lose a hundred thousand men, even in the vastness of Sung territories. He questioned every village leader and town official who trembled before him, but it was not until he reached the city of Shaoyang that the prefect gave him a solid lead. As he rode, Salsanan reminded himself that the man he went to fetch home could be the next khan. He would have to tread carefully with the scholar prince.

On the road east, Salsanan’s scouts had him riding up ahead of the tumans to confirm the strange sight they reported. Hundreds of heavy cannon lay overturned in the road, their draft animals slaughtered. The carcasses had been expertly butchered, with most of the meat taken. In many cases, flies swarmed over just a head and hooves and bloody ground. There were dead men with them, unarmed peasants with dead hands still clutching at whips and reins. Salsanan smiled to see it, recognizing the work of his own people.

Just a few miles further on, he found the first remnants of a shattered army, bodies lying in the dusty road. Over the crest of a hill, the corpses grew thicker, as if a stand had been made on that spot. Salsanan walked his mount slowly through them, then reined in as the full battle site was revealed. Dead men lay everywhere, scattered in heaps like shriveled insects.

Salsanan saw distant figures walking amongst the dead, stopping and staring in terror as his warriors came into sight. He knew some men always survive a battle. In the chaos of fighting, they are knocked unconscious, or pass out from a wound. There will always be a few to rise the following day, limping home while armies and the war move on without them. As he rode further through the field of the dead, Salsanan watched battered Sung survivors raise their hands, their faces slack as his men began to round them up.

He nodded in fascination as he read the battle that had taken place. It had been hard. There were many Mongol bodies and he could discern the pattern of their charges in the corpses and broken lances. Kublai’s tumans had been beaten back more than once, he could see, perhaps almost flanked. The Sung commander had known their tactics and answered them without panic.

Salsanan picked up a broken arrow and scratched his head with the tip. He would speak to the bruised and battered survivors, but first he walked the field, learning from the bloody script the sort of man who might one day rule the nation.

He found a place where the grass had been churned into mud, just a short way from the main battle lines. A tuman had been rallied there and sent back in. Salsanan could almost see the line of their attack in his mind’s eye. He frowned as he walked through the echoes of the battle, revising his opinion of Mongke Khan’s brother. The charge had been tight, discipline excellent. The Sung lines had bowed back and Salsanan could see the broken and bloody spears where they had tried to stand. His years of training made him look right and left for the second charge that he would have sent in at the right moment. There. He led his horse by the reins over the corpses, moving carefully as they slid and shifted under his boots.

He found the spot where the battle had been decided. Crossbow bolts littered the ground, many of them still standing out like quills in pieces of littered armor. Kublai’s men had ridden through heavy fire to circle out and back at full gallop. Salsanan could read their confidence and he nodded, satisfied. There had been no hesitation, no doubts from the man who commanded them.

One of Salsanan’s men signaled and he mounted to ride over to another section.

“What is it?” he said as he rode up.

His man gestured to the bodies that lay all around them. The smell of spilled guts was appalling and flies buzzed into Salsanan’s face, making him wave them off. Even so, he bent to look.

“They are so old,” the scout said.

Salsanan stared around, him, confirming it. All the faces were lined and the dead men closest to him looked thin and wasted.

“Why would the Sung go to battle with such elderly soldiers?” he muttered. His foot was on a yellow banner and he reached down and picked up the torn cloth. Part of a painted symbol was revealed, but Salsanan did not recognize it. He let the crumpled cloth fall.

“Whoever they were, they should not have fought against us.”

His gaze fell on the center of the dead, a corpse with short-cropped gray hair surrounded by a ring of many others, as if they had died trying to protect him. A much younger man lay almost across the body, the only youthful face Salsanan could see. Arrow and sword wounds marked them all, the shafts themselves wrenched out from their flesh.

Salsanan shrugged, letting the small mystery go. “We cannot be far behind them now. Tell the men to make a good pace. And make sure the scouts show themselves early. I do not want to be attacked by my own people.”

SALSANAN CAUGHT UP WITH KUBLAI’S TUMANS ON THE OUTSKIRTS of Changsha city. Like wolves entering another’s territory, both sides were cautious at first. The outer scouts overlapped and raced back with messages for those who led them on both sides. The armies halted far enough away for there to be no sense of threat. Kublai rode out with Bayar and Uriang-Khadai, breaking off his negotiations with the prefect of Changsha almost in mid-sentence when he heard.

He and General Salsanan met on a spring afternoon, with just a few mare’s tails of cloud in the sky above and a warm breeze blowing. Between them, sixteen tumans faced each other. On Kublai’s side, they were veterans, fierce and grubby with old blood and dirt. On the other, they were fresh, their armor shining. Both forces looked at the other side in astonishment and there were many jeering calls.

Kublai was flushed with pleasure at the sight of so many tumans of the nation. He let Salsanan dismount first and bow before he climbed down from his horse.

“You do not know how welcome you are,” Kublai said.

“My lord, it seems to have fallen to me to bring the worst news,” Salsanan said.

Kublai’s smile vanished. “I already know my brother is dead. Yam riders found me, two of them.”

A crease appeared on Salsanan’s brow.

“Then I do not understand, my lord. If they found you, why have you not begun the journey home? The nation is gathering at Karakorum. The funeral of the khan …”

“My brother Mongke gave me a task, General. I have made the decision to finish it.”

Salsanan did not respond at first. He was a man used to authority and comfortable in a chain of command. With the khan dead, it was as if a vital support beam had been removed and his habitual certainty was gone. He stammered slightly as he tried again, unnerved under the pale stare of the khan’s brother.

“My lord, I was given the task of escorting you home. Those are my only orders. Are you saying you will not come?”

“I am saying I cannot,” Kublai snapped, “until I have brought the Sung to heel. The sky father has sent you to me, Salsanan. Your tumans are a gift, when I thought there could be none.”

Salsanan saw Kublai’s assumption and spoke quickly to head him off before he gave orders that could not be undone.

“We are not reinforcements, my lord. My orders were to bring you home to Karakorum. Tell me where your camp is and I will begin the preparations. The khan is dead. There will be a gathering in Karakorum …”

Kublai had flushed again as he spoke, this time in anger.

“Are you deaf? I have said I will not come back until my work is finished. Until I have the Sung emperor’s head. Whatever your orders were, I countermand them. You are my reinforcements, sorely needed. With you, I will complete the khan’s wishes.”

Salsanan clenched his jaw, seeking for calm and finding it difficult to grasp. He found his own anger rising and his voice hardened as he replied.

“With respect, I am not yours to command, my lord. Neither are the tumans under me. If you will not come home, I must leave you here and make my way back. I will carry whatever messages you want me to take to Karakorum.”

Kublai turned away, taking a moment to wrap his reins around his hand. He could see Salsanan’s tumans in silent ranks stretching into the distance. He hungered to have them with him, doubling his forces at a stroke. At his back, his veterans were waiting in good spirits, certain that this new army had come to bolster their strength. To see them march away would be a small death, abandoned at the moment of triumph. Kublai shook his head. He could not allow it. Every mile to the east had brought a greater density of towns, better roads, and teeming people. Hangzhou was barely five hundred miles on, but already he could see the wealth and strength of the outlying cities. He needed Salsanan’s men. They were the answer to prayers, the sign of benevolent spirits bringing him aid when he needed it most.

“You leave me no choice, General,” Kublai said, his eyes glinting with anger. He mounted his horse easily, leaping into the saddle. “General Bayar, Orlok Uriang-Khadai, bear witness.” Kublai raised his voice, making it carry to both sides of waiting warriors.

“I am Kublai of the Borjigin. I am grandson to Genghis Khan. I am eldest brother to Mongke Khan.”

“My lord!” Salsanan said in shock, as he realized what was happening. “You can’t do this!”

Kublai went on as if he had not spoken.

“Before you all, in the lands of my enemies, I declare myself great khan of the nation, of the khanates under my brothers, Hulegu and Arik-Boke, of the Chagatai khanate and all others. I declare myself great khan of the Chin lands and the Sung. I have spoken and my word is iron!”

Deep silence followed his words for a beat, then his tumans bellowed in joy, raising their weapons. On the other side, Salsanan’s men responded in a great roar of acclamation.

Salsanan tried to speak again, but his voice was lost in the tumult. Kublai drew his sword and held it high. The noise seemed to double in volume, crashing against them.

Kublai looked down at Salsanan as he sheathed his sword.

“Tell me again what I can’t do, General,” he said. “Well? I have the right. I claim it by blood. Now I will take your oath, or I will have your head.” He shrugged. “It is nothing to me.”

Salsanan stared, slack-jawed at what he had witnessed. He looked around at his cheering men and the last of his resistance faded. Slowly, he knelt on the grass, looking up at the khan of the nation.

“I offer you gers, horses, salt, and blood, my lord khan,” he said, glassy-eyed.

THIRTY-ONE

AT DAWN, ARIK-BOKE STOOD ON THE PLAINS BEFORE KARAKORUM. Mongke’s two oldest sons had been granted a place close by their uncle. Asutai was sixteen and Urung Tash fourteen, but in their wide shoulders they showed signs of what would become their father’s massive strength. They were still red-eyed from grief. Arik-Boke had been kind to them in the days after the terrible news had come home and both young men looked up to him in simple hero worship.

Hulegu stood at his brother’s right hand, still darkly tanned from his time in Persia and Syria. He had left only a small force behind with General Kitbuqa to guard the new cities, the new khanate he had won there. Arik-Boke could practically feel his brother’s pride. Hulegu had done well with Baghdad, but the region was far from pacified. He could not stay long in Karakorum.

Arik-Boke rubbed the scar across his ruined nose. He caught himself in the habit and took his hand away, determined to be dignified on this of all days. He looked out at the massed tumans of the nation, the princes who had crossed half the world to be there when they heard of the khan’s death. They had come a long, long way from the fledgling nation Genghis had created from far-flung tribes. It showed in their numbers and in their obvious wealth.

The body of Mongke Khan lay hidden in a huge covered cart, specially built for that task, for that day. It was to be drawn by forty white horses and followed on foot by thousands of men and women. Their tears would salt the ground as they returned to the last resting place of Mongke’s grandfather. Proud princes would walk in its wake, putting aside the signs of their rank as they mourned the father of the nation.

Arik-Boke watched as the sun began to set. In the dark, torches would be lit along a path that stretched away from the city and they would begin. Before that, they waited for him. He turned to Hulegu and his brother nodded to him. Arik-Boke smiled, recalling the first tense meeting after Hulegu’s return. For the first time in years, they had walked out of the city like a pair of poor herdsmen, bearing skins of airag on their shoulders. There were many fires around the city, many men and women huddling around them against the cold. Hulegu and Arik-Boke had sat down to join the vigil, talking all the while of the khan and brother they had lost. They had honored Mongke with mouthfuls of airag spat into the air and both of them had drunk themselves into a bleary stupor.

Hulegu had been burned dark under a harsh sun. He even smelled different, an odor of cloves and strange spices coming off his skin. As that first night had gone on, his eyes were bright as he described the lands he had seen, with sunlit mountains and ancient secrets. He told Arik-Boke of kohl-eyed Persian women he had seen dance to exhaustion, flinging sweat like bright jewels in the light of feast fires. He spoke of the great markets; of snakes and magicians, of brass and of gold. His voice had grown hoarse with recollection and awe.

Before the sun had risen, Arik-Boke had understood that Hulegu did not want the empire of the great khan. His brother had fallen in love with the desert lands and itched even then to return to them, begrudging every day spent on the cold plains of home. In the morning, they had risen to their feet with groans and creaking joints, but they were at peace with each other.

Arik-Boke breathed slowly, forcing himself to relax. It was time: The nation waited for him to speak. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the incense that lay strongly on the air.

“My brother Mongke entrusted the homeland to me, the plains where Genghis himself was born. In his absence, he entrusted Karakorum to my hands. I will continue his work, his ambitions, his vision for the small khanates. The nations cannot be left unattended, this we have agreed.” His heart pounded and he took another breath.

“I will be great khan, in the line of Genghis, in the line of Ogedai, Guyuk, and my brother Mongke. Speak your oaths to me and honor my brother’s wishes.”

Hulegu knelt first at his side and Arik-Boke rested a hand on his shoulder. Mongke’s sons followed, for all to witness. Arik-Boke had offered them lands and wealth and had hardly needed to explain the alternative. After such a public display, there would be no one whispering to them that they could have taken the khanate.

As far as the eye could see, the tumans followed suit. In a ripple like a rock dropping into a still pond, the assembled princes knelt and offered gers, horses, salt, and blood. Arik-Boke shuddered slightly, closing his eyes. Only Kublai was missing from the great host before Karakorum. His brother would hear the news from the yam riders waiting to gallop away, but by then the whole world would know there was a new khan. At least Kublai was not a man of great ambition, or he would surely have challenged Mongke when they were all still young. Arik-Boke tried to ignore the itch of his doubts. Kublai should have come home when he heard Mongke had died, but he had not. He was a dreamer, more suited to libraries and scrolls than leadership of the nation. If his older brother chose to challenge him, Arik-Boke would answer with all the force of the risen nation.

Arik-Boke smiled at the thought of the scholar riding to war. Kublai had sent home the women and children of his tumans. They too had given their oaths to him, kneeling in the dust before Karakorum. As Mongke’s sons had chosen their path, Kublai would be forced to accept the new order. He sighed with pleasure at the sight of so many tens of thousands on their knees before him. The youngest son of Tolui and Sorhatani had dared to stretch out his hand when the people needed a khan. It was Arik-Boke’s day and the sun was still rising.

THIRTY-TWO

THE IMPERIAL MEETING CHAMBER AT THE HEART OF HANGZHOU was in uproar. Sung lords had gathered without being called, as the sense grew that they must not miss whatever was happening. As the morning wore on, runners and servants constantly reported to those in their city houses outside the grounds. More and more made the decision and summoned their bearers and palanquins. Younger lords came on horseback, wearing swords on their waist and surrounded by loyal guards. There was no sense of peace or security in the hall. The tension and noise rose by the hour.

They had traveled in from their estates to the old emperor’s funeral, but when it was over, they remained in their city houses, waiting to be summoned to council. The Mongol armies had come within striking distance of the capital city. There was fear in Hangzhou, a febrile tension in the air. Soldiers on the walls strained their eyes into the distance as if Mongol outriders could appear out of the morning mist with no warning at all. Information changed hands for strings of silver coins as the rumor-mongers parlayed small knowledge into the highest profits.

The conclave that day had begun from a rumor that the new emperor was ready to call them. No one knew who had begun it, but the news spread to every noble house before dawn. Daylight brought no formal summons and barely a dozen lords had come to the imperial precinct and taken places. Word went out that they were there and as the morning passed the number doubled and then doubled again, as senior lords worried they were being excluded from some important event. The tipping point came in the early afternoon. Independently, the last eight heads of Sung houses decided they could wait no longer for the new emperor to call them. They entered the meeting hall together with swordsmen and servants, so that every seat and balcony was packed as the sun began to ease toward the west.

Lord Sung Win was at the center of it all, tall and thin in robes of mourning white. Many of the others wore less traditional dark blue to mark the passing of the emperor, but there was no sense of funereal calm. The gong that usually rang to announce the conclave was silent and many eyes glanced toward it, still expecting the booming note that would restore order. It could not be struck without the emperor’s command to gather, yet they were there, waiting for some act or voice. No one knew how to begin.

As the day waned, Lord Sung Win had taken a central position on the open floor, letting others come to him. Through his servants and vassal lords, he brokered information, observing the factions that gathered briefly and then drifted apart like silkworm husks in the wind. He showed no sign of weariness through the long hours and in fact seemed to grow in energy, his height and confidence commanding the room. The numbers swelled around him and the level of noise became almost painful to the ear. Food and drink were brought and consumed without anyone leaving their place.

There was tension and even fear in the faces of those who came. It was forbidden for them to assemble without the emperor’s order and for many the decision to do so risked their names and estates. They would not have dared to come if Emperor Lizong still lived. The heir to the dragon throne was unknown to them, a boy of only eleven years. It was that fact above all else that allowed them to join the throng in the hall. The light of heaven had been extinguished, the empire left suddenly adrift. In the face of such an omen, there was a fragile consensus. They could not ignore the enemy any longer.

Lord Sung Win felt the chaos like strong drink in his blood. Everyone who entered could see him there, representing one of the oldest houses in the empire. He spoke softly to his vassals, a center of calm and tradition in a growing gale. The smell of opium was pungent and he watched in amusement as lords set out ornate trays, soothing their nerves with the ritual process that began with rolling soft pills on bronze vessels and ended with them sitting back, drawing deeply on the pipes and wreathing themselves in bitter smoke. His own fingers twitched with the urge, but he controlled it. The meeting was a new thing and he dared not lose even some part of his wits.

As the sun began to set, many of the lords present lowered themselves onto porcelain pots carried in by their servants. Their robes hid everything from view as they emptied long-held bladders and bowels, the steaming contents borne away quickly so that the lords could stay in place. Sung Win waited for the right moment. There were at least two other groups who might yet open the conclave. One could be dismissed as lacking support, but the young man at the center of the other faction was flushed with his own sudden rise to power. Lord Jin Feng’s brother had been killed in the most recent attack on the Mongol forces. It should have left his house weak for a season, but the new lord had taken on the responsibilities with skill.

Sung Win frowned at the memory of a trade agreement he had tried to force through with the family. It had looked like the support of a friend, a financial gift with few conditions to tide them through difficult times until the house was stable. A single clause would have allowed him to annex part of their land if they had defaulted. It had been perfect, both subtle and powerful. They would have given him insult if they had refused and he had waited for the sealed document to be sent back to him. When it had arrived, he had been delighted to see the perfect lines of the house chop on the thick parchment. He had let his eyes drift down to the single line that made the agreement a weapon as sharp as any dagger. It had not been there.

Sung Win shook his head in irritated memory as Lord Jin Feng clapped some supporter on the shoulder. To copy a document and its seals so perfectly, even to the handwriting of Sung Win’s own scribe, was ingenious. He could hardly complain. The choice had been his to accept the altered agreement or let it accidentally be destroyed in a fire and send his regrets. He had accepted, acknowledging a fine stroke.

Sung Win watched his neighbor from under lowered lids, wondering if it would be best to let Jin Feng bear the brunt of imperial disapproval. The first to speak formally took the greatest risk, but it was not an advantage he felt he could give up. Sung Win smiled to himself, enjoying the tension across his shoulders and the way his pulse beat in his veins. All life involved risk.

He stood slowly in the tumult and his vassals fell silent, turning toward him. In such a tense crowd, that simple action was enough. The pool of stillness was noticed and spread quickly across the hall. Men broke off from whispers or open arguments, craning their necks without dignity to see who would dare to speak first without the emperor’s formal command.

Lord Sung Win glanced at the entrance arch for the last time that day, looking for the emperor’s herald, or his chancellor. He did not doubt the boy Huaizong had heard of the conclave by then. The old emperor’s spies would be in that room for their new master, ready to report every word and who had said them. Lord Sung Win took a deep breath. Nonetheless, the moment was upon him and silence had spread across the hall. More than a hundred lords watched him with eyes that gleamed in the light of the evening lamps. Most were too weak to affect the outcome of the day, but there were thirty-two others who held power in the nation, Lord Jin Feng among them. It may have been Sung Win’s imagination, but they seemed to stand out from the crowd. Though every man there wore white or dark blue, he could almost sense the points in the room where power lay.

“My lords,” he said. The silence was so profound he hardly needed to raise his voice at all. “Your presence reveals your understanding. Let us go forward in the knowledge that Emperor Lizong would not have wished us to sit idly while our lands are savaged and destroyed by an invader. We are in the crucible, my lords, knowing that we face a terrible enemy. Great and ancient houses have been lost to us. Others have passed to new heirs while the true bloodlines are broken.”

Whispers could be heard and he spoke louder, holding them. He had planned every word during the long hours of that day.

“I accept my part of the guilt we share, that we have indulged ourselves in games of power while the empire suffered. I have watched lords leave this chamber and seen their names cut into the honor stone as men who have fallen to protect our freedoms.”

He looked to Lord Jin Feng and the young man nodded reluctantly to him.

“Through our weakness, through our mistrust of one another, we have allowed an enemy to creep closer to the imperial capital than anyone has ever come. We have thrown mere straws into the wind to stop him and wasted our energies on politics and personal vengeance. The price has been high. My lords, the favor of heaven has been withdrawn from us. The emperor has gone from this world. At this moment of weakness, of chaos, the enemy comes, the wolf with bloody jaws. You know this.”

Once more he took a deep breath. Lord Jin Feng could have spoken then. There was no imperial chancellor to order the speakers or control the debate. The young man remained silent, waiting.

“Without the emperor’s voice,” Sung Win went on, “we do not have the power to put the empire under arms as one. I know this. I accept this. I have tried to reach Emperor Huaizong and heard nothing from the court. I know many of you have been rebuffed by ignorant courtiers. That is why we are here, my lords. We know the wolf is coming to Hangzhou and we know what must be done. He must be fought, or he must be paid tribute to leave our lands. There is no third choice. If we do nothing, we have failed in our duty and our honor is as dust. If we do nothing, we will deserve the destruction that will surely come.”

Lord Sung Win paused, knowing that his next words would take him into treason. His life, his house, his history would be forfeit if the boy emperor chose to make an example of him. Yet if he could break the Mongol armies, he would earn the gratitude of the imperial house. He would be beyond punishment, untouchable. Sung Win dared not dream of his sons rising to become emperor in turn, but his actions that day would put him closer to the dragon throne than any of his ancestors. Or they would get him killed.

“I have come to see that we must act. Therefore I call the council. I call all Sung lords to defend the empire. Thirty-three noble houses are here today. Between us, and our vassals, we control more than a million soldiers. I call a vote in conclave.”

One of his servants went to the wooden case that stood against the far wall. Inlaid with ivory, it was an ancient and beautiful thing. The servant held an iron rod and at the last moment he looked back at Lord Sung Win, hesitating. Sung Win nodded and the servant inserted the rod and yanked back, breaking the lock.

There was a gasp across the chamber. Every lord stared in fascination and dread as Sung Win’s servant brought out a deep glass bowl, larger than his head. He held it up as he walked back to the center. Other servants reached into the cabinet and withdrew marbles of black and clear glass from the shelves where they lay in neat rows. The men moved through the crowd, handing them in pairs to the most powerful houses of the empire. The crowd of lords began to speak in louder voices and Lord Sung Win strained his eyes and ears to gain a sense of the room. He could not judge the mood at that moment and it frustrated him. Some of them would be too terrified of the emperor’s disapproval to vote. They would abstain in their cowardice and weakness. He could not know how Jin Feng would act. His brother’s army had been torn apart by the Mongol invader, but the house was ancient and his decision would matter.

Lord Sung Win raised his hands to show them the two marbles he held, one black and one clear.

“Let the neutral color be for tribute,” he said, raising the black ball. “Let clear water be for war.” He dropped the clear ball into the glass sphere, so that it rang out a note across the hall, whirring around in slow circles before it rested. “That is my vote, with my vassal houses. That is my pledge of ninety-two thousand soldiers, horses, all the equipment and accoutrements of war at my command. Let us destroy the enemy before us, in the name of the Lord Perpetual Nation, the Son of Heaven. In the name of Emperor Huaizong and the dragon throne.”

Up to that point, Lord Sung Win had dominated the room. As the clear glass ball rattled to a stop, the realization flashed around the hall that they were expected to respond. Sung Win felt a prickle of sweat begin at his brow and held himself very still so they would not see it run down his face and know the strain he felt.

The head of the most ancient house in the empire was seated in one of the first rows around the central space. Lord Hong was a large man, made wider by his formal robes. He sat with his legs braced before him and one hand resting on each knee. His right hand clicked in the silence as he rubbed two of the marbles together. Sung Win waited for him to move and so he was startled when Lord Jin Feng stood up at the edge of his vision and came forward to the servant with the glass bowl. Lord Hong watched warily, only his hand moving.

“This is a day of new things,” Jin Feng said. “My brother Lord Jin An gave his life to protect our lands and honor. Xuan, Son of Heaven, died with him, the end of a noble Chin line. In defense of the empire, can I offer less than my own life?” He looked around at the gathered nobles and nodded as if he understood them. “We have a duty to burn thorns in our fields. My vassals and I vote for war.”

He dropped another clear ball into the bowl and it rattled around, holding the gaze of every man in the meeting place. Jin Feng bowed briefly to Sung Win. He neither liked nor trusted the older man and as their eyes met, Jin Feng could not help the suspicions that flared in him. Yet for once, Lord Sung Win was on the side of right. Jin Feng handed the black ball to a servant and returned to his place as two more lords stepped up. Both of them placed clear marbles in the bowl and passed back the others.

Sung Win began to relax as three more men came and added clear balls. He saw Lord Hong rise from his seat. The man moved easily, with grace and strength. Lord Hong was one of the few in the hall who did not neglect his training with sword and bow each day.

Lord Hong held both marbles above the bowl.

“I see no emperor’s chancellor here,” he said, his voice deep. “I have heard no gong summoning us to this council, this conclave.”

Lord Sung Win began to sweat again at the words. Though a distant cousin of the old emperor, Lord Hong was still a member of the imperial family. He could yet sway the gathering if he chose to exert his influence.

Lord Hong flashed a gaze around the chamber.

“My heart rebels at the idea of paying tribute to this enemy, but it will buy us time for Emperor Huaizong to bring order. I would wish to lead an army if the vote goes for war, but without imperial approval, I cannot add the fate of my house to that decision. Therefore, I choose tribute.”

He dropped a black ball into the bowl and Sung Win struggled not to scowl at the man. Lord Hong had revealed only weakness with his speech, as if he could keep himself safe from imperial anger, yet still expect to lead if the vote went against him. It was infuriating, but typical of the politics in that chamber. Lord Hong had reminded them of the prospect of the emperor’s disapproval and the ripples had begun to spread. Sung Win showed no reaction as four more lords added black marbles to the bowl. Internally, he seethed.

The lamps burned down to dark yellow flickers with no imperial servants to replenish the oil. Lord Sung Win stood straight and tall as the lords of the Sung empire came up one by one. Few of them spoke, though the first to abstain explained his decision in words that demonstrated only cowardice in Sung Win’s assessment. Even so, seven others abstained from the vote, handing back both marbles to the servants.

The damage had been done by Lord Hong, just enough to frighten the weak men and make the strong cautious. Sung Win could feel the mood in the chamber shift as they chose the safer path of tribute over war. He clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth grate as the black balls were dropped in, one after the other. When the vote stood against him at eleven to seven, he thought of speaking again, but it would have meant another breach of tradition. His chance had come and gone. He allowed himself a glare at those who abstained, but kept his silence as the glass bowl filled. Two more black marbles went in and then two more clear ones. A distant hope formed in Lord Sung Win’s icy thoughts. Another vote for tribute and two abstentions followed, men who would not even meet his eyes as they shuffled back to their seats.

When the thirty-three great houses had all voted or abstained, the glass bowl was almost full. Sung Win had kept count in his mind, but he showed no emotion as the results were tallied, watched by all.

“Ten have abstained. There are fourteen votes for tribute, nine for war,” he announced in a voice as clear and loud as any imperial herald. He breathed in relief. “The vote is carried for war.”

Sung Win smiled, feeling dizzy from the strain. Fourteen was the unluckiest number possible, a number that sounded like the words “Want to die” in both Cantonese and Mandarin. Nine was a number of strength, associated with the emperor himself. The result could not have been clearer and many of the men in the room relaxed visibly at the sign of heavenly favor. To go forward under nine was a blessing. No one would dare to move under fourteen, for fear of utter disaster.

A low note boomed across the room, interrupting the excited conversations that had sprung up over the meeting hall at the announcement. Lord Sung Win jerked his head around, his mouth dropping slightly open. The imperial chancellor stood by the gong, holding the rod he had used to strike. The man was red-faced, as if he had run a long way. He wore a tunic and trousers of white silk, and in his right hand he held his staff of office. A yellow-dyed yak tail spilled over his fist as he stood and glared in fury at the assembled lords.

“Rise for Emperor Huaizong, Lord Perpetual Nation, ruler of the Middle Kingdom. Make obeisance for the Son of Heaven!”

A ripple of shock snapped across the hall. Every man there stumbled to his feet as if yanked up. The emperor did not attend the conclave of lords. Though they met at his order, the imperial will had always been carried out by his representatives in that chamber. Of the hundred lords present, barely three or four would have found themselves in the imperial presence before and a sense of awe overwhelmed them as the gong rang out again.

There was no order in the way they knelt. The lords’ delicate appreciation of status and hierarchy vanished as their faces and minds blanked in terror. Lord Sung Win knelt as if his legs had given way, his kneecaps striking sharply on the floor. Around the chamber, the other lords followed suit, some of them struggling to get down in the press of their servants. Sung Win had a glimpse of a boy in a white tunic decorated with gold dragons before he dropped his head and brought his damp brow down to the ancient wood three times. All his plans and stratagems tore to rags in his mind as he rose briefly and then dipped again, knocking his head on the floor three more times. Before he had completed the third kowtow of the ritual, Emperor Huaizong was among them with his guards, walking confidently toward the center of the floor.

Lord Sung Win struggled to his feet, though he kept his head bowed with the rest. He struggled against confusion, trying to understand what it might mean to have the new emperor enter the chamber. Huaizong was a small figure, fragile against the hulking swordsmen who surrounded him. It was not necessary to clear the floor. The imperial presence had every lord pushing back to give him space, Sung Win among them.

Silence fell again and Sung Win had to repress the mad urge to smile. A memory came to him of his father’s anger when he had discovered a young Sung Win stealing dried apples. It was ridiculous to feel the same way in the presence of a young boy, but Sung Win could see many other faces flushed in hot embarrassment, their dignity forgotten.

Emperor Huaizong stood straight and unafraid before them all, perhaps aware that he could have ordered any of them killed with a single word. They would not resist the order. Obedience was too ingrained in them. Lord Sung Win thought furiously as he waited for the boy to speak. The emperor looked almost like an animated doll, his shaven head gleaming in the lamplight. Sung Win realized the imperial servants were replenishing the oil as the light grew around the hall, bathing them all in gold. He could see the nine yellow dragons that twined on Huaizong’s tunic, symbols of his authority and bloodline. He repressed a sigh. If Huaizong denied the vote they had taken, Sung Win knew his life was forfeit. He felt himself tremble to have his house waiting on the words of one he did not know.

When Huaizong spoke, his voice was high and clear, unbroken.

“Who summoned this meeting?”

Sung Win’s stomach clenched as fear rose in him. He did not need to look to know every eye in the chamber had turned to him. With his head bowed, he felt his mouth twitch in spasm. The silence stretched and he nodded to himself, gathering his dignity. The boy had broken traditions by entering the chamber. It was the one act he could not have foreseen and Sung Win clenched his fists behind his back as he raised his head. He knew better than to look into the boy’s eyes and kept his own gaze on the floor.

“Son of Heaven, we gathered to answer the enemies who threaten us.”

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“This humble servant is Sung Win, Son of Heaven, House of—”

“You speak for these others, Sung Win? You take responsibility for them?”

Rather than condemn himself by answering, Sung Win dropped again to the kneeling position and tapped his head on the warm wood.

“Get up, Sung Win. You were asked a question.”

Sung Win risked a glance around the chamber, certain he could feel the stares of the lords. Not a head was raised. To a man, they were standing in abject terror at the presence of the emperor. For all Huaizong was a young boy, he represented heaven itself, the divine in that room of mere men. Sung Win sighed softly. He had wanted to see the new foals born on his estate, the result of carefully chosen bloodlines. He had put as much time and effort into that as anything else in his life. He felt a pang at the thought of his wives and sons. If the emperor chose to make an example of his house, their deaths would come in orders tied with yellow silk ribbons. His daughters would be executed, his family estate burned.

“I speak for them, Son of Heaven. I called the vote today.” He shut his mouth hard as his treacherous fear threatened to begin babbling excuses.

“And so you did your duty, Lord Sung Win. Did my lords vote to raise the banners?”

Sung Win blinked and gulped visibly as he tried to understand.

“Y-yes, Son of Heaven.”

“Then feel pride, Lord Sung Win. You have acted with the emperor today.”

Sung Win stammered a response, overcome as the boy faced the assembled lords.

“Before his death, my uncle told me that you were a nest of vipers,” the boy said to them. “He told me that you would rather see Hangzhou in flames than risk your dignity and honor. I see that he was mistaken.”

Sung Win had the intense pleasure of watching those who had voted for tribute shift uncomfortably, Lord Hong among them. The emperor went on, his voice confident.

“I will not begin my reign under threat, my lords. You will go from this place and summon your regiments. Your personal guards will march with them. I lay my peace on the houses, with the promise that they will not be left vulnerable in your absence. I will act to destroy the line of any noble house who seeks advantage.”

He turned to Sung Win once more.

“You have done well, my lord. In peace, perhaps I would have found fault with your judgment. However, we are not at peace. I will make some appointment honoring your house when we return.”

“When we return, Son of Heaven?” Sung Win said, his eyes widening.

“Of course. I am not an old man, Lord Sung Win. I wish to see war.”

For an instant, Sung Win saw a gleam in the boy’s eyes. He shuddered, hiding it with a deep bow.

“Lord Hong, you will lead the host,” Emperor Huaizong said. The big man knelt and touched his head to the floor. “How much time do you need before I may leave Hangzhou?”

Lord Hong sat back on his heels, his face a sickly color. Sung Win smiled to see him so uncomfortable. Moving a million men needed supplies, arms, weapons, a city of equipment.

“A month, Son of Heaven. If I have the authority, I can be ready by the new moon.”

“You have whatever authority you need,” Huaizong replied, his voice hardening. “Let those who can hear understand that he speaks with my voice in this. Move quickly, my lords.”

Turning on the spot, the boy strode out. As the others averted their gaze, perhaps only Sung Win saw how the slight figure trembled as he went.

THIRTY-THREE

HEAVY RAIN HISSED ONTO THE ROOF OF THE HOUSE KUBLAI had borrowed. The man who owned it waited out in the fields with a crowd of villagers and his family. Kublai had passed them as he rode in. They had looked like half-drowned puppies as he trotted past. At least they would be left alive. Kublai only needed the stockade village for a night.

A huge fire crackled in the grate and he stood close to it, letting the heat dry his clothes so that steam came off him in wisps. At intervals, he would pace back and forth across the fireplace, talking and gesturing as he discussed the future.

“How can I stop now?” he demanded.

His wife, Chabi, stretched out on an ancient couch, much patched and restuffed. The baby girl was asleep in her arms, but still fussing and likely to wake at any moment. Chabi looked wearily at her husband, seeing how the years in Sung lands had worn him almost down to bone. He would not have recognized his old scholar self at that moment. It was more than a physical change, though he had earned the muscle and sinew that gave grace to his movements. The true change had come in the battles he had won as well as the tactics he had used to win them. Chabi loved him desperately, but she feared for him as well. Whatever had been his intention, Mongke had hardened her husband, changed him. Though the old khan was dead, she could still hate him for that, at least. She could not remember the last time Kublai had opened a book. His collection sat on carts under greased linen, too valuable to be abandoned, but growing green with mildew in the spring rains.

“Is she asleep?” Kublai said, his voice still rough with anger.

“She is at last, but I am listening. You said you had made the decision. Why are you still struggling with this?”

“Because I am so close, Chabi! I could reach Hangzhou, do you understand? Everything I have done for the last five years has brought me to this point and then my bastard brother declares himself khan! Am I supposed to leave everything we have accomplished and go home, crawling on my stomach like a dog? How can I leave now?”

“How can you not? Please, keep your voice down, or you can settle her again,” Chabi replied. She was exhausted from lack of sleep. Her nipples ached from feeding, but she could not leave Kublai to work himself into a panic or drink himself unconscious.

“When Tsubodai was called home from the west, he never went back,” Kublai said, beginning to pace again. “Do you understand? This is my chance, my time. If I vanish, the Sung will not fall so easily again, even if I do manage to return. They will learn from this and we will have to fight for every bloody step. If I come back at all. If I’m not killed on some distant battlefield fighting my own brother! How could he do this to me, Chabi? The useless, arrogant …”

“Don’t curse in front of the child,” Chabi said warningly. He frowned at her.

“She can’t understand anything, woman.”

“Don’t ‘woman’ me, husband. You wanted me to listen, so I’m listening, but you said you had made the decision to go home. Why have we stopped here in this cold place? Why is nothing resolved?”

“Because it’s not a simple question!” he snapped. His wife began to rise. “Where are you going?”

“To bed.”

His mood changed and he went to her, kneeling by the couch.

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I thought I didn’t have to watch my back from my own brother. Not from him. I thought Arik-Boke would always support me.”

Chabi ran her hand along his jaw in a caress.

“Do you know how you’ve changed since you left Karakorum? Perhaps he has as well. Five years is a long time, Kublai. He probably still thinks of you as his scholar brother, more in love with books and strange ideas than anyone else in your family. He does not know you now. And you don’t know him, not anymore.”

“I have a letter from him,” he said, wearily. His wife sat up, looking deep into his eyes.

“So that is why you are so angry. What did it say?”

Kublai sighed. “Some part of me hoped it was all a mistake. Arik-Boke declared himself khan at almost the same time I did. He had no idea what I was doing out here. I hoped he would understand I had the right over him, but instead he wrote to me as if what he did was already set in stone.” His temper grew again as he recalled his brother’s words, written in the hand of some distant scribe. “He ordered me home, Chabi. My youngest fool of a brother, writing as if he were my equal.”

“You are not boys any longer, Kublai,” Chabi said softly. “It doesn’t matter now who was born first. He has grown to manhood and he has been a khan of the homeland, your own mother’s inheritance and Mongke’s gift. He is used to leading a nation. I don’t doubt he considered your reaction, but your experience has been in the field, against enemies.”

“A trial he will come to understand, if I face him in battle,” Kublai said, clenching his right hand into a fist. He took a deep breath, controlling the rage that flooded through him. “You’re not saying he’s right?” he demanded.

She shook her head. “Of course not, husband. He should have put it before the princes and senior men. He should have considered you might challenge for the great khanate before he declared. But that is in the past. It is pointless to argue what he should have done. He declared himself khan. You have to see him as a man now, not the boy you once picked up when he fell, or you told stories to. He had the same mother in Sorhatani, who practically ruled the nation for years. He had the same father, who gave his life for a khan. You both had Genghis for a grandfather. If you keep thinking of Arik-Boke as a weakling or an idiot, he could destroy you.”

“I’ll kill him first,” Kublai said. “I did not expect to be khan, Chabi. Mongke had a dozen sons. If he’d lived just a few years longer, he would have named an heir and the line would have passed smoothly. But he did not and now he is gone and instead, instead …” He could not express the fury that filled him and only clasped at the empty air.

“You need to find calm,” Chabi said. “You need to put aside your anger and betrayal and think as a khan.” She shook her head. “And you need to make the decision. Either treat him as your enemy, or give up the khanate and swear an oath of loyalty to Arik-Boke. One or the other. There is no point driving yourself to madness with this. Either way, you cannot remain in Sung lands.”

In an instant, the anger went out of her husband and he slumped as he stood before her, his shoulders drooping.

“It’s just such a waste,” he said softly. “I’ve lost good men. We’ve all suffered to carry out the orders Mongke gave me. I don’t know if he expected me to succeed or not. Maybe it’s true that he thought I’d fail and he would have to ride in and rescue me. But I am here, still standing. I could take their capital, Chabi.”

“And you would lose the world if you do,” she murmured wearily. “You’ve said all this before. Even if you win against the Sung, even if you become emperor here, you will still have to face Arik-Boke. You will have taken a khanate for the greater nation, but you will be your brother’s vassal. You would still have to go to Karakorum and swear loyalty to him.” She sighed as the baby started to squeak and wriggle, gently putting her little finger in its mouth. Still asleep, the baby sucked greedily on it.

“I cannot do that,” he said, staring into the distance as if he could see all the way to the homeland. “I am khan, Chabi. I have the right and I will not give it up. What was he thinking to call himself khan? Do you see what he’s done to me? He had no right, Chabi. No right at all.” He shook his head, turning again to stare into the fire.

“When I was young, I used to dream of following in the path Ogedai laid out, but it was just a fantasy. His son Guyuk would inherit. I knew that. I understood that. When Guyuk died, Mongke was the obvious choice. He was older, respected. He’d ridden with Tsubodai into the west—he was everything I was not, Chabi. I wasn’t ready then. He used to sneer at me for the way I dressed and spoke, the books I read.”

“I remember,” Chabi said softly.

“But he was right, Chabi! The things I’ve seen … no, the things I’ve done.” He shuddered slightly as memories flashed into his mind. “I was an innocent. I thought I understood the world, but I was little more than a child.”

Kublai took up an iron poker and began to thrust it at the burning logs, causing a stream of bright sparks to fly into the room. Chabi shielded the little girl from the heat with her hand.

“But I am no longer a child,” he said, his voice grown low and hoarse. He put the poker down and faced her.

“We were so young then, but by the sky father, I am not that young man who had never seen the swollen dead. I am khan. It is done and I would not change it.” He clenched his fist, taking pleasure in his own strength. “I will not let another stand in my place.”

Both of them turned their heads as a man cleared his throat at the outer door. One of Kublai’s guards stood there, rain streaming off his oiled cloak and puddling around his boots.

“Orlok Uriang-Khadai is here to see you, my lord khan,” he said, bowing deeply.

No one reached Kublai without being checked for weapons and passing at least two guards. Even yam riders were forced to strip to bare skin before being allowed to dress and enter his presence. Those few who had reached him had been forced to remain with his tumans, rather than have them carry back the news of his declaration. The lessons of Mongke’s death were still rippling through the nation. It explained why Uriang-Khadai was flushed with indignation as he came in out of the rain.

“You asked to see me, my lord khan,” the orlok said, his mouth a thin, pale line. He spotted Chabi at that moment and bowed to her, unbending enough to smile at the child in her arms.

“My lady, I did not see you there. Is your daughter well?”

“She sleeps all day and keeps me awake all night, but yes, she is well. It’s time for me to wake and feed her.”

Uriang-Khadai nodded, almost amiable. Kublai watched him in surprise, seeing a side of the man he had not witnessed before. Uriang-Khadai had not brought his wives or children on the campaign and it had simply not occurred to Kublai that the stern officer might be a doting father as well.

Kublai cleared his throat and Uriang-Khadai bowed again to Chabi before approaching her husband at the great fire. Kublai gestured for him to warm himself and the Orlok stood with his palms outstretched, gazing into the flames.

“You were my brother Mongke’s man, Uriang-Khadai. I know it and it does not trouble me.” He glanced at the orlok, but Uriang-Khadai said nothing.

“You have proved yourself to me against the Sung …” Kublai went on. “But that is past. It seems I must take my tumans home. If it comes to battle, we will face Mongol tumans on their own land. We will face our own people, men that perhaps you know and respect.”

Uriang-Khadai turned from the flames, his eyes and the planes of his face in shadow. He nodded briefly.

“And you wish to know if I can be trusted, my lord. I understand.” He thought for a time, wiping some of the droplets of rain from his face. “I do not see how I can make you certain, my lord. It is true that your brother Mongke chose me to lead your armies, but I have obeyed every order from you. I have been loyal and I gave my oath with the rest when you declared yourself khan. If that is not enough, I do not know what else I can offer you.”

“Your family is in Karakorum,” Kublai said softly.

Uriang-Khadai nodded, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

“That is true. It is true for most of the men, the new tumans and the old. If your brother Arik-Boke uses my family as hostages, there is nothing I can do to save them. I will expect to avenge them.”

For an instant, his eyes revealed a flash of raw anger and Kublai had a sudden insight that brought something like shame. His family had manipulated this man for years. Kublai looked away first. He had sent the women and children of his tumans back to Karakorum and he would have given his right hand to undo that innocent decision. It gave Arik-Boke a piece to play that would cut to the heart of those who fought with Kublai. He did not know yet if Arik-Boke would use the threat, but as Chabi had said, he no longer knew his brother.

“I must plan a campaign against the homeland,” Kublai said, almost in wonder. “Will you help me in this?”

“Of course, my lord. You are the khan. My loyalty is yours.” Uriang-Khadai spoke each word with such quiet certainty that Kublai felt his doubts vanish.

“How would you begin?” he said.

Uriang-Khadai smiled, aware that the crisis had passed.

“I would withdraw immediately from Sung lands, my lord. I would make my base in the Chin territory, around Xanadu. There is food enough there to keep us in the field. Your brother has to bring in grain and meat from the Chagatai khanate and Russian lands, so I would move to cut those lines. Supply will play a part in this war.” The orlok began to pace in unconscious mimicry of Kublai’s movements before he had entered. “Your brother will have vassal princes, personally sworn to him. You must break the strongest of those quickly, to send a message to the rest. Take your brother’s power, his support, and when you face him in battle, he will collapse.”

“You have thought about it,” Kublai said with a smile.

“Ever since the news came in, my lord. You must return home and if you have to, you must tear down Karakorum. You are the khan. You cannot allow another to claim the title.”

“You are not troubled at the thought of facing our own people in war?” Kublai asked.

Uriang-Khadai shrugged.

“We have fought almost continuously for five years, my lord. The tumans under you were the best Mongke could give you, but they have become far stronger. I do not flatter them when I say that. No one your brother can field could stand against us. So no, I am not troubled. If they choose to draw a line in the ground, we will step right over it and gut them.”

Uriang-Khadai paused, weighing his next words.

“I do not know what you intend for your brother. You should know that if Arik-Boke threatens the families of our tumans, you may not be able to spare his life at the end. I have seen you grant mercy to entire cities, but your warriors lost only silver and loot when you did. If your brother has blood on his hands when we meet him …” He broke off as Kublai grimaced.

“I understand,” Kublai said. The older man was watching him closely. “If this begins, I will end it. I do not want to kill him, Orlok, but as you say, there are some things I will not ignore.”

Uriang-Khadai nodded, satisfied at what he saw in Kublai’s face.

“Good. It is important to understand the stakes. This is not a game, or a family feud that can be settled with a good argument and strong drink. This will get bloody, my lord. I take it you have not informed your brother of your intentions? I saw you were holding the yam riders prisoner.”

Kublai shook his head.

“That is something, at least,” Uriang-Khadai said. “We will be able to surprise him and that is worth half a dozen tumans. I suggest you make Xanadu your stronghold, my lord. It is within striking range of your brother and we can leave the remaining camp followers there. Moving fast, we can break his supply lines and take the lands of whichever princes support him. We need information on those men, but with a little luck, the war could be over before your brother realizes what is happening.”

Kublai felt the older man’s confidence lift him. He thought of the letter from Arik-Boke once again. His brother had boasted of the princes who had given their oath to him.

“I believe I may have a list, Orlok. My brother was kind enough to give me the names of his most prominent supporters.”

Uriang-Khadai blinked and then smiled slowly.

“There were no yam lines when you made yourself khan, my lord. He may not hear for months yet what you have done. We can stay ahead of the news and be welcomed by the princes before they have any idea of our intentions.”

Kublai’s mouth tightened at the thought. He did not enjoy the idea of approaching men who thought of him as an ally and then destroying them, but his brother had left him with few choices.

“If that is how it must be,” he said. “Mongke’s two oldest sons declared for my brother, Asutai and Urung Tash. Do you know them?”

“No, my lord. They will have been given lands in exchange for their support. Who else?”

“Chagatai’s grandson Alghu; Jochi’s son Batu. Those are the most powerful of his new allies.”

“Then we will take them first. I am not worried about Mongke’s sons, my lord. They will be minor players and they have not yet made their names. Batu will control the supplies of food and equipment coming from the north. He is the one we must attack first, then Alghu.”

Kublai thought for a moment.

“Batu … owes me a great deal. Perhaps we can bring him to our side.” Uriang-Khadai looked at him questioningly but he shook his head, unwilling to discuss it. “Even so, it means going around the homeland. Thousands of miles.”

“Tsubodai managed three times the distance, my lord. Send a small force, two or three tumans to make the raid. General Bayar would bite your hand off if you offered him the chance to act for you. You and I will assault the Chagatai territory to the west.”

“My brother Hulegu has a new khanate around Damascus. I will send someone to him there. Then Karakorum,” Kublai said softly. “Each one in a season, Orlok. I will not spend years on this. I want this finished quickly, so that I may return to the Sung.”

“As you will, my lord khan,” Uriang-Khadai said, bowing.

ARIK-BOKE OPENED THE DOOR AND LEANED AGAINST THE frame as he stared into the palace hall. The room was large enough to echo at the slightest noise, but the host of scribes seated at desks were almost silent. Only the scratch of quills and the gentle thump of ink stamps could be heard. They sat with their heads bowed, writing and reading. Occasionally, one of them would rise from his seat with a scroll in hand and cross the room to check it in whispers with his superior.

Batu peered through the open doorway. He was much older than Arik-Boke, though he too was a grandson of Genghis, descended through the line of Jochi, the firstborn son to the great khan. His black hair was shot through with gray and his face was as weathered as any herdsman who spent his days in wind and rain. Only his paler skin showed his lands lay in the Russian north. He raised his eyebrows at the sight of the scribes and Arik-Boke chuckled.

“You wanted to see the beating heart of the empire, Batu. This is it. I admit, it is not what I imagined when I became khan.”

“I think I would go mad if I had to work in such a room,” Batu replied seriously. He shrugged. “But it is necessary. I can only imagine the weight of information that must pass through Karakorum.”

“It is the new world,” Arik-Boke replied, closing the door softly behind them. “I think Genghis would not have understood it.”

Batu grinned, looking suddenly boyish.

“He would have hated it, I know that much.”

“I am not one to dwell too long in the past, Batu. That is why I invited you to Karakorum. You are my cousin and men speak well of you. We should not be strangers.”

“You honor me,” Batu said lightly. “Though I am comfortable enough on my lands. My tribute is a burden, of course, but I have not failed to make the payments yet.”

The hint was obvious enough and Arik-Boke nodded. “I will send a scribe to you to review the amounts. Perhaps some new arrangement should be worked out, for my khanate. All things can be remade, Batu. I have spent months simply learning the extent of my influence and power, but it is not all work. I see no reason why I should not reward those loyal to me.”

“It is better to lead than to follow,” Batu said. “It’s more tiring, but the rewards …”

Arik-Boke smiled slyly. “Let me show you the rewards,” he said, gesturing for Batu to follow. “My brother Hulegu described a seraglio in Baghdad. I have begun something similar here.”

“A seraglio?” Batu replied, pronouncing the strange word carefully.

“A gathering of beautiful young women, dedicated to me. I have men in the slave markets with my funds, looking only for the youngest and best. Come, I will give you your choice, any of them that takes your eye. Or more than one, if you wish.”

He led Batu down a series of corridors, until they came to a door and two heavyset guards. Both men stood rigidly in the presence of the khan and Arik-Boke swept past them, opening the door onto sounds of laughter and running water. Batu followed him in, his interest growing.

A small courtyard was revealed beyond, set with lush plants and with a covered walkway running around it. Batu saw six or seven young women and he noted Arik-Boke’s wolfish smile broaden. Around the courtyard were simple chambers with beds and a few ornaments.

“I keep them here until they are pregnant, then move them out to other rooms in the palace to have the children.”

“They are … wives?” Batu asked.

Already the women were scrambling up at the khan’s presence, some of them kneeling on the polished stones. Arik-Boke laughed.

“I have four wives, cousin. I do not need more of those.”

He gestured to one young woman and she came forward with fear in her eyes. Arik-Boke raised her chin with his outstretched hand, turning her head to the right and left so that Batu could see her beauty. She stood very still as he dropped his hand past her neck and opened her robe, revealing her breasts. He lifted one with rough fingers and the girl tensed. When Arik-Boke spoke again, his voice had roughened.

“What a delicious weight on my hand. No, Batu, these are for pleasure and children. I will have a thousand heirs. Why not? A khan should have a strong line. Choose any of them. They will give you a night to remember.”

Batu had seen the girl’s wide pupils and understood the sweetish smell in the air was from opium. He showed Arik-Boke nothing as he nodded pleasantly.

“My own wives are not so forgiving as yours, my lord khan. I think they would take a knife to my manhood if I took up your offer.”

Arik-Boke snorted.

“What nonsense, cousin! Every man should be khan in his own home.”

Batu smiled ruefully, struggling to find a way through that would not give offense. He did not want Arik-Boke’s women.

“Every man has to sleep, my lord. I prefer to wake up with everything still attached.”

He chuckled and Arik-Boke responded, some of the tension easing out of him. He continued to fondle the girl’s breasts, distracted.

“My brother Hulegu described rooms dedicated to pleasures of the flesh,” Arik-Boke said. “With costumes and strange chairs and tools; hundreds of beautiful women, all for the shah.”

Batu grimaced, unseen. The girl stared with dull eyes as Arik-Boke pawed her. Her lips looked bruised and swollen, and in truth Batu found her intensely attractive. Yet, as Ogedai Khan had once told him, everything was about power. Batu did not want to put himself in Arik-Boke’s debt. He could sense the small man’s arousal coming off him in waves, almost like heat. Arik-Boke snuffled as he breathed through his mouth, the scarred face ugly in lust. Batu struggled with nausea as he kept his smile in place.

“And Kublai, lord? I have not seen him in years. Is he returning to Karakorum?”

Arik-Boke lost some of his flush at the mention of his brother. He shrugged deliberately.

“At his best speed, cousin. I have ordered him home.”

“I would like to see him again, my lord,” Batu said innocently. “He and I were friends, once.”

THIRTY-FOUR

“BE SILENT FOR THE SON OF HEAVEN, EMPEROR OF THE SUNG, Lord Perpetual Nation,” announced the imperial chancellor. His master raised a hand in greeting to Lords Hong and Sung Win as he came to the front ranks. Huaizong’s young face was flushed with excitement to be riding with such a host. He rode an elderly gelding as wide as a table. The amiable mount had been considered suitable for an eleven-year-old who could not be thrown. It had to be flogged mercilessly to do anything but walk, but it didn’t dampen the young emperor’s enthusiasm.

“See how they run before us!” he called to his lords. Huaizong had come from the safety of the center to the front lines to confirm the news his imperial messengers had brought. In the far distance, he could see the Mongol tumans riding north to the Chin border. The sight of it made him want to laugh in joy. His first act as emperor had been to drive them forth from his lands. Truly, heaven smiled on a reign that began in such a way.

It did not matter that his lords had been forced to push hard just to bring the enemy in sight. Emperor Huaizong was by then aware that the Mongols had begun to withdraw before his vast army was in range.

“They are going home,” he said. None of the closest lords chose to answer what was not a clear question.

Huaizong climbed up onto his saddle, so that he stood there with the careless balance of the very young. His horse ambled along beneath him, keeping pace with the multitude of soldiers and horsemen that stretched on either side and behind for as far as he could see. When he turned to look over his shoulder, Huaizong could only shake his head in wonder at the strength of the nation he had inherited. Soldiers marched in perfect lines, colored banners fluttering. Those nearby averted their gaze from the emperor, while those further back marched stolidly, too far to see the small figure staring over their heads. Still further he looked, until the colors darkened and the marching lines resembled the distant waves of some dun sea, rippling across the land under the wide, blue sky. A host of peasants trudged behind on foot and in carts, carrying the food and equipment to support the soldiers. Huaizong did not heed those. His towns and cities teemed with them. When he noticed them at all, it was only as beasts of burden, to be used and discarded at will.

Huaizong turned back and dropped into his saddle with a pleased grunt as Lord Sung Win brought his horse alongside.

“They will not stand to face us?” Huaizong asked, craning to see the Mongol tumans over the land ahead. His voice was sour.

Lord Sung Win shook his head.

“Perhaps they know the Son of Heaven rides with us today,” he said, not above flattering the boy who held power over his house and line. “They have showed no sign of stopping for days now.”

“I am only disappointed not to have seen a battle, Lord Sung Win,” Huaizong said.

Sung Win glanced sharply at him, worrying that the boy would order them across the border into Chin lands just to slake his immature desire to see blood. The older man had a fair idea of the costs involved. As with most men who had known battle in their youth, he was quite happy to see an enemy retreat and to leave them to it. He spoke before the boy could throw away the lives of thousands.

“The reign of Emperor Huaizong has begun well,” he said. “You have driven out the enemy and you will have time now to secure your position and complete your training.”

It was perhaps the wrong thing to say to an eleven-year-old. Lord Sung Win frowned as the boy’s mouth tuned into a sneer.

“You think I should return to my dusty tutors? They are not here, Lord Sung Win. I am free of them! My army is marching. Shall I stop now? I could drive them from Chin lands. I could drive them right back to their home.”

“The Son of Heaven knows our cities lie defenseless behind us,” Lord Sung Win said, searching for the right words. “In normal times, we have strong garrisons, but they have either been lost to the enemy or they are here with us. I’m sure the Son of Heaven knows the tales of armies who drove too far into the lands of their enemies and were cut off from behind, then lost.”

Emperor Huaizong looked at him in irritation, but lapsed into silence, biting his lip as he thought. Lord Sung Win prayed silently that the boy would not begin his reign with an unplanned campaign. Warily, he chose to speak again.

“The Son of Heaven knows they are well supplied on their own land, while we must bring in food and equipment for hundreds of miles. Such a campaign is worthy for the second or third years of a reign, but not in the first, not without planning. The Son of Heaven knows this much better than his humble servants.”

The boy made a sulky noise in his throat.

“Very well, Lord Sung Win. Begin work on such a campaign. We will chase these men to the border, but you will lead the war next year. I am not a sick old man, Sung Win. I will take back the lands of my ancestors.”

Sung Win bowed deeply as best he could in the saddle.

“The Son of Heaven honors me in sharing his great wisdom,” he said. A bead of sweat ran down his nose and he rubbed it discreetly. It was like the village boys who played with snakes, laughing wildly at the danger as a cobra lunged for them. A single mistake would mean death, but they still did it, gathering around in a circle whenever they found one. Sung Win felt like one of those boys as he stared at the ground passing underneath him, not daring to raise his eyes.

KUBLAI’S NECK HURT FROM STARING OVER HIS SHOULDER as he rode, his frustration clear to see. He felt Uriang-Khadai’s gaze on him and his frown eased.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn the tumans around and charge them. I’ve never seen so many soldiers on the move. With Bayar gone ahead, we have what, a tenth of their numbers? A twentieth? I’ve learned enough to know when to attack and when to tuck in my tail and run.”

He spoke lightly, but Uriang-Khadai could see the glances back were calculating, watching for flaws in the Sung lines. They were too far off to read accurately, but Kublai had spent a long time facing those very soldiers. He knew their strengths and weaknesses as well as his own.

“Do you see how the center is protected?” Kublai said. “That formation is new. So many, Orlok! It has to be the emperor, or at the least one of his relatives. Yet I must leave them behind to fight my own brother.” He leaned over in the saddle and spat as if he wanted to rid himself of the taste of the words.

“Still, we go on,” he said. “Do you think they will stop at the border?” His question was almost hopeful, but Uriang-Khadai answered quickly.

“Unless they are led by a man like your grandfather, almost certainly. They have put everything they had into a short campaign in their own lands. I doubt they have food enough to feed so many for more than a few weeks.”

“If they cross the border, I will be forced to take them on,” Kublai said, watching the older man closely. He laughed as Uriang-Khadai winced. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? I’ll fight a running battle back to Xanadu and wear them down in my lands. I’ll scour the ground before me and keep them hungry and on the move. We could do it, Orlok. What are tenfold odds to us?”

“Destruction, I suspect, my lord khan,” Uriang-Khadai said. He thought Kublai was only teasing him, but there was an underlying hunger in the younger man. He had given much of his prime to the task of defeating the Sung. It had hurt Kublai deeply to break off, and for all his banter, the orlok thought he might welcome the chance to end it against the emperor himself.

As they crossed the border into Chin lands, marked by a series of small white temples, more and more of the men began looking back to see if the pursuing forces would follow. It was a bittersweet moment for Kublai when he saw the Sung vanguard halt. He had deliberately slowed his pace by then, so that they were barely a mile behind. He could see the front ranks standing in perfect stillness as they watched the Mongols depart and he imagined the jubilation in their ranks. The border darkened with standing men and horses for miles to the east and west, a clear statement of strength and confidence. We are here, they were saying. We are not afraid to face you.

“I will have to leave tumans here with such an army this close,” Kublai said to Uriang-Khadai.

“There is no point. No small part of our forces could resist such a host,” Uriang-Khadai replied. “The Chin dominion has its own tumans. You are now their khan, my lord. They are yours to use. Yet if the Sung invade while we are riding against your brother, your cities could be sacked. You could lose Xanadu and Yenking.”

“I am too old to do it all again! What do you suggest?”

“Make Salsanan your orlok for Chin lands. Give him the task of defending the territory and your authority to raise and lead armies in your name. You have ten times the land of this Sung emperor. He will not find it easy, even if he is foolish enough to enter your domain.”

Kublai nodded, making a quick decision.

“Very well. I will also leave one tuman here, to patrol the border and make it look as if we are ready for them.”

“Or to carry the news if the attack begins,” Uriang-Khadai said, refusing to give up his dour tone.

Kublai sighed as he rode further and further away from the border. It was the end of his campaign against the Sung. He prayed to the sky father that he would see the southlands again before he died.

By crossing, Kublai knew he had passed into territory that linked right back to Karakorum. He would not have been able to move his tumans without yam riders reporting it, galloping off on the first leg of a journey that would take them into Arik-Boke’s presence. There had been only one way around the problem and he had discussed it with General Bayar as well as Uriang-Khadai. Only Salsanan had spoken against the idea and Kublai had ignored him. Salsanan had not been there for the years of war among the Sung and he had not yet earned the respect of the others. Kublai was satisfied at the idea of giving the man orders to defend the Chin khanate.

They found the first yam station on a crossroads some ten miles in from the border. It had been looted, the riders taken as warriors for Bayar, the stables empty. Kublai rode past the way station with a sense of misgiving. It would be the first of many as his general broke yam lines right across Chin territory. In that single act, Kublai knew he had declared war on his brother. It could not be taken back. He had set a path that would end with his death or in Karakorum. He clenched his jaw as he rode on and a sense of relief swept over him. Xanadu lay north, where he would leave the rest of his camp followers, as well as Chabi and his baby daughter. His son, Zhenjin, would stay with him, strong enough at last to endure the distances. Kublai nodded to himself. From Xanadu, his warriors would ride with just spare horses and provisions, enough to last a month. They would go out almost as raiders, moving as fast as any force Genghis had commanded. It felt good to take his own fate in his hands. The choice was made; the doubts were past.

ARIK-BOKE DREW HIS BOW BACK TO HIS LIPS, LETTING THE feathers touch him before he loosed. The arrow soared where he had aimed, taking a fallow deer buck through the neck and sending it tumbling, its hooves kicking wildly. His bearers whooped at the shot, kicking their mounts forward and jumping down to cut the animal’s throat. One of them raised the buck by its horns, the long neck arching as he showed Arik-Boke the spread. It was a fine animal, but Arik-Boke was already moving on. The circle hunt arranged by Lord Alghu was at its zenith, with animals driven to the center over dozens of miles. It had begun before dawn, as the heat of the region around Samarkand and Bukhara made the afternoon a time of quiet and rest. The sun was high overhead and Arik-Boke was sweating in streams. Everything from snorting hogs to a carpet of sprinting hares ran under the hooves of his mount, but the khan ignored them all when he heard the coughing roar of a leopard somewhere close. He spun in the saddle and cursed under his breath as he saw Alghu’s daughter already on the charge, her lance held low and loose in her hand. The girl, Aigiarn, had a name that meant beautiful moon, but in private, Arik-Boke thought of her as the hainag, a muscular yak with a short temper and thick, matted hair. She was a freak of a woman, so large and bulky across the shoulders that her breasts were mere flat sacks on muscles.

Arik-Boke shouted for her to ride clear as he saw a flash of dark yellow in the press of animals. Only a Persian leopard could move so swiftly and he felt his heart leap at the glimpse. He lunged forward and almost collided with Aigiarn as her mount danced in front of him, spoiling his shot. The noise of roaring men and screaming animals was all around them and she had not reacted to his shout. As he yelled again, she lowered her lance and leaned into a blow as a flash of gold and black tried to dart under the hooves of her horse. The leopard snarled and yowled, seeming to curl around the long birch spear as it punched into its chest. Aigiarn cried out in triumph, her voice as ugly to Arik-Boke’s ear as the rest of her. While he swore, she leapt down, drawing a short sword that resembled a cleaver as much as anything. Even with the lance through its chest, the leopard was still dangerous and Arik-Boke shouted again for her to stand clear for his shot. She either ignored him or didn’t hear and he muttered in anger, easing the bow. He was tempted to send a shaft into the young yak herself for her impudence, but he had traveled a long way to flatter her father and he restrained himself. In disgust, he saw her cut the leopard’s throat as he turned his mount away.

With the burning sun so high, the circle hunt was almost at an end and there were no great prizes left in the swarming mass of fur and claw all around the riders. Arik-Boke dropped a warthog with a neatly aimed shaft behind its shoulder, cutting into its lungs so the animal sprayed red mist with every breath. Two more deer fell to him, though neither had the spread of horns he wanted. His mood was still sour as a shout went up and children ran in among the warriors, killing hares and finishing off the wounded beasts. Their laughter only served to irritate him further and he passed over his bow to his servants before dismounting and leading his horse out of the bloody ring.

Lord Alghu had known better than to take the best animals. His servants were already dressing the carcasses of deer for the night’s feast, but none of them had a great spread of antlers. The only leopard had fallen to his daughter, Arik-Boke noted. She had waved away the servants and taken a seat on a pile of saddles to begin skinning the animal with her own knife. Arik-Boke paused as he walked past her.

“I thought the shot was mine, for the leopard,” he said. “I called it loud enough.”

“My lord?” she replied. She was already bloody to the elbows and once again Arik-Boke was struck by the sheer size of her. In build, she reminded him almost of his brother Mongke.

“I didn’t hear you, my lord khan,” she went on. “I haven’t taken a leopard pelt before.”

“Yes, well …” Arik-Boke broke off as her father strode across the bloody grass, looking worried.

“Did you enjoy the hunt, my lord?” Alghu asked. His eyes flickered to his daughter, clearly nervous that she had managed to offend his guest. Arik-Boke sniffed.

“I did, Lord Alghu. I was just saying to your daughter that she came across my shot as I was lining up on the leopard.”

Lord Alghu paled slightly, though whether it was anger or fear, Arik-Boke could not tell.

“You must take the pelt, my lord. My daughter can be blind and deaf in a hunt. I’m sure she meant no insult by it.”

Arik-Boke looked up, realizing the man was genuinely afraid he would demand some punishment. Not for the first time, he felt the thrill of his new power. He saw Aigiarn look up in dismay, her mouth opening to reply before her father’s glare made her drop her head.

“That is generous of you, Lord Alghu. It is a particularly fine pelt. Perhaps when your daughter has finished skinning the animal, it could be brought to my quarters.”

“Of course, my lord khan. I will see to it myself.”

Arik-Boke walked on, satisfied. He too had been one of many princes in the nation, each with their own small khanates. Perhaps he’d had a greater status than most as the brother of the khan, but he had not enjoyed instant obedience then. It was intoxicating. He glanced back to find the daughter glaring at him, then quickly looking away as she realized she had been seen. Arik-Boke smiled to himself. He would have the skin tanned into softness, then make a gift of it to her as he left. He needed her father and the small gift would reap much greater rewards. The man obviously doted on his yak of a daughter and Arik-Boke needed the food his khanate produced.

He rubbed his hands together, ridding himself of flakes of dried blood. It had been a good day, the end of months touring the small principalities that made up the greater khanate. He had been feted wherever he went and his baggage train groaned under the weight of gifts in gold and silver. Even his brother Hulegu had put aside the strife of his new lands, though General Kitbuqa had been slaughtered there by Islamic soldiers when Hulegu came back to Karakorum for the funeral of Mongke. His brother had carved a difficult khanate for himself, but he had paraded his men for Arik-Boke and given him a suit of armor shaped from precious jade as a gift and token of affection.

In the company of Lord Alghu’s court, Arik-Boke entered the palace grounds in Samarkand, walking under the shadow of a wide gate. On all sides were carts covered in the heaped carcasses of animals they had taken that day. Women came out to greet them from the palace kitchens, laughing and joking as they stropped their knives.

Arik-Boke nodded and smiled to them, but his thoughts were far away. Kublai had not yet replied to him. His older brother’s absence was like a thorn in his tunic, pricking him with every movement.

It was not enough to have men like Alghu bowing to him. Arik-Boke knew the continuing absence of Kublai was being discussed all over the small khanates. He had an army with him that had not sworn allegiance to the new khan. Until they did, Arik-Boke’s position remained uncertain. The yam lines were silent. He considered sending another set of orders to his brother, but then shook his head, dismissing the idea as weakness. He would not plead with Kublai to come home. A khan did not ask. He demanded—and it was done. He wondered if his brother had lost himself in some Chin ruins, oblivious to the concerns of the khanate. It would not have surprised Arik-Boke.

THIRTY-FIVE

KUBLAI RODE IN POURING RAIN, HIS HORSE LABORING AND snorting as it plunged through thick mud. Whenever they stopped, he would change to a spare horse. The sturdy animals were the secret of his army’s power and he never envied the much larger Arab stallions, or the Russian plow horses with shoulders higher than his head. The Mongol ponies could ride to the horizon, then do it again the next day. He was not so sure about himself. His numb hands shook in the cold and he coughed constantly, sipping airag from a skin to ease his throat and let a trickle of warmth spread down his chest. He did not need to be sober to ride and it was a small comfort.

Twelve tumans rode with him, including the eight who had fought their way to within reach of Hangzhou. There was no road wide enough for such a horde and they left a trail of churned fields half a mile wide. Far ahead, his scouts rode without armor or equipment, taking over the yam stations and holding the riders there long enough for the tumans to arrive and swallow them up. He was able to judge the distance they traveled each day by the number of them he passed—the regular spacing set by the laws of Genghis himself. Passing two meant he had ridden fifty miles, but on a good day, when the ground was firm and the sun shone, they could pass three.

This was not that day. The front ranks did better, but by the time the second or third tuman rode over the same ground, it had become deep, churned clods that wearied the mounts and cut the distance they could travel.

Kublai raised his hand to signal one of his personal bondsmen. The drummer boys on camels could not have kept up the pace of the previous fifteen days of hard riding. No camel alive could run fifty or seventy miles a day over rough terrain. Kublai grinned at the sight of the man. His bondsman was so spattered with mud that his face, legs, and chest were almost completely black, his eyes showing as red-rimmed holes. The bondsman saw the gesture and raised a horn to his lips, sounding a low note that was immediately echoed by others down the lines.

It took time to stop so many, or even for them to hear the order. Kublai waited patiently as the lines ahead and behind began to slow to a walk, and finally he was able to dismount, grunting in discomfort as tired muscles creaked. He had been riding at speed for a morning and if his men felt half as tired as he did, it was time to rest and eat.

Three hundred thousand horses needed to graze for hours each day to keep up the pace. Kublai always chose stopping points by rivers and good grass, but they had been hard to find as they pushed into the west. Xanadu was over a thousand miles behind him, his half-built city showing clearly what it would become in a few more years. The wide streets had been laid in fine, smooth stone, perfect and ready to be worn down by his people. Great sections were finished and he had brought life to silent streets with his people. The excitement on their faces had pleased him as they claimed empty houses and moved in together, chattering at every new wonder. He smiled as his mind embellished the memories, making parks and avenues where there were still pegs and saplings. Yet it was real and it would grow. If he left nothing else behind, he would have made a city from nothing.

Since then, the terrain had changed many times, from wet river plains to rough hills with nothing but scrub thorn bushes. They had passed a hundred small towns, with the inhabitants hiding themselves away. That was one thing about riding with twelve tumans—Kublai had nothing to fear from bandits or scavengers. They rode through an empty landscape as every potential enemy vanished at the sight of them.

Each group of ten warriors had two or three whose job it was to lead thirty horses to water and grass. They carried grain, but problems of weight meant they could take only enough for an emergency supply. Kublai handed over his reins to another and stretched his back with a groan. In the downpour, he hadn’t bothered looking for woodland to provide fuel. It would be a cold meal of stale bread and meat scraps for most of the men. Xanadu had provided enough salted lamb and goat to last a month, an amount that had left the entire population on half rations behind them until the herds replenished themselves. They were not yet at the point of drinking mare’s blood from the living animals, but it was not far away.

Kublai sighed, taking pleasure in watching the routines around him, enjoying the lessening of eye strain as he focused on something close instead of miles ahead. He missed his wife, though he had learned not to grow too attached to a baby until he was sure it would survive. His son, Zhenjin, rode with the bondsmen, white with fatigue by the end of a day, but doggedly determined not to let his father down. He was on the edge of true manhood, but thin and wiry like his father. There were worse ways to grow into a man—and worse companions than the tumans around him.

As Kublai stretched, Uriang-Khadai walked over to him, shaking clods of mud from his feet as he went. They were all covered in the muck that spattered up from hooves and Kublai had to grin at the sight of the dignified orlok made to look as if he’d rolled down a wet hill. The force of the rain increased suddenly, washing away the worst of it as they stood and stared at each other. It made a dull thunder as it hammered down and somewhere close lightning cracked across the sky, a dim flash behind the heavy clouds. Kublai began to laugh.

“I thought we were going to cross deserts, Orlok. A man could drown standing up here.”

“I prefer it to heat, my lord, but I can’t get the maps out in this. We’ve taken two yam stations today. I suggest we let the horses and men rest until tomorrow. I doubt it will last much longer.”

“How far to Samarkand now?” Kublai asked. He saw the older man raise his eyes to heaven and recalled he’d asked the same question many times.

“Some seven hundred miles, my lord. About fifty less than this morning.”

Kublai ignored the orlok’s sour tone and worked it out. Twelve more days, maybe ten if he forced the men to the edge of ragged exhaustion and changed mounts more often. He had been careful with his resources to that point, but perhaps it was time to push for their highest possible speed.

The Chagatai khanate was well established and there would be yam lines running right through it in all directions. Though he took the riders from each one, he still worried that someone would get ahead of him. It would take a superb rider to stay in front of his tumans, but a man without armor on a fresh horse only had to reach one station ahead and then change horses at every point. It could be done and he dreaded the news that someone had already gone racing through.

Uriang-Khadai had waited patiently while the khan thought, knowing Kublai well.

“What can you tell me about the land to come?” Kublai asked.

The orlok shrugged, glancing south. If it had not been for the rain, he would have seen the white-capped mountain peaks that led down into India. They were skirting the edges of the range, taking a path almost straight southwest that would lead them into the heart of the Chagatai khanate and its most prosperous cities.

“The maps show a pass through the final range of mountains. I do not know how high we must go to get over it. Beyond the peaks, the land is flat enough to make up whatever time we lose there.”

Kublai closed his eyes for a moment. His men could endure the cold far better than heat and he had spare deel robes on the pack-horses. The problem was always food, for so many men and animals. They were already on short rations and he did not want to arrive in the Chagatai khanate like refugees from some disaster. They had to come fresh enough to fight and win quickly.

“Fifteen days then. In fifteen, I want to see Samarkand’s walls before me. We’ll stop for the night here, where the grass is good, to let the horses fill their bellies. Tell the men to go out and seek firewood; we have almost nothing left.”

It had become his practice to carry enough old wood for a fire each night, if he could. Even that was in short supply. Kublai wondered if Tsubodai had faced the same problems as he drove north and west beyond the boundaries of the nation of Genghis.

He stretched again as his men erected a basic awning held with poles. It would keep the rain off long enough to make a fire from the dry wood they unwrapped. Who would have known what a precious resource a few sticks and logs would become? Kublai’s mouth filled with saliva at the thought of hot food. Most of the men would eat the cheese slop they made by mixing the iron-hard blocks with water. A few dried sticks of meat would give them strength, though it was never enough. They would go on. They would endure anything while they rode with their khan.

GENERAL BAYAR LOVED THE COLD NORTH. FROM HIS YOUTH, he had dreamed of what it must have been like to ride with Tsubodai into the white vastness, the land without end. In fact, he had been surprised how green the Russian steppes were in spring, at least the lowlands. His mother had brought him up with stories of Tsubodai’s victories, how he took Moscow and Kiev, how he broke the knights of Christ in their shining armor. To ride in those footsteps was a joy. Bayar knew Christians and Moslems visited holy places as part of their faith. It amused Bayar to think of his journey into Batu’s lands as his own pilgrimage. The rashes and infections that had plagued his men in the humid south slowly vanished, finally able to scar once the pus dried. Even lice and fleas were less active in the cold and many of the men smoked their clothes over open fires to give them relief while they could find it.

Bayar understood he had to be a stern leader for his men. He knew he faced battle ahead and the warriors of three tumans looked to him for leadership. Yet he wanted to whoop like a little boy as his horse plunged through snow, with white hills all around him.

At that height, it was always winter, though the steppes stretched into a green and dun horizon far below. It was open land, without the trappings of civilization he had come to loathe among the Sung. There were no roads to follow there and his tumans cut their own path. The cold made his bones ache and each breath bit into him, but he felt alive, as if the years in Sung lands had been under a blanket of warm moistness that he was only then clearing from his lungs. He had never been fitter and he rose each day with fresh energy, leaping into his saddle and shouting to his officers. Kublai depended on him and Bayar would not let him down while he lived.

His tumans had not been with Kublai in the south. All of them were warriors Mongke had been bringing against the Sung. They did not have the lean look of those who had been at war for years, but Bayar was satisfied. They had given their oath to the khan and he did not worry about their loyalty beyond that. They were his to command and part of him exulted at being in sole command of so many, a force to strike terror into Kublai’s enemies. This was the nation: the raiding force of ruthless warriors, armed with sword, lance, and bow.

Batu’s khanate was part of the history, its story told around fires a thousand times since. His father, Jochi, had rebelled against Genghis, the only man ever to do so. It had cost him his life, but the man’s khanate remained, given to Batu by the hand of Ogedai Khan. Bayar had to struggle not to grin at the thought of meeting a grandson of Genghis, firstborn to firstborn. Batu was one among many who could have been khan, with more right than most. Instead, the line had passed to Ogedai, Guyuk, and then Mongke, descendants of different sons. Bayar hoped to see some trace of the Genghis bloodline in the man he would meet. He hoped he would not have to destroy him. He had come to declare Kublai’s khanate and demand obedience. If Batu refused, Bayar knew what he would have to do. He would make his own mark in the history of the nation, as a man who ended a noble line from the great khan himself. It was a bitter thought and he did not dwell on it. Kublai was khan, his brother a weak pretender. There was no other way to see it.

In the cold months, Batu could not have had scouts out for weeks at a time without their losing fingers and toes to the frost. Bayar was not surprised to see isolated stone houses as he led his men down from the high hills. From a great distance, he could see smoke drifting up from dwellings with thick walls and sharply angled roofs, designed to let the snow fall rather than build up a crushing weight. He could also see riders galloping away from them as they caught sight of the tumans, no doubt to inform Batu of the threat. Bayar had broken his last yam station some miles before, taking the furious riders with him. Kublai’s orders no longer applied, now that he had made contact. Arik-Boke would soon hear, as they wanted him to hear, and he would know his northern lands were cut off. Bayar hoped Kublai and Uriang-Khadai had reached Samarkand. Between them, they would isolate Karakorum, snatching away the two great suppliers of grain and herds to the capital.

With battle horns droning, Bayar picked up the pace, his thirty thousand men moving well as they dragged the tail of spare horses behind them. At the far rear, he had men with long sticks to force the herds on when they wanted to stop and graze. They would get a chance to rest and eat when he was done with Lord Batu.

Bayar was able to judge the man he would face by the speed of his response to the incursion. He had to admit it was impressive how fast Batu’s tumans appeared. Even without the warning from yam lines, in a long-settled land with no close enemies, Bayar made barely ten miles across a valley of ice-rimed grass before he heard distant horns and saw black lines of galloping horses coming in fast. Kublai’s general watched in fascination as the numbers visible kept growing, pouring into the valley from two or three different directions. The Batu khanate was barely a generation old and he had no idea how many men could take the field against his incursion. He had planned for a single tuman of warriors, possibly two. By the time they had formed up in sold ranks, blocking his path, he suspected they almost equaled his force—some thirty thousand men ready to defend their master’s lands and people.

Kublai had been away from home too long, Bayar realized. When he had left for Sung lands, Batu’s khanate had barely registered in the politics of Karakorum. Yet Batu’s people had bred and taken in many more over the years. For the first time, Bayar considered that he might not be able to bring crushing force against the man. He had seen the way the tumans moved, recognizing the shifting patterns of smaller jaguns and minghaans in the host. It was no wild horde he faced, but trained men, with bows and swords just like his own.

Bayar halted his tumans with a raised fist. He had been given a free hand by Kublai, but for the first time in years he felt his inexperience. These were his own people and he did not know instantly how to approach them as a hostile commander. He waited for a time in the front rank, then breathed in relief as a group detached on the other side and rode into a middle ground. They bore the red flags of the Golden Horde khanate, but also pure white banners. There was no one symbol for truce among the khanates, but white was gaining ascendancy and he could only hope they thought it meant the same as he did. Bayar gestured to his bondsmen.

“Raise white banners. Two jaguns forward with me,” he said, digging in his heels before they could move. He focused on the others as he rode forward—wondering if he could think of them yet as the enemy. There was an older man at their center, surrounded by warriors in full armor with bows in their hands. Bayar headed for him, knowing his men would be forming behind him without further orders.

The tension seemed to swell in the air as his two hundred closed on the detachment. Bayar felt himself shudder slightly as he passed the point where he knew he was in arrow range. He wore layered scale armor in the Chin style, but he knew as well as any man alive that the long Mongol arrows could pierce it. He felt sweat trickle from his armpits and showed them only the cold face. Kublai depended on him.

At a hundred yards, Bayar wanted to call a halt, but it was too far to speak with whoever led them and he forced himself to ride on as if he didn’t face armed men able to send shafts down his throat at that distance. Batu’s detachment watched him come with no expression, though they shifted their bows in growing tension as he came to barely twenty paces. In the sudden silence, he could hear the banners in the wind, furling and snapping. He took a deep breath, controlling his nerves so his voice would be strong and steady.

“Under flags of truce, I seek Lord Batu Borjigin,” he shouted.

“You have found him,” the man at the center responded. “Now why have you come onto my lands with tumans? Has the great khan declared war on my people?”

For an instant, Bayar fought not to smile. He faced death in a heartbeat and his physical reaction was to grin.

“I do not know what the pretender is doing, my lord. I know Kublai Khan offers you peace in exchange for loyalty.”

Batu’s mouth fell slightly open. He spluttered as he spoke, his dignity forgotten.

“What? Kublai Khan? Who are you to come here and talk of Kublai?”

Bayar laughed at the man’s confusion, finally letting out some of the tension in him.

“Offer me guest rights in your camp, my lord. I have ridden a long way and my throat is dry.”

Batu stared at him for a moment that seemed endless, until Bayar’s threatening laughter grew still in him. The man was around fifty, Bayar judged, with hair that had gone dark gray and heavy lines around his mouth and eyes. He wondered if he resembled Genghis as he waited, memorizing the face.

“Very well, I grant you guest rights for this evening and no longer. Until I have heard what you have to say to me.”

Bayar relaxed slightly. He would never be completely safe, even after such an offer, but it was never given lightly. Until the following morning, Batu would be his host, even to the point of defending him if he were attacked. He dismounted and nodded to his men to do the same. Batu followed the action and came stalking over the frozen grass, his face full of curiosity.

“Who are you?” Batu demanded.

“General Bayar, my lord. Officer to Kublai Khan.”

Batu shook his head in confusion.

“Send your men away and have them camp in the valley two miles to the east. I won’t have them frightening my villages. There will be no looting, or contact with my people, General. Is that clear?”

“I will give the orders, my lord,” Bayar replied.

The older man seemed to be studying him, his expression still astonished.

Bayar watched as felt rugs were laid out on the grass and tea put on to boil. He sent word back to his tumans and then settled himself. He only hoped he could find the right words to impress the man who sat across from him.

Batu waited until Bayar had taken a bowl of tea in his right hand and sipped it, tasting the salt.

“Now explain, General. You know, I almost hope you are a madman. That would be a better thing than the news I think you have brought.”

THIRTY-SIX

SAMARKAND WAS A BEAUTIFUL CITY, WITH WHITE MOUNTAINS in the distance and walls so thick that three horsemen could ride abreast on the crown. Blue towers showed over the sand-colored walls, but the great gates were closed. Kublai’s tumans had driven farmers and villagers ahead of them like geese, the crowd growing as they rode the last few miles. Unable to enter the city, they sat and wailed in front of it, raising their hands to those within. Kublai’s warriors ignored them.

All along the walls, armored Mongols and Persians looked down in stupefaction. No army had besieged Samarkand since Genghis. Yet there were many still alive who remembered the horrors of that time. Hundreds, then thousands of the inhabitants climbed steps on the inside to stare at the tumans.

Kublai looked up at them, sitting comfortably on a thin horse as it nuzzled the ground for anything worth eating. His face and fingers still ached from the cold he had endured in the mountain passes. Though the sun was strong, he knew he would lose skin on his cheeks, already darker than the rest of his face as it began to peel and crack.

Zhenjin trotted his mount over to his father, though he did not speak as he too looked up at the great walls. Kublai smiled to see his son’s expression.

“My grandfather took this city once, Zhenjin,” he said.

“How?” the boy replied, in awe. He barely remembered Karakorum, and Samarkand was designed to impress exactly the sort of force Kublai commanded.

“Catapults and siege,” Kublai replied. “He did not have cannon then.”

“We have no cannon, father,” Zhenjin replied.

“No, but if I must, I will have the men build heavy machines to break the walls. It will not be quick, but the city will fall. That is not why I came here though, Zhenjin. I have no interest in killing my own people, unless they force my hand. There are faster ways, if they know their history.”

He signaled to Uriang-Khadai and in turn the man snapped an order to two of the warriors. They leapt from their saddles and began to unpack equipment from spare horses. Zhenjin watched as they took rolls of material and spars onto their shoulders, grunting at the weight.

“What do they have there?” he asked.

“You will see,” Kublai replied, smiling strangely to himself. The scholar he had been was very far away at that moment, though he took joy in the story of his family and the history of the city. History was more than just stories, he reminded himself as the men walked forward with their burdens. It taught lessons as well.

Under the eye of their khan, the men worked quickly, heaving layers of cloth onto a wooden frame and hammering pegs and ropes into the stony ground. They had walked into arrow range and their stiff backs showed how they tried to resist the fear that someone would put a shaft into them as they worked.

When they stood back, the tumans broke into a roar of challenge, unplanned, a crash of sound that echoed back to them from the walls. A white tent stood before Samarkand.

“I do not understand,” Zhenjin said, shouting to be heard over the noise.

“The senior men in the city will,” Kublai replied. “The white tent is a demand for surrender, a sign to them that the khan’s tumans have declared war. As the sun sets, if their gates remain closed to me, a red tent will follow. It will stand for a day before their walls. If they ignore that, I will raise a black tent before them.”

“What do the red and black tents mean?” Zhenjin asked.

“They mean death, my son, though it will not come to that.”

Even as he spoke, the huge gates began to swing open. A cry of hope went up from the crowd of terrified refugees around the walls. They streamed to that one point as if a dam had burst, pushing each other in desperation and getting in the way of riders trying to leave the city. Kublai grinned at his son.

“They remember Genghis still, at least in Samarkand. See there, my son. They come.”

LORD ALGHU WAS SWEATING HEAVILY, THOUGH HE HAD BATHED in cool waters as the sun rose. He had been called from his palace rooms by senior men, their faces white with fear. He could still hardly believe the sheer size of the army that had gathered before Samarkand. For the first time in his life, he understood how it must have been for the enemies of the nation to wake and see tumans waiting for them. He wished his father, Baidur, still lived. He would have known what to do in the face of such a threat.

Alghu had rushed up to the crest of the wall, sagging against a stone pillar as he stared out into the distance. Had he offended Arik-Boke in some way? Lord Alghu swallowed painfully, his throat dry in the breeze. If the khan chose to make an example of him, his beloved cities would be burned, his people slaughtered. Alghu had no illusions about the destructive strength of a Mongol army in the field. The tumans before Samarkand would tear through the Chagatai khanate like an unstoppable plague. He saw his own death in the fluttering banners.

His senior men had climbed the sandstone steps to see and they looked to him to give orders. Lord Alghu summoned his will, forcing himself to think. He led them all and their lives were in his hands. He did not blame his daughter. Aigiarn was young and headstrong, but whatever insult Arik-Boke believed he had been given did not warrant sending an army. He would send her away from the city so that Arik-Boke’s malice would not fall on her. Lord Alghu shuddered at the thought.

“My lord, I cannot see the khan’s banners out there,” one of his men said suddenly.

Lord Alghu had been turning to the steps to go down. He stopped.

“What do you mean?” he said, coming back and peering out again. The day was clear and he could see a long way from the height of the walls.

“I don’t understand,” Alghu muttered as he confirmed it with his own eyes. Arik-Boke’s banners were missing, but he did not recognize the others flying there. They seemed to have some animal embroidered on yellow silk. It was too far to be certain, but Lord Alghu knew he had never seen those flags before.

“Perhaps I should go out and ask them what they want,” he said to his men, smiling tightly.

Their expressions didn’t ease in reply. All of them had family in Samarkand or the cities around it. The Chagatai khanate had not been attacked for decades and yet they all knew the stories of slaughter and destruction that had come with Genghis. It was impossible to live in the khanate and not hear them.

A small group of warriors walked forward from the tumans in front of his city, each man bearing rolls of cloth. Alghu stared down in confusion as they approached the walls. One of his soldiers began to bend a bow nearby, but he snapped an order to be still.

Thousands watched curiously as the white tent began to take shape, the men below hammering pegs and stretching ropes to hold it. It was not as solid as a ger and its sides fluttered in the breeze. When Lord Alghu recognized it, he fell back a step, shaking his head.

“It can’t be,” he whispered. Those who remembered stood in shock, while their friends demanded to know what it meant.

“Ready the gates!” Lord Alghu shouted suddenly. “I will go out to them.” He turned to his men, his expression sick with worry.

“This has to be a mistake. I do not understand it, but the khan would not destroy Samarkand.”

He almost fell as he ran down the steps, his legs weak under him. His horse was on the main street into the city, waiting with his personal guards. They knew nothing of what he had seen and he did not enlighten them. The white tent was a demand for total surrender and it had to be answered before the red tent rose. As he mounted, Alghu told himself he had a day, but he could hardly think for fear. The red tent would mean the death of every male of fighting age in the city. The black tent was a promise to slaughter every living thing, including women and children. The city of Herat had ignored Genghis when he threatened them in such a way. Only lizards and scorpions lived in that place when he had finished.

“Open the gates!” Lord Alghu roared. He had to answer the demand immediately. His soldiers removed the great bar of oak and iron and began to heave them apart. As a line of light showed, their lord turned to one of his most trusted men.

“Go to my sons, my daughter. Take them safely to …” He hesitated. If the khan had decided to destroy his line, there was no safe place in the world. Arik-Boke would hunt them down and no one would dare give them shelter for fear of the khan’s vengeance.

“My lord, the village of Harethm is a hundred miles to the north and west,” the bondsman said. “I lived there once and it lies within the borders of the Hulegu khanate. No one will know they are there but you. I will protect them with my life.”

“Very well,” Alghu replied, breathing in relief. “Go now, from another gate. I will send for them if I can.”

As the gates opened further, Lord Alghu saw a crowd of men and women pressing in, their hands outstretched in panic. His soldiers began to shove them back to let their master pass. Lord Alghu had no eyes for them as they streamed around his men. The city was no safer than their place outside it.

He stared out at the dark lines of the tumans waiting for him. Fear was a knot in his stomach as he dug in his heels and began to trot forward. As he passed under the shadow of the arch, he saw his bannermen begin to unfurl his personal flags.

“White banners,” he snapped, close to panic. “We go out under truce.”

His men stared at him, seeing his fear. They had no white flags, but one of the refugees wore a white robe. In an instant, the unfortunate man had been clubbed to the ground and stripped, his garment raised to flutter on a spear as Lord Alghu rode out.

“WOULD YOU LIKE TO COME WITH ME?” KUBLAI ASKED HIS son. Zhenjin grinned, showing white teeth. In answer, he dug in his heels and his horse lunged forward. Kublai nodded to Uriang-Khadai and the orlok whistled to the closest jagun of a hundred warriors. They detached from the ranks, forming up on both sides of the two senior men. Kublai’s bannermen came with them, carrying yellow flags with Chinese dragons on them that caught the sun and glittered.

“Be silent and listen,” Kublai murmured to Zhenjin at his side as they closed on the force from the city.

“Are we going to kill them?” Zhenjin asked. The idea did not seem to trouble him particularly and Kublai smiled. He had seen the white flag flapping above them.

“Not unless I have to. I need this khanate on my side.”

They halted together, demonstrating their discipline to those who watched from the walls. Lord Alghu’s men pulled up with less precision, the sort of sloppy display Kublai’s tumans expected from city soldiers.

Lord Alghu came out with his most senior man and Kublai matched him with Uriang-Khadai. The two smaller groups faced each other in the bright sunlight, casting long shadows on the sandy ground. Kublai waited, standing on his dignity for once and forcing them to speak first.

The silence lasted only moments before Lord Alghu cleared his throat.

“Who are you to raise a white tent before my city?” he demanded.

“I am Kublai Borjigin, grandson of Genghis, great khan of the risen nation. Give me your name and acknowledge me as your lord and we have no quarrel.”

Lord Alghu gaped, slumping in the saddle. He had met Kublai as a boy, but the years had changed him beyond all recognition. The man he faced wore a Chin silk robe over a tunic, with dragons embroidered on the material. Yet there was a sword at his hip and he looked strong and dangerous. Lord Alghu peered into the sunlight and saw the light gold eyes that so often marked the line of Genghis. He swallowed.

“I am Alghu Borjigin,” he stammered, “khan of the Chagatai territory. If you are …” He hesitated, having been about to say words that suggested he doubted Kublai’s claim. He could not afford to insult a man with twelve tumans. “I am your cousin, son to Baidur, son to Chagatai, son to Genghis.”

“I met you when I was a boy, did I not? When Guyuk was made khan in Karakorum?”

Lord Alghu nodded, trying to reconcile the memory of the thin boy with the man he faced.

“I remember you. You have returned from the Sung lands, then?”

Kublai chuckled. “You are a man of rare insight, with me standing before you. Now surrender your city, Lord Alghu. I will not ask again.”

The older man’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. He shook his head, simply unable to take in what he had been told.

“Arik-Boke is khan,” he stammered at last. To his horror, Kublai’s expression turned cold and the yellow eyes seemed to gleam with anger.

“No, Lord Alghu. No, he is not. I claim the khanate and all the nations within it. My brother will bow the knee to me or fall. But that is for another day. Give me your answer or I will take this city and put another in your place.” Kublai turned to Uriang-Khadai, his voice light. “Would you be interested in ruling Samarkand, Orlok?”

“If it is your will, my lord khan,” Uriang-Khadai replied. “But I would rather ride with you against the usurper.”

“Very well. I will find another.” He turned back to Lord Alghu, still watching with a slightly open mouth. “Your answer, Lord Alghu?”

“I … I gave my oath to Arik-Boke. To your brother, my lord. I cannot take the words back.”

“I release you from your oath,” Kublai replied immediately. “Now—”

“It is not as simple as that!” Alghu snapped, anger finally breaking through his shock.

“No? Who else has the authority to release your oath, if not your khan?”

“My lord, this is … I need time to think. Will you enter the city in peace for a night? I grant guest rights to you and your men.”

For an instant, Kublai felt for the man he had put in an impossible position. Twelve tumans faced his city, promising certain destruction. He could not break his oath to Arik-Boke, but Kublai was giving him no choice. His will hardened.

“No, Lord Alghu. You will make a decision here and now. You have chosen to give oath to the usurper, but I do not hold you responsible for his crimes. I am the rightful khan of the nation. I am the gur-khan. My word is iron and my word is law. I tell you again that you are released from your oath, your vow. It is done. At this moment, you call no man lord. Do you understand what I have said to you?”

Lord Alghu had grown pale. He nodded.

“Then, as a free man, you must make your decision. My place is not here. I have other concerns than this khanate, but I cannot leave an enemy behind me while I seek out my foolish brother. I cannot leave a supply line into Karakorum, when I will bring that city under siege. Do you understand that?”

Lord Alghu nodded again, unable to reply. Kublai’s voice softened, almost to friendliness.

“Then choose, Lord Alghu. We have so few real choices in our lives. I will have no choice but to destroy Samarkand if you make the wrong decision here, this morning, but I do not wish to threaten you. The nation is in error, Lord Alghu. I have merely to put right what has gone wrong.”

Alghu thought of his children, already on their way to a safe village. He had no illusions about what Kublai was describing. Arik-Boke had a vast army and he would never surrender to his brother, not now he was khan. No Mongol force had ever fought against their own people in battle, but it would come, and it would bring destruction on a scale he could hardly imagine.

Slowly, carefully, under the watchful eye of Kublai’s orlok, Lord Alghu dismounted and stood by his horse, looking up at the man who claimed to rule the world. The Chagatai khanate was just a small part of that, he told himself. Yet if he gave a new oath, Arik-Boke would send his own tumans in reprisal. There would be no mercy, no quarter for an oath-breaker lord. Lord Alghu closed his eyes for an instant, caught between impossible forces.

At last, he spoke.

“My lord,” he said, “if I give you my oath, my cities lie within reach of Karakorum. It will be an act of war with the great khanate.” He blinked as he realized the words he had used, but Kublai only laughed.

“I cannot promise you safety, Lord Alghu. There is no safety in this world. I can say that I will keep my brother’s attention on me for this summer. After that, the khanate will be restored and I will look kindly on your cities.”

“If you lose, my lord …”

“If I lose? I do not fear some dog-meat brother who thinks he can stand in my place. The sun is hot, Lord Alghu, and I have been patient with you. I understand your fears, but if I stood in your place, I would know what to do.”

Lord Alghu stepped clear of his horse. On the dusty ground, he lowered himself to both knees.

“I offer you gers, horses, salt, and blood, my lord khan,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “You have my oath.”

The tension went out of Kublai’s frame as he spoke.

“The right decision, Lord Alghu. Now welcome my men into your city, that we may rest and drink the dust from our throats.”

“Very well, my lord khan,” Lord Alghu said, wondering if he had just thrown away his honor, as well as his life. He had been considering bringing his children back to the city, but it would do them no harm to spend a season with the villagers, as safe from harm as anyone could be with the khanates about to erupt into civil war.

GENERAL BAYAR WATCHED SOURLY AS BATU PACED UP AND down in the wooden house. The man had not taken the news well and Bayar was still searching for the right words to convince him. He knew most of Kublai’s plan and part of it was making certain the princes of the nation stayed out of the struggle between brothers. It was a difficult request that struck at the root of their honor and their oaths, but Kublai had been clear in his instructions.

“There has never been civil war in the nation,” Kublai had told him. “Make sure Batu understands the normal rules are suspended until my family has made an ending. His oath is to the office of the great khan. Until this is settled, until only one man is khan, he cannot honor his oath. Tell him to stay in his lands and we will have no quarrel.”

Bayar thought back over the words for the hundredth time as Batu sat down at his great oak table and nodded to the servants bringing steaming platters of meat and potatoes in butter.

“Join me, General,” Batu said as he pulled out a bench. “This is beef from my own herd.”

Bayar looked at the bloody slices and his mouth watered. He shrugged, then sat down, pulling pieces toward him with his fingers and chewing so that the juices ran down his chin.

“It’s good,” Bayar said, suppressing a groan of satisfaction. The meat came apart in his mouth almost without chewing and he pulled more into reach, leaving a pink trail on the old wood.

“You’ll never taste anything better,” Batu replied. “I am hoping to sell the meat to the khan’s cities in a few years, when I’ve built the herd up.”

“You’ll make a fortune,” Bayar said, “but not while the fighting goes on. I still need an answer from you, my lord.”

Batu chewed slowly, savoring each mouthful, but always watching the man who sat across from him. At length, he cleared his throat with a long draft of pale wine, then sat back.

“Very well. I have three choices, General, as I see it. I can let you go, do as Kublai wants and stay out of the fighting, tending to my own lands and my own people until it is done. If he loses, I will have the khan—” He raised a hand as Bayar opened his mouth. “I will have Arik-Boke riding here in a fury, asking why I kept my head down while my rightful lord was under attack. If that is the result, I could lose everything.”

Bayar didn’t reply. Neither he nor Batu knew for certain what would happen if Kublai lost. Arik-Boke might well exact some kind of vengeance. A sensible man might declare an amnesty for the small khanates, but nothing in the bloodline suggested Arik-Boke would be sensible.

“My second choice is to mount up with my tumans and ride in support of my lawful khan. I suspect you would oppose me in that, so the first thing would be to slaughter your men.”

“If you think—” Bayar began.

Once again, Batu stopped him with a raised palm.

“You are in my land, General. My people are serving yours with fine meat and drink every day. I could give a single order and see an end to it before sundown. That is my second choice.”

“Just tell me what you have decided,” Bayar said irritably.

Batu grinned at him.

“You are not a patient man, General. My third choice is to do nothing and keep you here with me. If Kublai wins, I have done nothing to injure him. If Arik-Boke triumphs, I have held three tumans from joining the fight. It would allow me to keep my life and lands, at least.”

Bayar paled slightly as the other man spoke. He had already wasted too much time in Batu’s khanate. Kublai had made him repeat his orders to ride for Karakorum and Bayar had some idea of his place in the khan’s plans. If he was held prisoner for months, it would mean the difference between success and disaster.

Batu had been watching his reactions closely.

“I see that does not find favor with you, General. The best choice for my people is perhaps your worst.”

Bayar stared at him in sullen anger. Everything Kublai planned would come down to a battle before Karakorum. Bayar’s tumans were the final bone to throw, the reserve that would hit the enemy rear at exactly the right moment. He swallowed painfully, the rich meat feeling like a stone in his stomach. Kublai would look for him when the time came. If he was not there, his friend would be cut down.

Slowly, Bayar stood up.

“I will leave now,” he said. “You will make whatever choice you think is best, but you will not hold me here.”

He turned sharply at the sound of swords being drawn behind him. Two of Batu’s bondsmen were watching him with grim expressions, blocking the door to the sunlight and open air.

“Sit down, General. I have not finished with you yet,” Batu said, leaning back from the table. He saw the general’s eye drop to the heavy knife that had been used to cut the meat. Batu chuckled as he picked it up and used it to spear another thick slice.

“I told you to sit down,” he said.

THIRTY-SEVEN

ARIK-BOKE DREW BACK HIS BOW AND TRIED AGAIN TO BRING his heartbeat and breathing under control. He couldn’t do it. Whenever he felt the beginning of calm, spiking fury would make his pulse race and his hands tremble.

He loosed with a shout of frustration and saw the shaft strike high on the straw target. In disgust, he threw the bow down, ignoring the wince of his arms master at the treatment of such a valuable weapon. Tellan was in his sixties and had served three khans before Arik-Boke, one of them in the field. There were three boys working brooms around the perimeter of the training square and they all froze in shock to see an act that would have earned any one of them a whipping.

Tellan showed no expression as he gathered up the precious bow and stood patiently, though his hands ran down the length without conscious thought, searching for cracks or damage. When he was satisfied, he held it out again. Arik-Boke waved it away.

“No more now. I can’t keep my mind clear,” he said.

At his side, the orlok of his armies had been in the process of drawing his own bow. Alandar was faced with a delicate choice. His own heart thumped slowly and his hands and arms were like hardwood.

He could have placed the shaft anywhere he chose, but under the khan’s glare, Alandar decided not to take the shot. He released the tension slowly, feeling muscles twitch uncomfortably across his chest.

Alandar untied the quiver from his shoulder and handed the equipment to the arms master of Karakorum’s training ground. He had thought Arik-Boke might benefit from a morning of sweat and practice, but the khan only seemed to grow in anger with every poor shot.

“Would you prefer to work with swords, my lord khan?” he asked.

Arik-Boke snorted. He wanted to hack someone to death, not go through routines and stances until his muscles ached. He nodded with bad grace.

“Very well,” he said.

“Fetch the khan’s training swords, Tellan.”

As the arms master turned, Arik-Boke raised his head in inspiration.

“Bring the wolf’s-head blade as well,” he muttered. “And fetch the training suit.”

Tellan trotted off with the bows into the buildings around the training square. He returned with two swords in scabbards and an armful of stiff leather. Arik-Boke took the swords and felt the heft of each one.

“Put the suit on, Tellan. I’m in the mood to cut something.”

The arms master was a veteran warrior. He had fought alongside Tsubodai and earned his position at the khan’s court. His brows lowered slightly and his expression grew stern. For one of his trainees, it would have been a sign of gathering storm clouds, but Arik-Boke was oblivious.

“Shall I have one of the boys put it on, my lord khan?” Tellan said.

Arik-Boke barely glanced at him.

“Did I ask you to fetch one of the boys?” he snapped.

“No, my lord.”

“Then do as you are told.”

Tellan began to buckle the leather straps around himself. The practice suit had begun life as a blacksmith’s apron with long sleeves, the layers of sewn leather so stiff that it would hardly bend at the waist. To that had been added a padded helmet with neck pieces and heavy guards that buckled under the sleeves and onto the shins. Tellan heaved the main part over his head and stood still as Alandar began to fasten the buckles.

Arik-Boke drew a practice sword and swung it through the air. It was heavier than a normal blade, weighted with lead so that a warrior’s wrist and forearms could develop strength. It lacked much of an edge and the point was rounded. He frowned at it and drew his personal blade, recovered from Mongke’s body.

The eyes of both Alandar and Tellan slid over to him as they heard the sound of shining steel being drawn. It was not just that both men were veterans. The sword had been in the khan’s family for generations. The hilt had been cast in the shape of a stylized wolf’s-head and, in its own way, it was one of the most potent symbols of the risen nation. Genghis had carried it, as had his father before him. The sword was polished and viciously sharp, with every chip or dent smoothed out of it. It looked exactly what it was, a length of sharp metal designed to cut flesh. Arik-Boke swished it through the air with a grunt.

Alandar met Tellan’s eyes and smiled wryly at the man’s expression. He liked Tellan and had spent a few evenings drinking with him. The arms master was not one to faint at a little blood or the prospect of a battering, but he did not look happy. Alandar finished the buckles and stepped away.

“Shall I give him a sword?” he asked.

Arik-Boke nodded. “Give him yours.”

All three of them knew it would make little difference. The suit had been designed for multiple attacks, to let a young warrior try to remain calm and focused as half a dozen of his friends worked him over. It would not let Tellan move quickly enough to defend himself.

Alandar handed his blade to the arms master and grinned as he stood for an instant with his back to the khan. Tellan rolled his eyes in answer, but he took the weapon.

As Alandar stepped clear, Arik-Boke stepped in and swung at Tellan’s neck with everything he had. Alandar’s smile vanished as Tellan staggered backward. The headgear for the suit had heavy pieces overlapping the neck area, but the wolf’s-head sword had almost cut through and one of them hung by a few threads.

The arms master blocked the next strike with a huge effort, using all his strength to make the leather arms bend fast enough. Arik-Boke grunted as sweat appeared on his face, but he moved forward, hitting high and low, groin and neck. His sword left bright slashes in the suit and mouths opened in it so that Alandar could see Tellan’s clothing beneath. The orlok considered making a comment, but chose to remain silent. Arik-Boke was khan.

Tellan seemed to realize he was in a fight and when Arik-Boke stepped too close he reversed his backward motion, using the bulk of the suit to throw his hip into the khan and make him stagger. The reply was another flat blow to the neck, tearing the leather free so that it fell. Tellan’s veined throat was exposed and he knew it, feeling the air on his flesh as soon as it happened. He tried to step aside and back, but Arik-Boke pressed him at every step, swinging the sword as if it were a club rather than a blade. More than one of his wild strikes were turned aside on the leather, wrenching his fingers and making him hiss in pain.

It seemed an age before Arik-Boke paused. The leather suit was in tatters, half of it hanging loose and the rest on the ground at Tellan’s feet. Blood dripped down the man’s legs and slowly pooled as Arik-Boke panted, watching him for a sudden move. To the equal horror of the arms master and Alandar, Arik-Boke rested the point of his sword on the ground, putting his weight on it as if it were a simple stick and not the most famous blade in the history of the nation. Sweat poured from the khan and he breathed in great, rasping breaths.

“That will do,” he said, straightening with an effort and tossing the blade to Alandar, who caught it easily. “Have my shaman look at your cuts, Tellan. Alandar, with me.”

Without another word, he strode off the training square. Alandar collected the scabbard and barely had time to dart a quick look of apology to Tellan before he went after him.

The arms master stood alone and panting in the center of the square. He had not moved for some time when one of the sweeping boys dared to approach him.

“Are you all right, master?” the boy said, peering around the torn remnants of the headgear.

Tellan’s lips were bloody and he showed his teeth to the boy as he tried to take a step.

“Take my arm and help me, boy. I can’t walk back on my own.”

The admission hurt him as much as the wounds he had taken, but his pride wouldn’t let him fall. The boy called a friend and between them they helped Tellan stagger out of the sun.

ARIK-BOKE STRODE QUICKLY DOWN THE CORRIDORS OF THE palace. The tightness of his rage felt as if it had eased slightly and he rolled his shoulders as he walked. He had been imagining Kublai before him as he had battered the arms master and for a time it had taken the edge off his anger. As he walked, it swelled again within him, a red coil that made him want to strike out.

He came to polished copper doors and shoved them open without acknowledging the Guards who stood there. Alandar followed him into the meeting room, seeing his most senior men rise to their feet as if jerked up by strings. Since the khan had stormed out hours earlier, they had been waiting for him to return, unable to leave without his permission. They showed no sign of impatience as they bowed. Alandar noticed the single jug of wine had been drunk dry, but there was nothing else to indicate Arik-Boke had kept a dozen men waiting for the best part of a morning.

Arik-Boke walked through them to the table and cursed when he saw the jug was empty. He grabbed it and took it to the copper doors, shoving it into the hands of one of his Day Guards.

“Bring more wine,” he said, ignoring the man as he tried to bow and keep hold of the jug at the same time. When he turned to his officers once more, his eyes glittered with simmering fury and no one would meet his gaze.

“Now, gentlemen,” he grated. “You have had time to think. You know the stakes involved.” He waited for barely a beat before going on. “My scouts find broken yam stations. My orders go unanswered. Supplies have stopped from the north and if my spies have not been turned against me, my brother Kublai has made war on a khanate. My own blood has turned his tumans against his lawful ruler.” He paused, his eyes raking them.

“The world has gone quiet as rabbits with a snake in their hole and you have nothing to offer your khan? Nothing?” He roared the last word, spraying spit. The men in the room were seasoned warriors, but they pulled back from him. His snuffling breath was loud in the room and the scar that ran across the ruined bridge of his nose had grown red.

“Tell me how it is possible for an army to ride into my khanates without us becoming aware of it before this. Did my grandfather set up the yam lines for nothing? For months, I have been asking my advisers why the letters have stopped coming, why the reports are late. I asked my senior officers what fault there could be that might result in Karakorum being cut off from the rest of the world in such a way. Now you tell me how such a thing could happen within a thousand miles of this city and have us know nothing about it.”

His Guard returned with two brimming jugs of wine, erring on the side of caution. Arik-Boke waited while a cup was poured for him and drained it in quick gulps. When he had finished a second, he seemed calmer, though a heavy flush was stealing up his neck, where the veins were clearly visible.

“That is past. When this is over, I will have the heads of those men who told me that the yam lines could never be broken, that they gave me a security and an early warning that no other khan had ever known. I will have the head of Lord Alghu and give his daughter to my bondsmen for their sport.” He took a deep breath, aware that simply ranting at his men would produce no good result.

“I want them rebuilt. Orlok Alandar will come to you for your best scouts and have them man the lines. I need to know where my brother’s tumans are, so that I can answer their betrayal with the greatest possible force.”

He faced the men in the room, making sure they saw his contempt.

“Alandar, give me a tally of our strength,” he said at last.

“Without the tumans of the Russian khanate, or the Chagatai—” he began.

“Tell me what I have, Orlok, not what I don’t have.”

“Twenty tumans, my lord khan. Leaving only the Guards to keep peace in the city.”

“And my brother?”

Alandar hesitated, knowing it would be at best a guess.

“He may have as many as eighteen tumans, my lord, though he has been at war with the Sung for years and he will have lost many, perhaps six or seven of them.”

“Or more, orlok. My scholar brother could easily have lost half his force while he was reading his Chin books, while he was learning to dress like a Chin whore.”

“As you say, my lord. We cannot know for certain until the yam lines are reestablished.”

“He did not beat the Sung, Orlok Alandar. He merely held his place for five years, waiting for Mongke Khan to ride to his aid. That is the sort of man we face. That is the false khan, my brother, who has broken our supply lines and rides the world in careless confidence, while the khan of the nation of Genghis can only react. No more, Alandar! I have had enough of these ragged riders terrified to tell me the khanates are falling apart. We will go out and meet this scholar brother. And I will have him crawling at my feet before we are done.”

“Your will, my lord,” Alandar said, bowing his head.

“We can place the traitor at Samarkand two months ago.” Arik-Boke gestured to one of the twenty generals who waited in nervous tension for their orders. “Bring me my maps, gentlemen. We will see how far he could have run in the time.”

Some of the men exchanged glances, knowing from experience that a fresh Mongol tuman could have covered a thousand miles or more since then. Alandar chose to speak, knowing that of all of them, he was most immune to Arik-Boke’s anger.

“My lord, he could be almost anywhere. We suspect he sent tumans against Batu in the north, so it is likely he has already split his forces. But we know he will come to Karakorum.”

“This is just a city,” Arik-Boke said.

“It is a city with the women and children of his tumans, my lord. Kublai will come for them. What choice does he have?”

Arik-Boke grew still, thinking. At last, he nodded.

“Yes, we have that at least. We know where he will come and we have something precious to him. That will do as a starting place, Orlok. But I do not want to fight a defensive battle. Our strength is in movement, in speed. He will not pin me down. Do you understand? That is the thinking of our enemies. I want to get out of Karakorum and find him while he moves. I want to run him down like a circle hunt, closing slowly on his men until there is nowhere left to run.”

“The closest yam stations are already working, my lord,” Alandar replied. “We are restocking a dozen each day, now that we know what happened to them. We will have warning as soon as they sight his tumans.”

“I was told that before, Alandar. I will not rely on them again.” He took a deep breath. “Send the tumans toward the Chagatai khanate, with scouts running between them. Five battle groups of forty thousand to cover the ground. Keep the scouts out, ready for the first touch. When they sight the enemy …” He paused, savoring the word in relation to his foolish brother. “When they see him, they will not engage until the full force has gathered. We will strike him down, this false khan. And I will be there to see it.”

“Your will, my lord. I will leave a thousand men to patrol the camps and Karakorum and establish the yam stations first between the city and the Chagatai lines.” It was an interpretation of the orders he had been given and Arik-Boke bristled immediately.

“This is just a city, Orlok. I have said it. I am khan of the nation. One city means nothing to me.”

Alandar hesitated. The khan was in no mood to hear an argument, but he had to speak. His position demanded it, to temper the khan’s righteous anger with tactical sense.

“My lord, if your brother sent tumans into the north, they would be behind us as we move against his main force. Karakorum could be destroyed …”

“I have hostages to keep them peaceful, Alandar. I will have knives at the throats of their women and children if they touch the first stone of Karakorum. Does that satisfy you? What general of my brother’s would give that order? They will not move against the city for fear of the slaughter that will follow.”

Alandar swallowed uncomfortably. He was not certain that Arik-Boke would go through with the threat and he knew better than to press him on it. No khan had ever considered butchering his own people, but then there had never been a war amongst their own, not since Jochi had betrayed Genghis. That was nothing compared to what Arik-Boke faced and the orlok voiced none of his misgivings, choosing to remain silent.

Arik-Boke nodded as if he had received assent.

“I will leave enough men to carry out my orders, Orlok, sworn men who understand the meaning of their oath. That is enough now. My blood cries out to answer these insults. Send messengers to Hulegu. Tell him I call his oath. And gather my tumans on the plain. I will ride to find my brother Kublai and I will choose the manner of his death when we have him.”

Alandar bowed his head. He could not shake the sense that the khan was underestimating the enemy tumans. They were as fast as his own men and, for all Arik-Boke’s bluster, he could not make himself believe they were led by a fool, a scholar. A fool would not have cut the supplies into Karakorum before the attack. A scholar would not have removed the most powerful lords from Arik-Boke’s side before the true fighting even began. Even so, he had learned obedience from a young age.

“Your will, my lord khan,” he said.

THIRTY-EIGHT

HULEGU CURSED HIS GENERAL’S MEMORY AS HE GALLOPED along the fighting line. Kitbuqa had been killed years before, but his legacy lived on in the Moslems who had vowed never to accept his khanate. Holding Christian Mass in mosques had turned out to be a terrible idea when it came to pacifying the region, though it was true that many of the tribes also screamed the name of Baghdad as he caught and punished them.

He had never known such a cauldron of trouble as the khanate he had chosen. From the destruction of the city on, men had drifted in from thousands of miles away to fight for the land he had taken. He grinned as he rode. His grandfather had said there was no better way to spend a life and the khanate was never still, never peaceful, as it vomited up new enemies each year. It was good for the tumans he commanded. His men kept themselves sharp against the dark-skinned madmen who died screaming the name of a city or their god.

Hulegu ducked as an arrow whirred somewhere close, picking his moment carefully. The line of enemy horsemen blurred as he ran down its flank. He had only heartbeats before they began to react to his sudden maneuver. He could hear their roaring voices and the air was thick with dust and sweat and the taint of garlic under a battering sun.

Hulegu barely gestured and his galloping line angled into the enemy flank, raising lances at the last moment. They plunged through horses and men, spearing a hundred paces into the crush as if they were a knife sinking into flesh. The Persians crumpled before them and Hulegu cut down on his left and right, each blow aimed to break and blind, to leave falling men behind him.

He heard the snap of crossbow bolts and something struck him high in the chest, piercing his armor and thumping his collarbone. He groaned, hoping it had not broken again. As he punched through the lines, he felt only numbness from the area, but the pain would come. His tumans were outnumbered, but they were still fresh and strong and the day had barely begun. His charge had sliced away a great section of their lines and he signaled to his minghaan officers to enclose and cut it free. It was shepherd’s work, separating young rams from a flock and cutting them down. The main force of horsemen and foot soldiers moved on to face the Mongol shafts ahead and there was space for a time.

Hulegu wiped sweat from his face with a damp hand, blinking as his eyes stung with salt. He was thirsty, but as he looked around, there was no sign of his camel boys with waterskins.

Movement drew his attention and Hulegu stared as a dark mass of soldiers came jogging over the crest of a hill. They moved quickly and lightly despite the heat and he could see they were armed with bows and swords. Hulegu trotted out from the main battle for twenty or thirty paces, judging the best response. All his tumans were engaged by then and he had no separate reserves. He began to frown as the Persian soldiers kept coming, as if there were no end to them. They gleamed in the sun, wearing armor of brass and iron. As he watched, horsemen appeared on their flanks, overtaking the walking men.

He had missed an army, hiding in the hills. Whichever local leader had brought them in and hidden them had chosen his moment with care. Hulegu wet his dry lips with his tongue, looking around him and trying to keep a sense of the battle. He would have to detach a full tuman to meet and prevent them from joining up with their brothers.

Sweat ran into his eyes as the men around him finished butchering the hundreds they had cut out from the main force. It was work they knew well and his warriors were confident in their power, well used to battle after years spent fighting.

The flow of men over the hillcrest kept coming, like a spread of oil. Hulegu looked for a tuman he could disengage, but they were all in the thick of the fighting. The Afghans and Persians raised their heads as they saw the reinforcements and fought with more energy, knowing they could waste their strength and fall gasping because the Mongols would have to answer the threat. One of the tumans was pushed back by yelling thousands, forcing them to break free and gain space around them for another charge.

Hulegu cursed. He would have to take the opportunity, but he saw the danger if he pulled them out. The men they had been killing would surge after them and in doing so flank the tuman next in line. For an instant, he pictured the threat.

“God’s blood,” he muttered. Kitbuqa’s old habit of blaspheming had rubbed off on him. Hulegu knew he could have done with his friend on the field that day. It had been poor fortune that Kitbuqa had faced a huge army while Hulegu was in Karakorum to see his brother made khan. At least the tribes had paid a harsh price for the life of a Mongol general. He had seen to that in massive organized reprisals.

Hulegu signaled to his bannerman and watched the result as the tuman flag went up and was swung in a great circle, flapping. The tuman answered its personal flag in moments, halting almost as they began to charge back in. Hulegu could see the faces turned toward his position and he tried to ignore the feeling of panic as the enemy began to surge forward.

“Second flag. Engage enemy,” he snapped to his bannerman. There were too few signals and he had nothing to point to the new force coming over the hills. Yet his men were experienced and they would know he wouldn’t stop them only to order them back in.

They whirled their horses and began cantering up the rising ground. Hulegu grunted in relief, then his breath caught as he saw the enemy were still coming. Thousands more of them had appeared and he cursed the labyrinth of valleys all around that could hide so many from his scouts.

The Persian lines below ran forward, howling in glee as they appeared to chase the tuman from the field. Their momentum took them along a wing of his personal tuman as he had feared. Hulegu took a deep breath to shout new orders to the single minghaan of a thousand who had come with him.

“Back in support!” he bellowed. “To the Brass tuman line, in support!” He repeated the order as he dug in his heels. There were too many of the enemy, but he was not ready to retreat, not from those. The battle could yet turn and they could break. He would wait for the moment, pray for it. The Brass tuman was under pressure at the front and side, close to being overwhelmed. For the first time that day, Hulegu felt a worm of doubt in his stomach. He had never lost a fixed battle against the wild tribesmen, though they challenged him each year with increasing numbers, crying “Baghdad” and “Allahu Akbar” as they came. He showed his teeth as he rode to support his tuman. His men would not break against dog-raping farmers. They could be defeated, but never made to run.

The thousand with him stretched out to a full gallop. Many of them had lost their lances and emptied their quivers in the fighting, but they drew swords and struck into the enemy, seeking to cut through the chaos, roaring their battle cries. Hulegu laid on around him with all his strength, smashing his sword down on helmets as shields were raised against him. From horseback, he could still see the fresh soldiers meet his tuman on the rising ground. The tuman had slid into a wide charging line with lowered lances, but even as Hulegu watched, it began to falter against the sheer numbers. Like a broken fishing net, the charging line was sundered in a dozen places. They could not hold and the screaming Persians were flowing around and through them, losing hundreds of men to reach the main battle.

Hulegu swore, turning his anger into a quick chopping blow that cracked the skull of a bearded man as he showed his red mouth in a wild yell. It was his task to keep a feel for the battle and never to lose himself in the pain and fury. The ranks on the hill were still coming and Hulegu felt a cold chill, despite the heat. The shahs had caught him neatly, making him commit his forces and then springing the ambush with everything they had.

Hulegu had cut himself a space and he was gathering the minghaan back to him for another charge at a weak point when he saw his scouts racing over the bloody grass. They were already pointing into a shadowed valley on his right hand and Hulegu groaned to himself. If there was another army there, he was done.

Even as he formed the thought, the first ranks came out of the shadowed hills, not far from the heels of the scouts they followed. Hulegu rubbed sweat from his eyes, gaping. What he saw was impossible, but he felt his heart lift even so. Solid ranks of Mongol warriors came surging out, lances standing upright like a forest of thorns. He knew them from their banners and he shook his head in a sort of wonder before turning back to see the enemy. Slowly, his lips pulled back to reveal his teeth. It was not a smile.

The tumans in the hills had been riding close, pressed in by the narrow valleys all around. As they hit the open space, they fanned out and Hulegu shouted in joy to see maneuvers he knew as well as his own body. Two entire tumans jerked into a new path, heading for the force sliding over the hillcrest. Two more increased their speed on the flat ground and came at his position like a hammer swinging down on the Persian ranks.

Hulegu saw arrows soar out from them, bows thrumming their deep note over and over, shafts by the tens of thousands filling the air as the forces closed. The Persian ranks crumpled under the new assault, their battered shields saving only a few. Hulegu stood in his stirrups to see the lances come down. A rank five hundred wide struck his enemies and went over them, crushing and cutting. He bellowed in excitement and snapped new orders to his officers. He had the Persians on two sides, as neat a trap as if he had planned it. One last glance up the hill let him see the new tumans were butchering the Persian reserve, taking on their cavalry and sweeping across their face with black arrows, again and again.

The battle was over, but the slaughter had barely begun. Many of the Persians threw down their weapons and tried to run, or simply held bare hands up to the sky and prayed their last. They were cut down as the tumans rode around them, accepting no surrender and sending arrows in to pick them off at close range.

Hulegu’s tumans lifted their heads, putting aside the weariness they felt as their pride forced them to stand tall in the presence of their own people. They had been hard-pressed and they were merciless as the enemy fell back. The killing went on and on as the sun began to set and the enemy were herded into smaller groups. Wounded men stood among the dead and Hulegu used a broken lance as a club as he rode past one man, snapping his neck with the force of the blow and sending him tumbling.

The single minghaans rode the battlefield like stinging ants, lunging across to find new targets until the last of the enemy were running in terror, hoping only for darkness to hide them. The heat of the sun began to wane and Hulegu removed his helmet, rubbing his wet scalp. It had been a good day. A warm breeze picked up, carrying the smell of blood. Hulegu closed his eyes in relief, turning into it. He thanked the sky father for his deliverance and then on a whim thanked the Christian God as well. Kitbuqa would have enjoyed the scene around him and Hulegu was only sorry he had not lived to see it.

He opened his eyes as Mongol horns sounded victory across the open ground, a low drone that was quickly echoed by every tuman who heard. The sound raised gooseflesh on Hulegu’s arms. He whistled between his teeth to catch the attention of his officers and watched as his banners went up, bringing the senior men to him. The droning noise of victory went on and on, filling the valleys and echoing back from all directions. It was a good sound.

Hulegu’s tumans began to loot the dead, and in the distance more than one scuffle broke out as they disputed their rights over weapons and armor with the newcomers. Hulegu laughed at the sight of men rolling on the ground who had been fighting as brothers just moments before. His people were fierce, wolves all.

As his officers gathered, he saw a group of a few dozen riders detach from one of the tumans and come trotting over to him. Banners fluttered in the breeze as they came, taking their mounts carefully around the dead.

Uriang-Khadai had read the battle as he entered it. As he met Hulegu’s gaze, both men knew Hulegu owed him. Though Hulegu was a prince of the nation and a khan in his own right, he spoke first to honor the older man.

“I was beginning to think I’d have to take another day to finish them, Orlok,” Hulegu said. “You are welcome here. I grant you guest rights and I hope you will eat with me this evening.”

“I am pleased to be of service, my lord. I do not doubt you would have called the victory in the end, but if I saved you even half a day, that is good.”

Both men smiled and Hulegu wiped sweat from his face once again.

“Where is my brother Kublai, Orlok? Is he with you?”

“Not today, my lord, though I am his man. I will be happy to explain as we eat.”

THE SUN HAD SET BY THE TIME THE TUMANS LEFT THE BATTLEFIELD. Metal armor long heated in the sun tended to creak as it cooled and bodies twitched, sometimes hours after death. Experienced men could all tell tales of how they had seen dead warriors belch and even sit up in a spasm before they fell back. It was not a place to spend the night and Hulegu knew he would have to send men back to complete the looting. He led Uriang-Khadai and his warriors to a grassy plain a few miles to the west, almost at the edge of the hills. He had a basic camp there and before the moon rose to its highest point, there was simmering stew for them all, with bread hard enough to use as a spoon until it dissolved.

Hulegu was in ebullient mood as Uriang-Khadai’s senior men removed their armor and tended to their horses. His tunic was sweat-stained, but it had been a relief to get out of the armor and feel the night cool on his bare arms and face. He sat opposite Kublai’s orlok, burning with curiosity, but willing to let the man eat and drink before he demanded answers. Nothing tired a man more than fighting and the tumans never missed a chance to eat well after a battle, if they had the opportunity. They were professional men, unlike the dead Persians behind them.

When Uriang-Khadai was finished, he handed his bowl to a servant and wiped his fingers on his leggings, adding to an old patch of dark grease.

“My lord, I am a blunt man. Let me speak bluntly,” he said. Hulegu nodded at him. “Your brother Kublai asks that you step aside from the battles to come. He has declared himself khan and he will fight Lord Arik-Boke. All he asks is that you remain in your khanate and take no part.”

Hulegu’s eyes widened as the older man spoke. He shook his head in dull amazement.

“Arik-Boke is khan,” he said hoarsely, trying to take it in. “I was there, Orlok. I gave my oath.”

“I have been told to say this, my lord. Your brother Kublai calls on you to stay away while he settles this with his younger brother. He has no grievance with you, but he would not have you choose between blood brothers in a time of war.”

Uriang-Khadai watched the other man in silent hope. Kublai had given no orders to attack, but Uriang-Khadai’s tumans were already among Hulegu’s forces. At his shout, they could kill thousands. With Hulegu’s men smiling and relaxed among them, Uriang-Khadai knew he could win.

Hulegu’s eyes drifted out over the camp and perhaps he too saw the threat. He shook his head again, his expression hardening.

“You were useful to me today, Orlok. For that I am grateful. I gave you guest rights in my camp, but that does not give you the right to tell me my oath. When the sun rises …” He stopped, his anger dwindling as confusion swelled in him.

“How is this even possible?” he said. “Kublai has not been back to Karakorum. I would have heard.”

Uriang-Khadai shrugged. “My master is khan, my lord. Your brother Arik-Boke should not have declared. This will be settled in a season and the nation will go on—under its rightful khan.”

“Why has Kublai not come to me himself? Why did he send you, Uriang-Khadai?”

“He has a war to fight, my lord. I cannot tell you all his plans. I speak with his voice and everything I have said is true. He does not ask you to break your oath. Out of love for you, he asks only that you remain until it is settled.”

Hulegu rested his head on his hands in thought. Both Arik-Boke and Kublai were his brothers. He wanted to gather them both by their necks and shake them. For the thousandth time he wished Mongke were still alive, to tell him what to do. He had given his oath, but what if Arik-Boke had been wrong to take the khanate? There had been talk even back then, voices wondering why he had not waited for Kublai to come home. This was the result. Hulegu could hardly take it in as the potential for disaster spread and spread in his mind.

At best, he would lose one of his brothers, a pain like a knife in his chest so soon after losing Mongke. At worst, the nation would tear itself apart in the conflict, leaving them vulnerable to the enemies all around. Everything Genghis had created would be destroyed in a single generation. There was no right and wrong to it, no claim that stood above the other in clear sunlight. Yet Arik-Boke was khan. No matter what Kublai said, that stood in stone, unchangeable. Hulegu slumped further.

“This is my khanate,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Uriang-Khadai bowed his head. “It will remain so, my lord. You conquered it and it will not be taken from you. My master knew you would be troubled. Your pain is his, multiplied a thousandfold. He wishes only for a quick settlement.”

“He could stand aside,” Hulegu said, barely whispering.

“He cannot, my lord. He is khan.”

“What does that matter to me, Orlok?” Hulegu demanded, his head rising. “There are no rules in life. Whether it is written down, or spoken by shamans, nothing binds a man beyond himself. Nothing, save the chains he accepts for himself. Laws and traditions mean nothing, if you have the strength.”

“Kublai has the strength, my lord. Even as I speak to you here, he will be moving toward Karakorum. It will be settled before winter comes, one way or the other.”

Hulegu made his decision, his mouth becoming a firm line.

“My brothers are at play, Orlok. I want no part of it. There are cities to my north that still hold out against me. I will spend a season bringing them to siege. When that is done, I will come east to Karakorum and see who rules.”

Uriang-Khadai felt a tension leave him at the words.

“That is wise, my lord. I am sorry to have brought you pain.”

Hulegu grunted in irritation. “Find another fire, Orlok. I am weary of your face. As the sun rises, you will go from here. You have your answer. I will abide.”

Uriang-Khadai rose to his feet, wincing as his knees protested. He was no longer young and he wondered if he could trust the word of a man who acknowledged no power in the world beyond his own ability to destroy and lead. The honest answer was that he could not.

For an instant, Uriang-Khadai considered shouting his order to the waiting men. They were all ready. At a stroke, he could remove a man of power from the struggle.

He sighed briefly. Or he could accept the words he had been given and perhaps regret it later. Kublai had already lost one brother. Uriang-Khadai bowed and walked to another fire. He would not sleep that night, he knew.

THIRTY-NINE

HIGH IN THE GRAY-GREEN HILLS, KUBLAI COULD NOT REST. He stood and looked out over a wide plains valley, deceptively still and peaceful from such a height. Water trickled from a stream close by his right hand, so that he could reach out and cup freezing water to drink when he felt the urge. The day was hot and the sky was baked blue and empty of clouds. It was land he knew, and after so long in the Sung territories, it still touched some deep part of him to be home.

He could hear one of his men cursing behind him as the warrior clambered over slippery rocks. Kublai didn’t turn, content to stare out into the warm vastness, soaking in the sense of space and silence. He was weary after days and nights of hard riding, but feverish anticipation had him in its grip and his hands trembled. Arik-Boke was somewhere out there, beyond his sight. Kublai had made his plans and prepared his men, but it came down to waiting. If Arik-Boke rode out of Karakorum, they would be ready. If he stayed in the city, they would crush him like a flea trapped in a seam of cloth.

After so long together, it was odd not to have his most senior men around him. Bayar was still in the Russian north, Uriang-Khadai was out in the far hills, having returned from his mission to Hulegu. He missed them both, but neither more than Yao Shu. The old monk had grown too frail to ride with the tumans. Yao Shu had set off for his monastery at last. Time and age stole away even the greatest of flames, Kublai thought. He sent a silent prayer that he might see his friend again.

For the first time in years, Kublai was alone with his warriors. Against him, Arik-Boke would have Mongke’s tumans, sworn to his service. Kublai grimaced at the thought. Strength would not bring his brother to heel, not on its own.

It had been a risk to contact Hulegu. His older brother might have heard what Uriang-Khadai had to say and set out immediately to defend Arik-Boke’s khanate. Uriang-Khadai had relayed Hulegu’s words to him, but Kublai knew better than to trust them. If Hulegu moved to support Arik-Boke, it would add another year and another dead brother to the cost of the war. Kublai had no illusions left. In the silence, as his tumans stretched and rested and ate around him, he prayed his older brother would continue to show a little sense and stay well clear.

Kublai raised his head when he heard the jingling sound of bells, carrying far in the mountain stillness. No yam rider this time, but the small herd he had sent out with a couple of his scouts. On foot, he hoped they would have been able to get close to Karakorum unchallenged. He had not expected them back for another month and had made his camp in the hills, far from his brother’s city. He tried to guess what their early return could mean and then gave up. He looked down the steep slope of grassy rocks below his position and saw the small figures of men driving goats and sheep before them. It would be a while yet before he heard whatever they had to say.

Kublai turned to see his son leaning precariously over the rocks to take a mouthful of water.

“Careful,” he said. “It’s slippery there.”

Zhenjin looked scornful at the idea of falling. He sucked at the stream of water, getting far more down his tunic than in his throat. Kublai smiled at him, but when he resumed his sentinel’s stare, Zhenjin stayed where he was, easing back until he could lean against the rocks in something like comfort.

“I heard the men talking about what you’re going to do,” Zhenjin said.

Kublai didn’t look at him. “I’m sure you know not to carry tales to me,” he replied.

The young man shifted his seat, pulling one leg up under him so that he could rest his elbows on the raised knee.

“They’re not complaining,” he said. “They were just talking, that’s all.”

Kublai summoned patience. It was not as if he had anything to do until his spies reported.

“What did they say, then?” he asked.

Zhenjin grinned at him. “They said you will be an emperor when this is done.”

“If I live, that is … true,” Kublai replied. “I will be khan of the nation, but emperor of China.”

“Does that mean I will be an emperor after you?” the young man asked.

Kublai looked at him then, his mouth twitching to laugh.

“Is that what you want? To rule the world?”

“I think … I think I would like that, yes,” Zhenjin said, with a thoughtful expression.

“Then I will do my best to make it happen, my son. You are blood of my blood, bone of my bone. I will name a dynasty and you will carry the name.”

“Is that why we are going to fight, then? To be emperors?”

Kublai chuckled. “There are worse things to fight for.” He looked over his shoulder at the bondsmen who rested in the mountain crags, the vast majority of his men invisible in the valleys and rifts behind.

“I think I would be a better khan than Arik-Boke, Zhenjin. That is a reason as well. But a father works for his sons and daughters. He spends his strength and his youth to raise them up, to give them everything he can. When you have children of your own, you will understand.”

Zhenjin considered the idea with great seriousness.

“I will spare cities when I am emperor. I will be loved and not feared.”

Kublai nodded.

“Or both, my son, if you are lucky.”

“I would like to change the world, as you have done,” Zhenjin said.

Kublai smiled, but there was an edge of sadness to it.

“I used to discuss such things with my mother, Zhenjin. She was a woman of rare ability.” His eyes became distant with memory for a moment. “You know, I said something like that to her once. She told me that anyone can change the world. But no one can change it forever. In a hundred years, no one you know will be alive. What will it matter then if we fought or just spent our days sleeping in the sun?”

Zhenjin blinked at him, unable to understand his father’s strange mood.

“If it doesn’t matter, then why are we going to fight your brother?” he asked.

“Perhaps I haven’t said it well. I mean it doesn’t matter if we change the world. The world moves on and new lives come and go. Genghis himself said he would be forgotten and, believe me, he left a long shadow. It does matter how we live, Zhenjin! It matters that we use what we are given, for just our brief time in the sun.” He smiled to see his son struggling with the idea. “It’s all you can say, when the end comes: ‘I did not waste my time.’ I think that matters. I think it may be all that matters.”

“I understand,” Zhenjin said.

Kublai reached out and rubbed his head roughly.

“No you don’t. But you will perhaps, in a few years.” He looked out over the crags to where his herdsmen were making their slow progress. “Enjoy the peaceful moments, Zhenjin. When the fighting starts, this will be a pleasant memory.”

“Can you beat them?” Zhenjin asked, looking into his father’s eyes.

Kublai realized his son was afraid and he made himself relax.

“I think so, yes. Nothing is certain.”

“They have more tumans than us,” Zhenjin went on, prodding him for a reaction.

Kublai shrugged. “We are always outnumbered. I don’t think I’d know what to do if I came across an army smaller than mine.” He saw the forced lightness wasn’t reassuring his son and his tone became serious. “I am not the first man to try to think how to counter the advantages of a Mongol tuman in battle. However, I am the first one of us to try. I know our tactics better than any man alive. I think I can find a few new tricks. My brother’s warriors have spent the last few years growing soft around the capital city. My tumans are used to fighting every day, every step. And they are used to winning. We’ll eat them alive.”

His son grinned at his bravado and Kublai chuckled with him.

“Practice your patterns now, Zhenjin. We won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

His son made a show of groaning, but under his father’s eye he found a flat space in the rocks and began the flowing series of movements and stances he had learned from Kublai. Yao Shu had taught the sequences years before, each with its own name and history.

Kublai watched with a critical eye, remembering how Yao Shu had never been satisfied. There was no such thing as perfection in a pattern, but it was always the aim to make every kick and block and turn as close to it as possible.

“Turn your head before you move,” Kublai said. Zhenjin hesitated.

“What?” Zhenjin replied without moving his head.

“You have to imagine opponents coming at you from more than one direction. It is not a dance, remember. The aim is to break a bone with every blow or block. Imagine them all around you and respond.”

Kublai grunted approval as his son turned his head sharply, then swept an imaginary kick away from him in a great circular block. As Kublai looked on, his son plunged a knife-hand into an invisible throat, his fingers outstretched and rigid.

“Hold there and consider your rear leg,” Kublai called to him. He watched as Zhenjin adjusted his stance, dropping lower before moving on. Kublai looked fondly at his son. It would be a fine thing to give him an empire.

ARIK-BOKE COULD SMELL HIS OWN SWEAT AS HE RODE, THE bitter scent of a healthy animal. He had not allowed himself to grow weak in his time as khan. His squat body had never been graceful, but it was strong. He prided himself on being able to exhaust younger men in any contest. From a young age, he had learned a great truth, that endurance was as much will as anything physical. He grunted to himself as he rode, his breath snuffling from his ruined nose. He had the will, the ability to ignore pain and discomfort, to push himself beyond the limits of weaker men. The righteous anger he had felt on hearing of Kublai’s betrayal had not left him for a waking moment since that day. The aches and complaints of the flesh were nothing to him while his brother rode the plains in challenge.

His tumans took their mood from his, riding with grim determination as they quartered the land in search of any sign of the traitor. Arik-Boke hardly knew the men with him, but that was not important as long as they obeyed their khan. His senior officers were spread out over an immense line, each commanding their own force of forty thousand. Any two would surely equal whatever army Kublai could bring to the field, Arik-Boke was certain. When all five came together like fingers curling into a fist, he would crush his brother’s arrogance.

It gave Arik-Boke some pleasure to plan his vengeance as he rode. There had been too many men in the nation who thought they could rule. Even the sons of Genghis had warred amongst themselves. Guyuk Khan had been killed on a hunt, though Arik-Boke suspected Mongke had arranged it. Such things were already history, but he could make Kublai’s death a hot blade sealing a wound. He could make it a tale to spread fear wherever his enemies met and plotted. It would be right to make an example of Kublai. They would say the khan had torn his own brother down and they would feel fear. Arik-Boke nodded to himself, savoring the sensations. Kublai had a wife and children. They would follow his brother into death when the rebellion had been destroyed.

He sat straighter in the saddle when he saw his scouts racing in from the west. The tumans who rode with the khan were the central block of five, while his orlok, Alandar, commanded the right wing as they moved south. Arik-Boke felt heat rise in him as he began to breathe faster. Alandar knew the orders. He would not have sent the scouts in unless he had sighted the enemy at last.

The galloping men raced across the front rank of the tumans, cutting in at an angle to where Arik-Boke’s banners flew. Thousands watched them as they reached the khan and swung their mounts between the lines. His bondsmen used their horses to block the scouts from coming too close, a sign of the new fear that had come to the nation since the death of Mongke.

Arik-Boke didn’t need to wait for them to be searched and passed on through to him. The closest scout was just a couple of horses away and he shouted a question.

The scout nodded. “They have been sighted, my lord khan. Forty miles, or close to it.”

It was all he needed and he waved the scout off, sending him running back to his master. His own scouts had been waiting for the word. As soon as they heard, they kicked their mounts into a lunging gallop. In relays, the news would bring all the tumans in, a hammer of the most dangerous fighting forces ever assembled. Arik-Boke grinned to himself as he angled his horse to the west and dug in his heels. The blocks would turn in place behind him, becoming a spear to thrust into his brother’s hopes.

He glanced up at the sun, calculating the time it would take him to make contact. The rush of enthusiasm damped down as suddenly as it had arisen. The scout had ridden forty miles already, which meant Kublai’s forces had been free to act for half a day. By the time Arik-Boke’s tumans reached him, it would be dusk or night.

Arik-Boke began to sweat again, wondering what orders he should give to attack a force he could not yet see, a force that would certainly have moved by the time he arrived in the area. He clamped down on his doubts. The plan was a good one and if he didn’t bring his brother to battle until the following day, it would not matter in the end.

KUBLAI STARED AT A SINGLE POINT IN THE DISTANT HILLS, waiting for confirmation. There. Once more he saw the flash of yellow, appearing and disappearing in an instant. He let out a slow breath. It was happening, at last. The bones had been thrown and he would have to see how they fell.

“Answer with a red flag,” he called to his scout. Miles away, the man who had signaled would be watching for a response. Kublai kept looking out at the blurred point as his man spread a red cloth as tall as himself and waved it before letting it fall.

“Wait … wait … now, yellow,” Kublai ordered. He felt some of his tension ease now that his plans were actually going into effect. Signal flags were nothing new over long distances, relayed from valley to valley by men on the peaks. Even so, Kublai had refined the practice, using a system of five colors that could be combined to send a surprising amount of information. The distant watcher would have seen the flags and passed on the message, covering miles far faster than a horse could ride.

“Good,” Kublai said. The scout looked up, but Kublai was talking to himself. “Now we’ll see whether my brother’s men have the stomach to fight for a weak khan.”

FORTY

ALANDAR MUTTERED TO HIMSELF IN IRRITATION AS HIS SCOUTS came racing in, clearly expecting him to gallop off immediately in response to the news they brought. Instead, he had to balance his orders with the best tactical decisions on the ground. It was not a pleasant position and he was not enjoying the morning. Karakorum was over two hundred miles behind him and he had lost the taste for sleeping under the stars and waking stiff and frozen. His block of tumans had ridden at good speed, covering the land and staying in touch with Arik-Boke, but Alandar could not shake the feeling of unease that plagued him. Everything he knew of Kublai said the man was not a fool, but Arik-Boke was convinced he could be run down like a deer in a circle hunt. Alandar’s own men expected him to roar battle orders at the first sign of contact, and as the scouts reported, he could feel their eyes on him, questioning. He stared straight ahead as he rode.

His four generals were close by and he whistled to bring the most senior man to him. Ferikh was a solid officer, with white hair and twenty years of experience under three khans. He trotted through the ranks at the summons, his expression serious.

“You have new orders, Orlok?” he asked as he came up.

“Not yet. It feels like a trap, Ferikh.”

The general turned automatically to stare at where Kublai’s tumans had been sighted, racing along a pass between two valleys. The contact had been brief, but just long enough to send Alandar’s scouts pounding back with news. In relays, the news would be stretching out to the blocks in the long sweeping line.

“You do not have to respond, Orlok,” Ferikh said. Alandar winced slightly to see the disappointment on the older man’s face. “The khan can decide when he has brought up the middle tumans.”

“Which will not happen until dark,” Alandar said.

Ferikh shrugged. “Another day will not make a difference.”

“You think it’s a trap?” Alandar asked.

“Perhaps. A brief sighting of a small group, no more than six or seven thousand. They might want us to go charging in after them and then stage an ambush. It’s what I would do.”

Alandar rose as tall as he could manage in his saddle, looking at the hills all around them.

“If it’s an ambush, they will have a large force somewhere near, ready to spring out as soon as we move.”

He was in a difficult position and Ferikh appreciated his dilemma. The men expected their officers to show courage and quick thinking. They had heard the news and they waited for the order to ride hard and fast, but Alandar had not spoken. If he fell for some ploy, he would risk the tumans with him and Arik-Boke’s anger. Yet if he came across the tail of Kublai’s army and failed to take the chance, he would look like a fool or a coward. He was caught between impossible choices and so did nothing, letting time make his decision for him.

In the distance, on his left side, his attention snagged on a blur in the air. Alandar turned around to stare and his expression changed slowly as he realized what he was looking at.

“Tell me I’m right that I can see dust beyond those hills, Ferikh.”

The general squinted. His long sight was not as sharp as it had once been, but he made a tube with his hands and focused down it, an old scout’s trick.

“Has to be a large force to send up a cloud like that,” he said. “Judging by where we saw the first ones, they’d be in about the right position to hit our flank.”

Alandar breathed out in relief. He would have a victory to report to the khan after all.

“Then I think we’ll see some fighting today. Send five thousand between the hills after the ones we saw first. Let them think they’ve fooled us. The main tumans can cut through … there.” He pointed to a break in the green hills that would allow him to swing around and attack the army making the dust rise. “Go slowly, General. If it’s Kublai’s main force, we’ll stay out of range, ready to disengage. It will be enough to hold them in place until the khan reaches us.”

Alandar looked east, behind him, where the rest of Arik-Boke’s army would be riding in support. “We should have four more tumans coming up soon, then the khan’s own tumans. The last will be here sometime after noon tomorrow. I’ll give new orders as they arrive.”

Ferikh sensed the relief in the orlok at being able to make a decision. He bowed his head briefly, already enjoying the thought of confounding those who had tried to fool the khan’s own army.

Five minghaans pushed forward toward the first valley and then Alandar gave the order for his main tumans to swing around and dash for the break in the hills. They surged into a gallop and the expressions of the warriors were cheerful with anticipation. They had all seen the faint trace of dust by then and they were already imagining the false khan’s confusion as they appeared from a different direction, falling like wolves onto his flank.

Alandar was in the first line that entered the cleft, his tumans thundering behind him. He thought he had seen through whatever ruse Kublai was intending, but he was still aware that Kublai’s entire force outnumbered his. Even so, he could not shake the sense of satisfaction that he could spring a trap on those who sought to fool him. He had not risen to command the khan’s armies by making mistakes. For a moment, he thought of Mongke’s orlok, Seriankh. He had been removed from authority for losing his master and fought somewhere in the ranks. Alandar still thought the man was lucky to have kept his life.

Alandar passed into the shadowed ground, with steepening slopes rising on either side. Somewhere ahead and to the right would be a force of warriors riding to surprise his tumans. He leaned forward in the saddle, his hand dropping to the long sword that slapped against his mount’s flank. The land began to open out and in the sunlight he could see a green valley before him. In the distance, he thought he could hear sounds of battle as his minghaans met and clashed with the false group he had been meant to attack. Bows bent on either side of him as his warriors prepared a crushing volley of shafts. For a time they would ride without reins, using only their knees to guide the ponies at full gallop. Alandar could feel the moment when all four hooves left the ground as a rhythm beneath him. He would not use a bow that day, though he had one strapped to his saddle. He felt the excitement of the men around him, the quick breaths of air that seemed suddenly cold as the hills fell away and his front rank plunged out into the sun. His tumans feared nothing on earth and he led them. It felt glorious as he craned forward for the first glimpse of the enemy.

SURPRISE AND DISAPPOINTMENT FLASHED THROUGH ALANDAR’S tumans as they rounded the foot of the hill and were able to look down the valley stretching to the east. They shouted and pointed to each other as they rode further in, so that thousands of throats made a growling wail that fell away.

There were horses in the valley, thousands of them. It did not take a soldier of Alandar’s experience to see they were not mounted by Mongol warriors. He gaped at the sight of Arab boys whooping and kicking at a milling mass of animals. Each one seemed to have some wide branch tied to its tail, so that it dragged on the dusty ground.

Alandar felt his stomach tighten in fear. If these were the distraction, where were Kublai’s tumans? Almost without thought, he slowed his pace and the tumans matched him, coming down to an easy canter and then a trot. They were nervous at the sight of the trap, knowing they had been drawn in, but not yet seeing the danger.

Alandar jerked around in the saddle as he heard yells and warning horns sound behind. His tumans were still in the cleft between hills, stretched out. Something was happening half a mile behind him and he cursed aloud, yanking the reins savagely to halt. He could hear the sound of bows thrumming at the entrance to the valley, echoing back like the buzzing of bees.

For a moment, he could not think. The valley was too narrow to turn his tumans. The enemy was hitting them and he could not bring his force to bear. He raised his arm and ordered his men forward. If he could bring them all out of the valley, they would be able to maneuver once again. The lines surged forward with him, ignoring the boys on their horses as they whooped and jeered. His lines stretched out and Alandar saw movement on his left. He almost cried out in frustration as he realized the position. With a dozen of his personal guard, he pulled his horse out of rank. Behind the knot of men, his tumans kept going, clearing the valley behind as his heart sank.

Mongol warriors were riding at full speed out of the hills there, straight for his flank. Alandar could only roar a warning and even then his men were exposed, under attack from the rear and the side at the same time. He showed his teeth in a grimace, then drew his sword. The enemy had worked him into the spot they wanted, but the games were over and it was time to fight. His generals bellowed orders and the first volleys soared out to meet the flanking force, blurring through the air. It was his one advantage over a flying column, that he could bring more bows to bear on their front rank.

They were already widening their line to fifty as the first arrows reached them. Alandar watched in shock as the enemy ranks raised cumbersome shields and seemed to snatch the arrows from the air. He had never seen Mongol warriors carry such heavy things into battle. They used the bow and the bow required two hands at all times. His generals were already turning men to face them, the orders running quickly down to the minghaan commanders and the leaders of each hundred in the tumans. His men were shifting from a running flank to a wide front, but it was one of the hardest possible maneuvers and involved halting thousands in good order. Even so, it was beginning to happen.

Alandar felt hope swell in his chest, but then the enemy threw down their shields and raised bows. Shafts hummed back across the shrinking space between the racing armies. Alandar saw his ranks could not form up in time and he winced as the enemy archers poured volleys into the milling lines. He saw a dark stripe across his vision as something clipped his shoulder and went spinning away, rocking him back in the saddle. Another shaft thumped into his horse, sinking to the feathers in its throat so that the animal began to cough and spray blood from its nostrils.

Alandar panicked, dismounting with a stumble as the horse went down. His men had to clear the valley and they could do it only by riding hard and fast away from those who attacked. At the same time, he had to make a strong stationary line to answer the flanking attack. The orders clashed in his mind and he could not see a way through. The sun was warm on his face and arrows whirred past him without making him flinch. His guards were looking to him, but as he mounted a fresh horse from instinct, he sat with a blank expression, frozen. For a time, his tumans fought on their own.

His generals registered the lack of orders for a brief time, then filled the gap, working together. Those below them in the chain of command barely had time to grow worried before new orders came down the line and they were moving again. Jaguns of a hundred formed up in solid blocks, seeking only to hold back the flank attack until their main force was able to swing out of the valley.

It might have been enough to save the battle, but the tumans they faced were the veterans of the Sung territory. When the fighting was fluid, they moved in overlapping lines, so that they always brought the maximum force against the weakest points. When the fighting came down to swords and lances, they gave no ground, so that Alandar’s tumans were smashed back.

Those in the valley ran clear at last and Alandar shook his head in disbelief as he saw the force that pressed them from behind. He had assumed it was no larger than the few thousand he had seen in the taunting glimpse that morning. Instead, the hills vomited warriors under Kublai’s banners, such a flood of them that he realized he should have worked to keep them between the hills where they could do less damage. He was outnumbered by at least two to one and the Arab boys riding to make a dust trail watched open-mouthed as his tumans were crushed, hemmed in and hammered.

Alandar could see only chaos, too many groups racing back and forth. From his first move, he knew he had been dancing to Kublai’s plans and the knowledge burned him. Arrows darted in all directions and men were falling everywhere. He could hardly tell them apart in the press, though the enemy tumans seemed to know their own. His guards had to fend off a yelling warrior barreling past, using their swords to turn the man’s lance away from Alandar. As the man went on, Alandar found himself thinking clearly, though he felt his guts twist in anguish. There was no help for it; he would have to call the retreat.

His own horn had been lost with his fallen horse and he had to yell to one of his officers. The man looked ill as he understood, but he blew a sequence of falling notes, again and again. The response seemed to be lost in the roiling mass of fighting men, except to call attention to that part of the battlefield. More arrows lifted into the air, seeming to move slowly, then dropping with a whirr all around them. One struck the horn-blowing officer high in the chest, puncturing the scaled armor. Alandar shouted in anger as the man slumped, wheeling his horse over and yanking the horn away.

He was panting heavily, but he raised the horn and repeated the signal. Slowly, he was answered by men too hard-pressed to disengage easily. They pulled back over the bodies of friends, raising swords and lances horizontal to hold the enemy off.

The gaps they made were suddenly filled with whining shafts. Hundreds more warriors were sent tumbling, choking on wooden lengths through their chests or throats. A few ranks made it to Alandar and formed around him, panting and glassy-eyed. They held position long enough for their numbers to swell to a thousand, then pulled back, joined by free riders as they went until some three thousand were moving across the field of the dead.

Of his generals, Alandar could see only Ferikh with him, though he had around twenty minghaan officers. They had all been in the fighting and they were battered and showing wounds and cuts. He saw the enemy tumans spot their moving group, men pointing across the valley floor. He felt the blood drain from his face as thousands of fierce eyes turned to see the orlok retreat.

His small force were still picking up stragglers as they struggled through to him, but by then the enemy were forming ranks, ready for another charge. Alandar looked across the battlefield. The losses appalled him to the point of illness: thousands of dead, broken bows, kicking horses, and screaming men with wounds that poured blood onto the ground. One of the enemy rode to the front rank and said something to those near him. They roared a challenge, the noise making Alandar jerk in the saddle.

Barely five thousand battered men rode with him. He had thought to combine them with the rest of his tumans, but the fighting seemed to have stopped across the valley. With eight hundred paces between the armies, his men drew to a halt, exhausted and fearful as they looked to him for orders. Against him, the valley had filled with tumans, standing their ground in eerie silence as they all turned to watch. Alandar swallowed nervously and without a command, his remnant drew to a halt. He could hear the labored breath of them, men muttering in disbelief. They had been outfought and outmaneuvered. The sun was still up and he could hardly take in how fast it had happened.

“Behind us, the khan approaches with enough men to destroy these,” he said, raising his voice to carry to as many as he could reach. “We have lost only the first skirmish. Take heart that you fought with courage.”

As he spoke the last word, the enemy leader roared an order and the enemy surged forward.

“Go!” Alandar shouted. “If I fall, seek out the khan!” He turned his horse and dug in his heels, kicking the animal into its best speed. The Arab boys scattered before his men, jeering and shouting as they ran.

AS SOON AS ALANDAR HAD RIDDEN CLEAR OF THE VALLEY, Kublai called a halt. Uriang-Khadai came riding up to him in short order and they nodded to each other.

“Arik-Boke won’t keep that formation now he’s found us,” Kublai said. He did not congratulate the older man, knowing Uriang-Khadai would take it as an insult. Beyond a certain level of skill and authority, the orlok needed no praise to tell him what he already knew.

“I have often wanted to show Alandar the errors in his thinking,” Uriang-Khadai said. “He does not react well under pressure, I have always said. This was a good first lesson. Will you turn for Karakorum now?”

Kublai hesitated. His army was still relatively fresh, the victory keeping their spirits high as they dismounted and checked their mounts and weapons. He had told his orlok he would try for a quick attack on the head of Arik-Boke’s sweep line just as it became a column and turned toward them. After that, the plan had been to ride hard for the capital and seek out the families they had left behind.

Uriang-Khadai saw his indecision and brought his pony alongside, so that they would not be easily overheard.

“You want to go on,” he said, a statement more than a question.

Kublai nodded warily. His own wife and daughter were safe in Xanadu, thousands of miles to the east. It was not a small thing to ask his men to keep fighting with the fate of their families hanging over them.

“There is just a short time before my brother brings his tumans back into a single army. We could roll them up before us, Orlok. If there were no women and children around Karakorum, would that not be your advice? To hit them again and quickly? If I head north now, I will be throwing away the opportunity to win. It may be the only chance we get.”

Uriang-Khadai listened with the cold face, giving nothing away as Kublai spoke.

“You are the khan,” he said quietly. “If you order it, we will go on.”

“I need more than that at this moment, Uriang-Khadai. We’ve never fought an enemy with the lives of women and children in his grasp. Will the men follow me?”

The older man did not answer for what seemed like an age. At last, he dipped his head.

“Of course they will. They know as well as you that plans change. It may be the best choice to go on and fight again here, while we have the advantage.”

“But you want to head north, even so.”

The orlok was visibly uncomfortable. He had sworn an oath to obey, but the thought of his wife and children in the hands of Arik-Boke’s guards was a constant drain on him.

“I will … follow orders, my lord khan,” he said formally.

Kublai looked away first. He had known many moments where hindsight showed him a choice, a chance to turn his life one way or the other. It was rare to feel such a moment as it happened. He closed his eyes, letting the breeze pass over him. He felt death in the north, but the smell of blood was strong in the air and he did not know whether it was a true omen or not. When he turned east to face his brother’s distant armies, he felt the same cold shiver. Death lay in all directions, he was suddenly certain of it. He shook his head, as if to clear cobwebs from his thoughts. Genghis would not have wasted a moment. His men knew death, lived with it every day. They slaughtered animals with their hands and knew when a child began to cough that it could mean finding them cold and still. He would not fear such a constant companion. He could not let it influence him. He was khan at that moment and he made his choice.

“My orders are to go on, Orlok. Grab what arrows we can and chase Alandar into the tumans coming up. We hit the next battle group with everything we have.”

Uriang-Khadai turned his horse without another word, shouting orders to the waiting tumans. They looked confused, but they mounted quickly and formed up, ignoring the wounded and dying all around them. The sun was setting, but there were hours of gray summer light to come. Time enough to fight again before dark.

FORTY-ONE

KUBLAI GAVE THANKS FOR HIS BROTHER’S POOR DECISIONS as he sighted four tumans riding hard against him. The great general Tsubodai had once employed the same system, five fingers stretching across the land in search of enemies. It was a powerful formation against slow-moving foot soldiers. Against the tumans he commanded, it had a weakness. His brother had formed a separated column a hundred miles long to search the land. Kublai and Uriang-Khadai had hit the end of the sweep and as the column turned to face him, he could work his way down it, bringing almost twelve tumans against each battle group as they reached him. Arik-Boke could still halt and let his tumans join up, but until he did, his warriors were vulnerable to simple numbers and overwhelming strength.

Overall, Kublai and Uriang-Khadai were seriously outnumbered, even after slaughtering Alandar’s men. That disadvantage would dwindle as they cut through the snake piece by piece. In his head, Kublai went over his plans for the thousandth time, looking for anything to improve the odds yet again. He did not have to check that Uriang-Khadai was in position. The orlok was more experienced than anyone Arik-Boke could field and his tumans showed it in the way they flowed over the land, moving well together.

The second block of his brother’s tumans was too far away for Kublai to hear their horns, but over the vast plain of green grass, he could see them begin to shift and move in battle formations, reacting to his presence. He frowned as the wind whipped by him, checking the position of the sun. The soft gray twilight lasted for hours at that time of year, but it might not be enough. He hated the idea of having to pull out before the battle was done, but he could not be caught in one place. Every maneuver was intended to reduce his brother’s ability to move, while enhancing his own. He could not be caught in the dark, with armies closing on his position.

Against stolid Sung soldiers, he would have kept his final orders to the last moment, too late for the enemy to react to them. As it was, the Mongol tumans he faced could shift and reply just as quickly. Even so, he had the numbers. With Uriang-Khadai keeping order, he sent his men forward in a column, like two stags rushing at each other. At a mile, he felt the first urge to give the final order, his heart beginning to hammer at him. Arik-Boke’s tumans were moving fluidly, darting back and forth as they came on. He did not know who led them, or whether Alandar had reached the apparent safety of their ranks. Kublai hoped he had, so that he could send the man running twice in one day.

At half a mile, they were sixty heartbeats apart. Kublai gave his order at the same moment he saw the enemy tumans swing out to envelop his column head. He grinned into the wind as Uriang-Khadai and his generals matched the formation. Both hammerheads widened, but Kublai had more tumans and he could imagine how they must appear from the enemy’s point of view, spreading like wings at his back, further and further as his forces were revealed.

It seemed an instant before the arrows flew on both sides. The wide lines could bring many bows to bear and the shafts soared out by the tens of thousands, one every six heartbeats from men who had trained to it all their lives. For the first time, Kublai felt what it was like to meet such a barrage in anger and he had to struggle not to flinch from the whirring air. The volleys spat like a war drum beating, crossing each other in the air. He could hear the thumps of them hitting flesh and metal, the grunts and cries of men on both sides and ahead of him. His own place in the fourth rank was not spared as shafts arced overhead and fell among them. Yet his wider lines could answer with thousands more shafts and the air was blacker on his side as they fired inward, hardly troubling to aim against so many.

The first volleys broke holes in the galloping front ranks; the second and third tore men and horses away, so that those behind went piling into them. On both sides, the storm of arrows punched through armor. The heavy shields Kublai had picked up in Samarkand were long behind, left to rust on the valley where they had beaten Orlok Alandar. It had been a tactic worth trying, but the true strength of his tumans lay with the archers, the smashing power of bows of horn and birch, drawn back with a bone thumb ring and loosed at the moment when all hooves left the ground. The fourth volley was brutal, the air so thick with arrows that it felt hard to breathe. Thousands were hit on both sides and horses crunched to the ground, turning over at full speed so that their riders crashed down hard enough to kill.

Kublai’s tumans kept their formation better than those they faced. They had spent years in battle against the Sung, against forests of crossbows and enemy pikes. The lines bunched in places where the arrow storm had been thickest, but the rest forced their way through with hardly a drop in speed. In the last moments before impact, they followed the routines drummed into them: bows were jammed onto saddle hooks and thousands of swords were drawn as they reined in slightly, allowing the ranks behind to surge ahead.

Through Kublai’s front ranks came his lancers, each one lowering great lengths of birch as they went. It took enormous strength of arm and shoulder to hold the lances steady at full stretch. They brought them down in the final heartbeat, aiming the point ahead and leaning in, bracing for the impact. With half a ton of horse, rider, and armor behind it, the lances slammed through the fish-scale chest plates worn by the tumans. Kublai’s riders wore no straps to keep hold of the long lances. As they bit, his men let them go, rather than break a collarbone or an arm trying to hold on. The air filled with spinning splinters as ten thousand lances struck and many shattered or broke at the hilt. The enemy rank went down, coughing blood or knocked still and white as they bled inside.

The crash of thousands of warriors meeting each other at full speed became a low thunder of hooves and roaring voices. The two fronts tangled together as they struggled with swords, hacking at each other with insane violence. Kublai’s wide line spread rapidly around to the flanks as Uriang-Khadai continued to give calm orders. His tumans there had kept their bows and they sent another dozen volleys from each side, battering the men loyal to Arik-Boke.

They were answered with arrows every bit as powerful as their own, as warriors on the flanks loosed shaft after shaft back at them. The two sides were close in by then, drawing and loosing with grim stoicism, ignoring the deaths around them as they fought on. At the front, Kublai’s tumans were pressing forward, killing and moving, crushing the head of the snake. The flanks began to crumple back, the aim of Arik-Boke’s archers spoiled as those at the head were forced to give ground. Uriang-Khadai rode up and down his ranks barely two hundred yards from the main lines. As the hammerhead compressed, his men kept up their fire. The rain of arrows in return began to dwindle, but they loosed until their quivers were all empty, having sent more than a million shafts into the crush.

Mongol tumans did not retreat, did not surrender, but Kublai’s forces were overwhelming them. His veteran warriors pressed forward at every slight give, forcing them to move back a step and then another, then a dozen more as two ranks collapsed. They could not move to the sides, where Uriang-Khadai watched with cold eyes. The tumans he commanded on the right drew swords with a sibilant rasp that sent a shudder through the flanks. They had the space to kick their mounts into a gallop. He yelled an order and Uriang-Khadai’s tumans snapped shut on the flanks, swords coming down in short, chopping blows.

The head of the column collapsed and those in the flanks felt the shift, panic swelling all around them. They tried to turn their horses, yanking savagely on reins as they were buffeted by unhorsed men and loose mounts on all sides. The edges of the flanks were hammered back as Uriang-Khadai’s tumans tore into them and those in the very center turned their backs on the battle and whipped their mounts desperately. Even then, with the decision made to retreat, they could not get clear. There was no room to move and the press of those behind kept them in place, yelling in fear or pain. The killing went on, with the flanks so compressed men could hardly move at all. Kublai’s tumans cared nothing for those who tried to surrender. There was no possibility of mercy. It was too early yet to stop the killing and the carnage was terrible. Men raising their hands were cut down where they stood. Screaming horses had new wounds gashed in their flesh by racing warriors.

Kublai had not entered the fighting beyond the first charge. With a group of his bondsmen, he waited to one side, watching closely and giving orders to shore up the heaving lines. It was like watching a wave surge up around a rock, but the rock crumbled and fell into sand as he looked on. He caught a glimpse of his brother’s orlok, fighting and roaring orders in the center, already struggling to get away. Alandar would remember this day, Kublai thought with satisfaction, if he lived through it.

Kublai looked up as Uriang-Khadai sent a horn note across the battlefield. In the fading gray light, he could see fresh tumans coming. It would be the center formation of Arik-Boke’s sweep line and Kublai guessed his brother would be in the squares riding hard at him. The sun had set while the fighting went on. If it had been noon, he knew the moment was right to go on. His men had broken the tumans in the second battle group and lone riders were already streaming away, heading for the safety of their khan as he entered the field.

Uriang-Khadai sounded the horn again and Kublai muttered to himself. He was not blind, or deaf. Plans and stratagems hurtled through his mind and he sat still, transfixed by the opportunity. His men were weary, he reminded himself. Their arrows were gone and their lances were broken. It would be madness to send them in again, in the dark. Yet he could end it all in a day and the thought ate at him. He clenched his fists on his reins, making his gauntlets creak. The horn sounded for the third time, snapping him out of his reverie.

“I hear you!” he shouted angrily. Kublai gestured to his waiting bondsmen. “Send the signal to disengage. We’ve done enough today.”

He continued to stare out into the distance as the falling note droned out across his tumans. In the dim light, they had been expecting it and they pulled back quickly, forming ranks and resting on the wooden pommels of their saddles as they rode clear, calling and laughing to one another. The dead lay among the dying and Kublai could hear one man scream with astonishing volume, somewhere in the twitching piles they passed. He had to have broken legs to be left with breath to make such a noise. Kublai didn’t see the warrior who dismounted and stalked over to the wounded man, but the sound was choked off mid-cry. He thought suddenly of Zhenjin, worrying for him. It was always a difficult line to walk for a khan and a father. The men understood he would be worried about his fifteen-year-old son among them, but he could give no sign of his fear, nor leave Zhenjin out of harm’s way. Uriang-Khadai usually placed Zhenjin to the rear of any formation without making a point of it. Kublai looked across the field for his son, but he could not see him. He clenched his jaw, sending a silent prayer to the sky father that he was all right. Uriang-Khadai would know. The man missed nothing.

Thousands of Arik-Boke’s forces had escaped the hammer blow he had dealt them. They kept going as his men formed up and began to trot north. Kublai looked back over his shoulder, over the dead men and horses, to where his brother still rode in a cloud of dry dust. Already, Arik-Boke’s distant tumans were merging with the gloom as darkness overtook them. Kublai tilted his head in a gesture of mocking respect. Orlok Alandar had won free in the final moments and Kublai only wished he could hear the man explain to his brother how he had lost so many men in just a day.

ARIK-BOKE RAGED AS HE LEANED FORWARD IN THE SADDLE and yelled “Chuh!” to his mount, kicking it savagely in the loins to keep his speed. Sweat was dribbling into his eyes and he blinked against the sting of salt, peering into the distance. The light was almost gone and the tumans ahead shifted and blurred like writhing shadows. He could hear only the galloping horses around him, so that the battle ahead seemed almost dreamlike, robbed of the clash of swords and the screams of men.

The general of one of his tumans was angling his mount to catch up to the khan, the animal’s head lunging up and down with effort. Arik-Boke ignored him, his focus only on those ahead. He knew he had lost contact with the tumans behind, that his long formation had been attacked at one end. He knew very well that the force with him might not be enough to send his brother running, that he should wait and re-form. He had only four tumans in close formation, but another eight were behind. Together, they would be enough, no matter what Kublai had managed to do. Arik-Boke spat into the wind as his brother’s name flitted through his thoughts. His saliva felt like soup in his mouth and heat breathed out of every pore as he rode on, harder and further than he had galloped for years. It had to be Uriang-Khadai who had organized the attack. Arik-Boke knew he should have allowed for his brother turning over command to a more experienced officer. He cursed long and loud, making his closest men look away rather than witness his rage. He should have done a thousand things differently. Kublai was a weak scholar and Arik-Boke thought he would have made chaos of good tumans. Yet they had struck at exactly the right point, at the right moment. They had beaten Orlok Alandar and he could still hardly believe it. The right wing of his sweep should have been the strongest point, but they had rolled it up. Now darkness was coming and they would escape his vengeance.

The plain was long and flat, but the battle was still a tiny, surging throng of dust as darkness came. In the last moments before they were lost to sight, Arik-Boke was sure he saw tumans streaming away to the north. He clenched his jaw, the heat of his body feeling like fuel for the anger within. Karakorum had few defenders, with his entire army in the field. He felt sick at the thought that his brother could take the capital in a quick strike. He had ignored Alandar’s feeble worries, convinced back then that his brother would never get in range of the capital. It should have meant nothing, but Arik-Boke wanted to roar his frustration. Whoever held Karakorum had a claim to rule. It mattered in the eyes of the princes and the small khanates.

His general had reached him, riding alongside and shouting questions into the wind. At first, Arik-Boke ignored the man, but then the darkness was on them and he was forced to rein in and slow to a canter, then a trot. Their horses snorted and breathed hard and the searing energy drained out of Arik-Boke, leaving a coldness deeper than he had ever felt before. Not till that moment had he seriously considered Kublai might beat him in battle. His mind filled with images of facing the scholar within the length of a sword. It was satisfying but empty, and he shook his head to clear it of foolishness. He rode on, into the night.

All around him, warriors coming the other way were streaming past, keeping their faces down in shame before those they knew. They were joining his tumans at the back in tens and hundreds, coming out of the blackness ahead. Arik-Boke saw one of them wheel his horse, turning to match the trotting line as he tried to come across it. The man was within a horse length of him and calling out before Arik-Boke knew it was Alandar. The khan’s knuckles were white on the reins as his orlok reached him, bringing a stench of fresh sweat and blood that hung on him like a cloak.

“My lord khan,” Alandar said.

He did not need to shout over the noise of the horses any longer. They were barely trotting by then, the black grass flowing under their hooves unseen. Arik-Boke almost called for torches, but there were still hundreds coming away from the battle and he did not know if they were all his own men. It would not do to light himself up in the line.

“Orlok, I revoke your rank. You will not lead again in my armies.” Arik-Boke tried to keep his voice calm, but the rage threatened to spill out of him. He wanted to see the man’s face, but the darkness was complete.

“Your will, my lord,” Alandar said, his voice unutterably weary.

“Will you report then? Must I drag it out of you word by word?” Arik-Boke’s voice grew louder as he spoke, until he was almost shouting. He sensed Alandar flinch from him.

“I’m sorry, my lord. They set a trap to draw off my warriors, with a second position to make me think I had spotted the ruse.” Alandar had worked it out by then, though he was still dazed after such a day and so tired he could barely speak at all. He could not be seen to praise the enemy, but there was a grudging respect in his voice as he went on. “They ambushed my forces once we had followed them into a valley. I saw some twelve tumans in all, under Kublai and Uriang-Khadai.”

“Were my orders not to wait until the main army came up to you, if you saw the enemy?” Arik-Boke asked. “Did I not consider exactly what has happened today?”

“I’m sorry, my lord. I thought I saw through their planning and could strike a blow for you. I saw the chance to break them and I took it. I was wrong, my lord khan.”

“You were wrong,” Arik-Boke echoed. It was too much to have the man yammering his apologies at him. He turned to the general on his other side.

“Oirakh, take this man’s weapons and bind him. I will deal with him when there is daylight to see.” He ignored the sounds of struggle as warriors closed on Alandar. Had he truly expected to live? The man was a fool.

As the crescent moon showed itself, casting a thin light, his tumans came to the edges of the battlefield Kublai had fled at the last. Some of the fallen men and horses were still alive, calling piteously for help to those who passed them. Arik-Boke picked his way carefully, slowing to a walk. The dead lay thick on the ground as he went on and he could hear wounded men sobbing with pain. The rage in him became a hard ball in his chest and stomach so that he could hardly straighten his back. Kublai’s orlok had done this thing.

At the center of the dead, Arik-Boke dismounted and called for lamps. The smell was appalling, and despite the darkness, flies were everywhere already, buzzing into the faces of his men so that they had to wave them away every few moments. Arik-Boke breathed deeply, closing his eyes as the lamps were lit around him and placed onto poles. They cast a golden glow, revealing staring eyes and cold flesh on all sides. Arik-Boke shuddered slightly as he turned on the spot, taking it in. His lips thinned in disgust and anger blinded him. His brother was responsible for all of it.

“Bring Alandar to me,” he said. He had not bothered to look in any particular direction, but the order was carried out quickly even so. Alandar was dragged in and thrown facedown at Arik-Boke’s feet.

“Were they heading north at the end?” Arik-Boke asked.

The man who had been his orlok struggled to his knees and nodded, keeping his head bowed as low as possible.

“I think so, my lord.”

“It will be Karakorum, then,” Arik-Boke muttered. “I can catch him yet.” He knew why Kublai wanted that city. Tens of thousands of women and children had formed their own slums on the plains around Karakorum, waiting for their men to return. Arik-Boke drew a long knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh. The torn flesh of his men lay all around him and there had to be reckoning, a price to pay for all of it. He knew then what he had to do.

Alandar had heard the knife come free and looked up in fear.

“My lord khan, I—” His voice choked off as Arik-Boke took him by the hair and cut his throat with powerful strokes, sawing into the flesh.

“That is enough from you,” Arik-Boke said into his ear. “Be silent now.”

Alandar jerked and struggled, the sharp smell of urine filling the air and steaming. Arik-Boke shoved him aside.

“Scouts! To me!” he roared into the night.

Two of the closest came in fast, leaping from their horses. They glanced at Alandar’s cooling body, then quickly away.

“You have ridden hard today,” Arik-Boke said. “But you will not rest tonight.”

The two scouts were both young men, not yet eighteen years of age. They nodded without speaking, awed at being in the presence of the khan.

“Take fresh horses and go to Karakorum. Use the yam stations for remounts.” He yanked a ring from his finger and tossed it to one of the young men. “You will have to pass my brother’s armies, so ride hard and fast. I want you to reach the city before him. Find the captain of my palace guard and tell him I said it was time. Do you understand? Those words, exactly. Repeat your orders.”

The two scouts chanted his words back at him and he nodded, satisfied. There was a price to pay for all things. By the time Kublai reached the city, he would learn the cost of his rebellion. Arik-Boke smiled at the thought. Perhaps Kublai’s men would mutiny when they realized what he had cost them. Arik-Boke might return to his city to find his brother already dead at their hands.

FORTY-TWO

THE NIGHT WAS COLD AND STILL AS KUBLAI RODE TOWARD Karakorum. He and his men shared twists of black meat as they went, passing skins of sour milk or clear airag to ease parched throats. There was no time to stop and acknowledge the victories of the day, not with Arik-Boke’s tumans so close behind. Kublai had seen his son for just a brief moment as Zhenjin rode past him on some errand for his minghaan officer. No doubt the man had suggested he ride close to the khan as he went. It was the sort of subtle gesture his men arranged and Kublai knew they were proud to have his son riding with them, with all the trust that implied. Kublai pitied the enemy who tried to take on that particular minghaan. They would slaughter anyone who came close to the khan’s heir.

Though his thoughts were sluggish, Kublai worked through plans as he rode. He had to get clear before dawn, but his men had fought or ridden all day and were drooping with tiredness. Without rest, he would be robbing them of their strength, ruining his army just as he needed them at their sharpest and best. He had already given orders to ride in pairs, with one man napping as the other took the reins, but they needed to dismount and sleep at least for a few hours.

Uriang-Khadai was perhaps the oldest man under his command, but in the weak moonlight, he looked fresh and stern as always. Kublai grinned wearily at him, trying to resist the lolling motion of his head that led to a sudden start as he found himself asleep. It was one advantage of the high-pommeled saddle, that it held a sleeping man better than some designs, but he still felt he could fall if sleep took him. He yawned hugely every few moments.

“Do we know the losses yet?” he asked, more to keep himself awake than because he truly wanted to know.

“I can’t be certain until there’s light,” Uriang-Khadai replied. “I think around two tumans, or a little more.”

“In one day?” Kublai demanded, the words bursting out of him.

Uriang-Khadai did not look away. “We killed more. They have the same bows, the same skills. The toll was always going to be high.”

Kublai grimaced, raising his gaze to the stars. The numbers were appalling, as great as all his losses against the Sung. Many of them would be alive still, cold and lonely among the dead as they waited for Arik-Boke’s warriors to find them and plunge a knife into their flesh. He shuddered at the thought of such a final vigil. After years with them in the Sung territories, each one was a loss. Arik-Boke had no concept of the sort of loyalty that had grown up with his tumans over the years. He brushed the thought away, knowing he would only become enraged afresh at his foolish brother. The depth of his anger could still surprise him, but it felt like an indulgence to give it rein.

“Four days to Karakorum,” he said aloud. “And my brother’s men will be behind us all the way.”

Uriang-Khadai did not reply and Kublai realized he had not asked the man a question. It made him smile that the older man could be so tight-lipped after everything they had endured together.

“I have one more bone to throw, Orlok. Once we reach Karakorum, we can turn to defend the city and our people. I will make Arik-Boke the enemy in the eyes of the nation. And when the battle is at its height, Bayar will hit him.” In the continuing silence, Kublai sighed. “What do you think of that?”

“I think you have ten tumans or less to your brother’s twelve and more,” Uriang-Khadai said at last. “I think we are running low on arrows and lances. I cannot plan around a reserve force that has had to ride two thousand miles or more.”

“You came back from Hulegu. Bayar will get here,” Kublai said.

“And I will be pleased to see him, but we must prepare for the worst. We need weapons.”

Kublai grunted. He should have known better than to expect encouraging words. The Chagatai khanate had provided many of the supplies for his campaign. Lord Alghu had sent the Arab boys to raise the false trail of dust that played such a part in their first battle, and the food and drink they still had came from his cities. Yet Uriang-Khadai was right, arrows and lances were their most important stock and the last of them would go in one charge.

“If you can make arrows and lances appear in the next few days, I would thank you on bended knee, Orlok. Until then, there’s no point discussing it.”

Uriang-Khadai remained silent for a long time, thinking.

“There are stocks in Karakorum, enough to fill every quiver we have,” he said at last.

Kublai held back from mocking the idea. The older man knew the chances as well as he did.

“You think we could get them?” he asked.

“No, but Arik-Boke Khan could.”

Kublai winced at the words, but he nodded. “The city knows nothing of the battles out here, not yet. I could send men in his name with orders to bring new shafts and lances out on carts. That’s good, I think. That could work.”

“With your permission, I’ll send out a few scouts with the order, ones I trust to play a part.”

“You have it,” Kublai replied. He gave silent thanks for the man at his side. In the darkness, it was somehow easier to talk to him than usual. Neither man could see the other well and Kublai considered sharing the secret he had learned years before, in the archives of Karakorum. His weariness made him slur his words, but on impulse, he decided to speak.

“I found a record of your father, once,” he said. The silence seemed to swell around them until he wondered if Uriang-Khadai had even heard him. “Are you still awake?”

“I am. I know who he was. It is not something I am used to …” Uriang-Khadai’s voice trailed off.

Kublai tried to cudgel his thoughts into order, to find the right words. He had known for years that Uriang-Khadai was Tsubodai’s son, but the knowledge had never found a moment to present itself. Hearing that his orlok already knew was oddly deflating.

“I liked him, you know. He was an extraordinary man.”

“I … have heard many tales of him, my lord. He did not know me.”

“He lived his last years as a simple herdsman, did you hear that?”

“I did.” Uriang-Khadai thought for a time and Kublai kept silent. “You grew up with Genghis as your grandfather, my lord. I suppose you know about a man’s long shadow.”

“They seem like giants,” Kublai muttered. “I know the feeling very well.” It was an insight into Uriang-Khadai that he had not expected. The man had risen through the ranks without anyone’s name to help him. For the first time, Kublai felt he understood something of what drove the man.

“He would be proud of you, I think,” Kublai said.

Uriang-Khadai chuckled in the darkness.

“And Genghis would be proud of you, my lord. Now let us leave shadows to the night. We must find a river for the horses and I will fall out of the saddle if I don’t rest soon.”

Kublai laughed, yawning again at the very idea of sleep.

“Your will, Orlok. We will make our fathers and grandfathers proud, you and I.”

“Or join them,” Uriang-Khadai replied.

“Yes, or join them, one or the other.” Kublai paused for a moment, rubbing grit from his eyes. “Arik-Boke will not stop now, not with us heading for the capital. He will push his men to complete exhaustion behind us.”

“You wanted him to be desperate, with everything he has focused on the city. If Bayar does not come …”

“He will come, Orlok.”

THE THREE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED WERE SOME OF THE STRANGEST Kublai had ever known. He had been right about Arik-Boke pushing the tumans to their limits. On the second day, the armies passed four yam stations and knew they had covered a hundred miles between dawn and dusk. Scouts milled at the edges of each force, sometimes coming to blows, or drifting into range of arrows so that they were plucked from their mounts and sent sprawling to a great cheer from the nearest warriors. At sunset on the third day, the two armies were barely ten miles apart and neither could close or widen that gap. Kublai had lost count of the changes of mount as he and Uriang-Khadai did their best to keep their animals fresh, but there was never enough time to graze and they had to leave hundreds of horses when their wind broke or they went lame. All the time, he felt his brother’s breath on his neck and he could only crane into the distance, looking for Karakorum.

Sunset was hardest on the men. Kublai could not call a halt until he was absolutely certain his brother was done for the day. With the armies in such close range, he dared not rest where Arik-Boke could spring a sudden attack. His own scouts relayed the positions back to him in chains, over and over, until finally they brought the welcome news that their pursuers had stopped. Even then, Kublai insisted on going on, forcing each precious mile in sweat and stamina. His men slept like the dead under the stars and had to be kicked awake by the changing guards through the night. Men cried out in troubled sleep, worn down by the constant threat of being pursued. It sat badly with natural hunters to be hunted, while those behind grew in confidence like a wolf pack, knowing they would run them down eventually.

Kublai had welcome news from his scouts long before the tumans under his command, but he did not pass it on, knowing they would enjoy the sight of carts laden with weapons coming from Karakorum. They were guided into his spartan camp as the sun died over the mountains on the third day, greeted with whoops and shouting from his men. One climbed each cart and began throwing full quivers and lances to outstretched hands, laughing at the thought that the city had given them such a gift in error. The men driving the carts were left untouched and they knew better than to protest as they were shouldered aside and sent back to the city. Karakorum lay barely forty miles away and Kublai knew he would reach it by noon the following day. He wished he had thought to ask for fresh skins of airag to go with the arrows and lances, but it was enough to see the glee on his men’s faces for what they had won with trickery.

Kublai felt a great tension ease in him as he settled down for sleep that night, taking a moment to thump the grass beneath him when a lump dug into his hip. His men would fight with Karakorum in sight. They would battle an enemy just as weary as they were and they would give a good account of themselves, he was certain. Even so, he feared for them all.

Twelve men fighting ten was a rough match. The two extra tumans his brother could still field were a different proposition. Twenty thousand men would be able to pour shafts into his flanks, or hammer his men in charges while they were locked in battle. Against the Sung, he would have laughed at the numbers. Facing his own people, he struggled with despair. He had done everything he could and he thought again of the last bone he had to throw when Karakorum came into view. Somewhere out beyond the hills, Bayar had to be closing on the city. His three tumans would surely be enough to turn the battle.

He was still thinking it through when sleep took him in a black wave. Kublai knew nothing else until his son was shaking him by the shoulder and pressing a package of cold meat and hard bread into his hand. It was not yet dawn, but the scouts were blowing horns to signal that Arik-Boke’s camp was getting ready to move.

Kublai sat up, cutting off a yawn as he realized it was the last day. No matter what happened, he would see an end before the rising sun fell behind the mountains. It was a strange thought, after so long.

His sleepiness vanished and he stumbled to his feet, taking a bite and wincing as it caught on a loose tooth. Karakorum had tooth-pullers, he recalled, wincing. His bladder was full and he put the bread in his mouth as he pulled back his deel robe and urinated on the ground, grunting in satisfaction.

“Stay safe today,” he said to Zhenjin, who merely grinned.

The young man had grown thin in the days of fighting and riding, his skin darker than Kublai remembered. He too was chewing on the thick bread, hard as stone and about as appetizing. The thick mutton grease was a gritty paste in his mouth and Kublai almost choked as Zhenjin handed him a small skin of water and he gulped from it.

“I mean it. If the battle goes badly, do not come for me. Ride away. I would rather see you run and live than stay and die. Is that understood?”

Zhenjin gave him his best look of sulky scorn, but he nodded. Scout horns sounded again and his rough camp jerked into faster motion as men mounted and checked their weapons for the last time. Arik-Boke’s tumans were moving.

“Quickly now. Get back to your jagun,” Kublai said gruffly.

To his surprise, Zhenjin embraced him, a brief, fierce grip before he was sprinting back to his horse.

They rode hard through the long morning, covering miles at a smooth canter or trot while the scouts kept their eyes on Arik-Boke’s forces and reported back constantly. Forty miles would have been nothing to fresh horses and men, but after days in the saddle, they were all stiff and weary. In his mind’s eye, Kublai imagined them bleeding broken horses by the mile, turning the animals loose as they limped or collapsed. The sturdy little ponies were bred to endure and they went on, just as the men who rode them went on, ignoring the aches in their backs and legs.

It was a surreal moment for Kublai when he began to recognize the hills around Karakorum. The gray-green slopes shouted to his memories. He had grown up in the city and he knew the lands around it as well as anywhere in the world. His breath caught in surprise at the power of it, when he knew they had come home. In all his planning and maneuvers, he hadn’t taken into account the strength of that small thing. He was home. The city his uncle had built lay but a few miles further on and it was time to turn and face his brother, to test the men he had taught and learned from over thousands of miles of Sung lands. He felt tears prickle his eyes and laughed at himself.

KARAKORUM HAD ORIGINALLY BEEN BUILT WITH A BOUNDARY about the height of a man. That had changed when the small city was threatened and the walls had been strengthened and raised to include watchtowers and solid gates. Kublai no longer knew how many people it held, or how many more clustered around it in the tent slums. He had walked among them more than once when he was young and the memories were both vivid and sad. His people did not do well in one place. Though they came to Karakorum for work and wealth, they had no sewers and the gers there clustered so thickly in the sun that the stench of urine and excrement could make a strong man gag. As nomads, every camp was fresh and green, but when they were trapped in poverty, they made a slum where no woman and few men dared to go out after dark.

He could see the white walls in the distance when he gave the order to halt at last. He had avoided any thoughts of the future while his brother Arik-Boke was in the field against him. It seemed too much like dangerous pride to make plans for the years to come when he could so easily be killed. Yet as he stared into the haze behind him, he thought of the wide lands in the Chin territory around Xanadu. He could find them a place there. He could allow them to stretch out and live like men instead of animals, crushed into too small a space, too small a city. His people grew sick when they could not move, and not just with the diseases that swept through the city every summer. As the sun beat down, he shuddered at the thought of some pestilence raging through Karakorum as it baked in its own filth. If he lived, he could do better, he was certain.

Uriang-Khadai was like a wasp that afternoon, riding everywhere and snapping out commands so that the tumans formed in good order. Kublai’s banners were raised far away from where he sat his horse, surrounded by bondsmen. With a wry smile, he looked across the field at the fluttering walls of yellow silk, decorated with a dragon twining on the cloth as if it were alive. The arrows would fall thickest on those men, volunteers all. They were the only ones still carrying heavy shields he had kept back, with their horses’ chests armored in fish-scale panels. Kublai himself would ride far from them in the fourth rank, invisible as he gave his orders.

Even with the losses, nine tumans and some six minghaans stood to face Arik-Boke’s army. Most of them had fought together for years, against far greater numbers. Each officer had met and drunk himself senseless with his colleagues a thousand times. They knew the men around them and they were as ready as they would ever be. The khan’s city lay at their backs and they had to win it for him. The khan himself fought in the ranks. There would be an ending on that day.

Arik-Boke still had ten miles to make up when Kublai had called the halt. It was time enough to empty bladders and take gulps of water from skins being passed down the ranks, then thrown down when they were empty. A hundred thousand bows were checked for cracks, with strings tested and discarded if they stretched or were too worn. The men rubbed grease on their sword blades to let them slip out of the scabbards easily and many of them dismounted to check their saddle cinches and reins for weak points that could snap under load. There was little laughter among them and only a few called to their friends. They had been hardened in the long ride to the city and they were ready.

Kublai kept his back sword-straight as he saw the first outriders of Arik-Boke’s tumans. They appeared far away like black flies, shifting back and forth in the heat haze. Behind the scouts came the tumans in great, dark blocks of horsemen, riding beneath a cloud of orange dust that reached above them in spiraling fingers.

He tested his sword grip again, dropping the weapon in and out of the scabbard so that it clinked. The sick feeling that made a knot in his stomach was a familiar sensation and he raised anger to sear through it. The body was afraid, but he would not let weak flesh rule him.

The sight of his brother’s army made his heart beat faster and fury surge in his blood, summoned by his will and stronger than the fear. Sweat broke out on his forehead while he sat like a statue watching them come. He could smell the horses around him, combined with the gamey stench of men who had not washed in months. His men, bound to him by oath and experience. Many of them would die that day and the debt would be Arik-Boke’s. Kublai reminded himself that he knew his brother, no matter how he had changed in the years apart. The false position with the banners had come from that knowledge.

Arik-Boke would not just want to win the battle. The losses of his orlok had humiliated him. If Kublai still knew him at all, he would be half blind in wounded pride and rage, aiming his archers at that point. The bannermen would soak up the shafts. It was not a pleasant thought as memories of their youth flashed into his mind, but Kublai would use anything, any weakness on that day. In silence, he sent a prayer of apology to his mother and father, hoping they could not see the battle he would fight that day.

Kublai looked right and left along the ranks of silent men. He wore no sign of his authority and his bondsmen were watching him with expressions of quiet pride. They were ready. He sent another prayer to the spirits of his ancestors that Bayar would come.

He saw Uriang-Khadai raise a hand and Kublai matched the gesture. It was time. He looked ahead to the vast army coming at them as his orlok gave the order. Horns began to sound across the ranks, a single, droning note that made Kublai’s hands tremble before he gripped the reins hard. A hundred thousand warriors dug in their heels and began to trot forward to meet the enemy, his younger brother.

FORTY-THREE

ARIK-BOKE CRANED FORWARD IN HIS SADDLE, PEERING THROUGH the dust to where his brother waited for him. The scouts had reported Kublai’s position long before, but he still waited for his own eyes to confirm it. Though the walls of Karakorum were painted white, he could see only a hint of paleness behind the darker lines of Kublai’s tumans, like a reflection off metal. He nodded to himself, clenching his fist on his sword hilt.

His twelve generals were riding on either side of him, already looking back to their tumans and wanting his permission to ride with their men. Arik-Boke kept silent. His orlok had failed him and he had not appointed another, just to see him fail in turn. He was khan and he would command the battle. He could sense the unease of the senior men, as if the fools thought he would keep them in line with him right up to the first shafts in the air.

His tumans had ridden fifty miles that day without stopping. They were weary, but the sight of the enemy standing to face them would cast that weariness away. Arik-Boke did not feel it himself. Anger and excitement coursed through him as the range closed to two miles, less. He could see the formations of Kublai by then, still standing as if they had grown roots waiting for him. He struggled with colossal rage at the thought of them barring the way to his own city, standing in the khan’s rightful path. His brother would answer for his arrogance, he promised himself.

His tumans matched his speed, though they were not idle. Spare horses were brought up from the rear in their thousands, pulled alongside, so that his warriors could jump across without slowing down. The ones they had ridden all morning fell back quickly without heels and whips to keep them going. Arik-Boke was close enough to see the bright yellow flags of his brother’s position, standing tall on spears like bristling spines. At such a distance, he could not make out the symbol on them, but he had his first sight of the false khan’s position. He could imagine Kublai looking out and a shudder went through him as if their gazes had locked over the empty plain.

“There is your target,” he called to his generals. “I will give a province to the man who brings me his head. Which one of you will be a khan after today?”

He saw the stunned expressions as they understood and he was satisfied. They would drive their men ruthlessly for such a reward, falling on Kublai like a mountain dropping from the blue sky. It was a good thought.

He sent them back to their tumans and felt the change in just a short time as they began to roar orders. The speed grew and all the tumans matched the racing lines, each one subtly trying to maneuver to be in the best position to hit that small group of banner flags.

Arik-Boke grinned into the breeze. The armies were less than a mile apart and he had set bloody meat before the wolves. He had more men and they fought for the great khan of the nation. To ride to such a battle was the closest thing to joy he had ever known.

THE SCOUT WAS EXHAUSTED, DROOPING IN THE SADDLE AS his horse reached the final yam station in the heart of Karakorum. It had not been an easy run to get around Kublai’s tumans. He’d had to swing wide, beyond the scout lines, and then ride on through the darkness whenever he found a path or a road. He hadn’t slept for three days, hadn’t been able to with enemy scouts checking every trail and path. He’d spent some of the previous night with a dagger cutting into his biceps, using the pain to keep him awake as he peered out from a thicket and waited for a group of warriors to move on. He scratched at the bandage as he guided his exhausted mount down the city road to the yam station. His mind was playing tricks on him, making him hear whispers and see strange colors he could not name whenever he forced his eyes open. He had no idea what had happened to his companion. Perhaps he hadn’t had luck with him and had taken an arrow as he rode.

The scout was eighteen years old and he had once thought of his strength as limitless, until the ride showed him the truth. Everything hurt and his mind felt like a solid lump in his skull, stupid and slow to react. Perhaps that was why he felt so little triumph as he almost fell from the saddle into the waiting arms of the yam riders. They did not laugh at the state and stench of him, the saddle still damp under his legs from the times he had urinated without stopping. With an army taking position outside the city, they were visibly worried. One of them took a wet cloth from a bucket and rubbed it over the scout’s face roughly, waking him up a little as well as clearing the caked dust and filth.

“No message bag,” one of them said, with a twist to his mouth. None of them expected good news from the sort of message that could not be written down. He slapped the scout lightly on the face.

“Wake up, lad. You’re here, you’ve arrived. Who were you sent to speak to?”

The scout brought his hands up irritably at the rough treatment, pushing them away as he stood on his own.

“From the khan. Captain of the Guards,” he croaked at them. One of the men handed over a skin of clean water and he gulped gratefully, spitting onto the floor to clear his gummed mouth. His words did a reasonable job of waking them all up to their usual efficiency.

“You walk him in, Lev,” the yam master said. “I’ll deal with the horse.”

The animal was blown, ruined, and in much the same state as its rider. The master took the reins with a grim expression to lead it out into the yard. He didn’t want blood on the floor inside.

“I’ll be expecting a few choice cuts for tonight,” one of the others called after him.

The yam master ignored the comment and the scout was led stumbling away with a man’s hand on his shoulder.

The yam rider knew better than anyone not to question the scout and they walked in silence through the streets toward the khan’s palace. It could be seen from a long way off, with its gold-capped tower. The scout looked up at it gratefully, hobbling along with each step sending sharp pains up his legs.

The palace gates were manned by Day Guards in polished armor. They nodded to the yam rider and looked askance at his filthy companion.

“Khan’s orders. Captain of the Guard, urgent,” the yam rider said, enjoying the chance to make them move quickly for once. One of the Guards whistled and another one inside went running off at full sprint, his boots clattering on the stone corridors so that they could hear his progress for some time.

“Any news of that army?” the Guard asked.

The scout shrugged, his voice still rough.

“They were turning to face the khan, last I saw. It’ll be over today.”

The Guard looked as if he wanted to ask more, but they could all hear the running steps returning, with another alongside. The captain had not bothered about his dignity, not with a message from the khan and a hostile army outside Karakorum. He arrived at a flat sprint, skidding to a stop and putting an arm out to the gatepost to steady himself.

“Do you need to tell me in private?” he asked, panting.

“I wasn’t told that. The khan told me to say ‘It’s time.’ ”

To the scout’s surprise, the captain paled and took a deep, slow breath as he settled himself.

“Nothing else?”

“That’s it, sir. ‘It’s time.’ ”

The captain nodded and walked away without another word, leaving four men staring after him.

“That doesn’t sound good for someone,” one of the yam men muttered.

KUBLAI SNAPPED HIS GAZE BACK AND FORTH, BETWEEN THE tumans riding toward him and his own. Both sides moved fluidly, shifting and overlapping as they came together, searching out weaknesses in the other and forcing them to react. To an outsider, it might have looked as if two great armies swept mindlessly toward each other, but the truth was a constant, darting struggle. Arik-Boke’s generals would shore up one wing and Kublai or Uriang-Khadai would react to it. They would bring a new tuman swinging over to bolster another position, drawing the enemy back into line rather than risk a massed attack on a weak part of their formations. It happened at a canter and then a gallop, with each officer seeking the slightest advantage as they came within bow range.

At three hundred paces, the first shafts were sent flying up from both sides. The maximum range and the closing speeds meant they would hit overhead in the ranks further back. Kublai saw them soaring thickly to where his bannermen rode and he roared a final order to the closest general. They had only moments to react, but they drifted left, shoring up his own ranks and weakening the false position.

It was too late for Arik-Boke to react again. Kublai and Uriang-Khadai had been reading his formations, seeing the build of strength on his left wing. It was well hidden, with thousands of men screening the main shift, but Arik-Boke had taken the bait. He would hit the false position, where he believed Kublai to be waiting for him.

Kublai barely noticed the volleys thrumming out from both sides, one every six heartbeats, launching terrible death and destruction. He had eyes only for the enemy movements. They were throwing their strength into one side to reach where they thought he was, skewing their formations to bring the maximum numbers against that point of his lines and smash through.

In the last heartbeats, arrows buzzed between the armies by the tens of thousands, crossing each other in the air. Horses and men went down hard and Kublai had to wrench his mount out of the way of one fallen rider, then kick in to make a half-stumbling leap over another. He found himself in the second rank as the lances came down on both sides. He drew his sword.

On his right, Arik-Boke’s tumans had brought lances to bear early, soaking up the arrow storm as they tried to punch right through to the yellow flags. Kublai could read his brother’s rage in their formations and he shouted without words, a roar of sound that was swallowed in the screams and crashes all around him.

A lance came at him, aimed squarely at his chest. At first it seemed to be slow, then his mind adjusted and it struck at him like a darting bird, drawn in at the speed of two horses galloping head-on. He turned the tip of it with a grunt, forcing it wide so the lancer went past him on his right. Kublai slashed across the man’s face as he went and felt a single spot of blood touch his cheek.

His own lance warriors took advantage of the weaker lines against them. Arik-Boke had committed his main strength to one wing, so that his tumans formed almost a spear on the land in the last moments. Kublai showed his teeth in the wind. He could not save the men who carried his banners, but he could hit the suddenly vulnerable flank they had helped to expose.

In just a few heartbeats, the two armies had slid past each other like dancers. It was a level of maneuver and formation only possible by the elite horsemen of the nation and yet Arik-Boke had made a mistake. As his tumans crashed deeper and deeper, throwing down lances as they broke, their flank was exposed to Kublai’s main strength. Uriang-Khadai bellowed new orders at the exact moment Kublai did, sending fresh volleys of arrows into the streaming mass as they passed, punching hundreds of men from their mounts.

It took time to turn his tumans and every moment was agony as more and more of the flank poured past him. Kublai reined in savagely, using his strength to drag the animal into a tight turn. It stumbled again on a body, but came upright, snorting in fear. He pointed his sword at the tumans of his brother and his men dug in their heels, roaring “Chuh!” to their mounts in a great burst of sound.

They struck at barely more than a canter in the space they’d had to leap forward, but Arik-Boke’s tumans were focused forward and the swordsmen cut deep into them, hacking and slashing with the huge strength of men trained to the bow.

Kublai went with them, through the first rank galloping past him, then further as the lines crumpled. His minghaans kept his attacking line wide so that no single point could get ahead of the rest and find itself flanked in turn. With men dying on all sides, his officers kept calm and gave out a stream of orders. The khan’s command had dropped to them and they were veterans, stolid and serious about their work.

Arik-Boke’s flank collapsed as Kublai’s tumans cut it to pieces. His men had bitten a huge bowl into the enemy, and despite the efforts of the minghaan officers, they were in danger of going too far into the crush. Before Kublai could give new orders, Uriang-Khadai had committed two more tumans, widening the attack and battering the flank with arrows and then a lance charge. They had the time to get up to speed and they tore into them at full gallop, lances down so that men and horses were broken and sent tumbling.

Kublai saw his yellow banners fall out of the corner of his eye. A great roar went up from Arik-Boke’s tumans at the sight and they began to fight back with renewed ferocity. The single-minded drive that had ruined their formations for a single objective was gone. He felt the difference in moments as they pulled back from his men and began to re-form. He cursed. The arrows were still flying and he knew he would be the target if he gave the order.

Two of Arik-Boke’s tumans had swung out from the battle to reach a good position. As Kublai watched, they drove back in, sending arrows before them, then shoving the bows into the saddle hooks and drawing swords. They believed Kublai was already dead and it gave them heart to keep fighting. He grimaced to himself, then nodded, turning to his bondsmen.

“Raise them up,” he shouted. “Let them see how we fooled them.”

They grinned wildly as they unrolled great yellow streamers, sliding metal rings over the tips of banner poles with practiced efficiency.

With a nod to each other, six of them raised the poles at the same time, sending Kublai’s banners fluttering in the wind.

His tumans raised their swords and bows as they saw it, roaring at the top of their lungs. The crash of sound seemed to send Arik-Boke’s tumans reeling back, but the reality was that Kublai’s men surged forward. Nothing pleased the Mongols more than a good trick on the field of battle. Not only was Kublai alive, but Arik-Boke had wasted the lives of many thousands to tear down a false position. For a short time, Kublai’s warriors laughed as they bent their bows and struck with swords, then the momentary giddiness dissolved and they were back to the grim-faced killing men of the tumans.

Over thousands of heads, Kublai could see his brother’s banners, half a mile distant. He had ignored the position, with no desire to see his brother dead. He wanted him alive if possible, though if the sky father took him with a shaft or a blow, he would not regret the loss. His own bondsmen pressed close around him as those of Arik-Boke’s archers in range sent looping shots high, hoping for a lucky strike. Kublai set his jaw as the air above him filled with whining shafts. He wished for a shield then, but he had not been able to carry one and maintain the deception. One of his bannermen was plucked away with a grunt and another man caught the falling banner as it was jolted out of his hand. Kublai made a growling sound as he saw he would have to pull back. The charge against the exposed flank had carried his rank deep into the enemy and he was exposed to the counterattack that would surely come now that his brother realized his true position.

For a frozen instant of time, Kublai searched the horizon for some sign of Bayar’s tumans. His men had fought well and his officers had shown themselves as an elite. Perhaps four of his brother’s tumans had been slaughtered for the loss of half that number, but the battle was far from over and Kublai was in desperate danger.

Even as he formed the thought, Uriang-Khadai brought tumans across him, forcing the enemy back and allowing him time to get clear.

Kublai shouted to his men to find him a position out of the front ranks and they began to drift through the warriors. They cheered him as he went, still delighted at the deception that had allowed them to humiliate Arik-Boke. Men he knew from years among the Sung raised their swords in salute as he passed them, then pressed on with their tumans.

The battlefield had spread almost a mile from the original site, as the tumans shifted and struck, pulled back and charged again. As Arik-Boke’s men pressed on in rage, Uriang-Khadai pulled four tumans out, leaving a sudden space. The enemy warriors rushed in after them, lost in the need to cut down the jeering horsemen, still hooting and calling to them as they went.

Uriang-Khadai made them run into fresh volleys of arrows from a halted line, emptying quivers by the ten thousand shafts. The broken lines they faced were torn apart, building lines of the dead. Their own archers replied without the massed force of a volley and were quickly cut from their saddles. Uriang-Khadai raised and dropped his arm to signal the shots, then rotated the front ranks to allow those who still had shafts to race forward. In the heart of the battle, the perfection of the maneuver broke the center of Arik-Boke’s forces. Those who survived it pulled back from their mad rush and formed up around their khan, ready to be sent in again.

Kublai had moved back three hundred paces, frustrating the enemy archers who sought him out. From that position, he saw Uriang-Khadai take over and heard the beat of volleys snap once more. He turned his head to see a huge block of fresh warriors detach from his brother’s position and come swinging out. They rode around the wavering center and Kublai swallowed hard when he saw Uriang-Khadai could be hit from the flank and rear in turn. He looked around for the forces available to him, sending runners to his generals as fast as he could speak and shove them away.

Once again, he looked for Bayar on the horizon. Ever since his return from the Sung, he had dreaded the thought of a battle so closely fought that the armies of the nation destroyed themselves. He had already lost count of the dead, and if it went on, the empire of Genghis would be defenseless, with wolves all around them. He needed the men his warriors were killing. He needed them all. He looked for Bayar and sat frozen, his right hand clenching tight on the sword hilt. Tumans had appeared in the distance, dark lines of racing horsemen.

Kublai felt his initial surge of excitement fade as he saw the number of them. Too many. He breathed harder, feeling fear sink its teeth into him once again. Too many! He had sent only three tumans to Russia with Bayar. The army galloping toward him was far larger.

Kublai closed his eyes and bowed his head, breathing so hard and fast he felt his blood heat soar and his face grow flushed with every beat of his heart. He could surrender, or he could fight to the last man, the worst of all decisions. He wiped blood from his cheek in a spasm of anger, but Arik-Boke’s men were shouting and the formations were moving again, as if to counter a new threat. Kublai’s head jerked up, his breath held in his throat.

Not a reserve, then! Arik-Boke was already shifting his banners around, moving them away under a shield of tumans. Kublai felt dizzy and ill as his pounding pulse dwindled in his ears. He had known the agony of defeat, accepted it. He was not certain what he would have done, even then, but as the men around him shouted and cheered, he bawled with them, waving his sword to the tumans coming in at full speed.

“Lay down your swords!” Kublai shouted to the enemy.

His generals took up the cry, then his minghaan officers, then the men who ran each jagun of a hundred. In moments, thousands of voices were yelling the order at Arik-Boke’s men and all the time, seven tumans were galloping closer, fresh and deadly with full quivers and unbroken lances. Kublai repeated his order and his tumans repeated it like a chant. Uriang-Khadai pulled them back further, opening a new space between the armies. No one raced to close the gap and the tumans of Arik-Boke sat their mounts in stunned silence, watching seventy thousand men riding hard at them.

Kublai didn’t see the first of Arik-Boke’s men to throw his sword to the ground, followed by the empty quiver from his back. The officer was a senior minghaan and his thousand copied the gesture. Many of them dismounted and stood by their horses, their chests heaving. It spread through Arik-Boke’s tumans, one after the other, beginning with those furthest away from their khan. By the time Kublai could read the banners of Bayar and Batu Khan with him, only a single tuman with Arik-Boke remained armed and ready, surrounded by their own men calling on them to surrender.

Arik-Boke’s last tuman waited in grim silence as Uriang-Khadai gathered his tumans in silent ranks and Bayar and Batu Khan came into range with bows ready.

Under that threat, with a fresh army against them, the last tuman threw down their swords and walked away from the small knot of bannermen with Arik-Boke. He roared at their backs in furious anger, but they ignored him.

Kublai rode with the feeling that he had never been in more danger that day. He did not have to order his generals to form up around him. A single arrow could take his life and then Arik-Boke might yet rally his tumans again. He did not doubt his brother would fight to the end and leave the nation weak and wounded. He nudged his horse forward across the battlefield, not looking left or right as his men shouldered aside warriors they had been trying to kill just before.

It seemed to take an age before he found Arik-Boke. His brother looked older, Kublai saw, his ruined nose bright red with emotion. He still carried a drawn sword in his hand and Kublai murmured a command to those at his back. They bent their bows with an audible creak, a dozen shafts focused on one man who stared balefully at Kublai.

“Surrender, brother,” Kublai called to him. “It’s finished now.”

There was a bright gleam in Arik-Boke’s eyes as he glared around at his men. His face was well made for the contempt he showed them and he leaned over to hawk and spit on the ground. For an instant, Kublai thought he would kick his horse forward at him and die, but his brother shook his head as if he could hear the thought. Slowly, he opened his hand and let the wolf’s-head sword fall onto the grass.

FORTY-FOUR

KUBLAI STOOD ALONE IN THE THRONE ROOM OF THE PALACE in Karakorum, looking out of the open window over the roofs of the city below. He hadn’t noticed the grime and odor he carried with him before entering the palace. The clean rooms with the polished stone floors made him feel oddly out of place, like an ape in a garden. He smiled at the thought, imagining how he must look. The armor he wore was a far cry from the scholar’s robe he had worn for much of his youth. Palms that had once been ink-stained were ridged with sword callus. He held up his right hand with a wry expression, seeing the pale scars on the skin. The grime that had worked its way into every seam and crevice of his fingernails was a mixture of blood, earth, and oil.

He had not seen the city of his youth for many years, and from the first steps through the gate he had been struck by both the familiarity and the differences. The short ride through the streets to reach the palace had been a surreal experience. In his years away, he had entered many Sung cities, too many to count or remember. Karakorum had once seemed large and open to him, a place of wide streets and strong houses. To the man who came home, it was somehow small and shabby. None of the people within the walls had ever seen the delicate gardens and streams of a Sung city, or the vast hunting parks that were being shaped in Xanadu. Even the palace library where he had spent countless hours had shrunk in his absence, once golden treasures failing to live up to his memories. Walking alone through the palace corridors, he had visited many of the places of his youth. In the room where he had once slept, he found the spot where he had carved his name in oak. Standing there, he had lost himself in reverie for a time, tracing the primitive lettering.

Even the palace gardens were different, with shaded rows of trees grown huge. They changed the views and altered the sense of the garden, spreading patterns of shadows so that nothing looked the same. He had sat for a time at the bench and pergola built after Ogedai’s death. There had been peace there, as the pale blossoms of a cherry tree stirred in the wind around him. The war was over. He had realized it truly as he sat there in the silence. All he had to do was rule.

The knowledge should have filled him with joy, but he could not shake the feeling of disappointment that weighed on him, as if all his years at war had won him only echoes of memories. He tried to dismiss the sensation as nostalgia, but the reality hung in the thick summer air, already sweet with the smoldering herbs that were said to ward off disease.

With an effort, he turned away from the window looking out over the streets below. If Karakorum was flawed, it was still the first city of his people, the boundary marker that Ogedai Khan had built to take them from nomadic tribes to a settled nation. It had been a grand dream, but he would do better in Xanadu. He would do better as emperor of China, with all the wealth of those vast lands at his disposal. Kublai realized he would have to appoint a governor for Karakorum, someone he could trust to make the city bright and clean again. Uriang-Khadai sprang to his mind and he considered the idea carefully, finally nodding to himself.

The place Kublai thought of as home had become a city of strangers. His place was in Xanadu, a bridge between the lands of the Chin and the Mongol homeland, exactly as he had planned it. From there, he would send out the tumans to dominate the Sung for all time. He clenched his fist as he stood in the silence. They had almost fallen to a Mongol general. They would fall to the great khan.

He heard footsteps approaching the polished copper doors that closed off the room from the rest of the palace. Kublai gathered his will once again, ignoring the weariness that made his legs and arms feel leaden. He had ridden and fought all day. He stank of horses and blood and the summer sun was setting at last, but there was still one thing he had to do before he could bathe, eat, and sleep.

There were no servants there to answer the fist thumping on the outer door. No doubt they had all vanished as the conqueror came into the city, expecting slaughter and destruction. As if he would harm a single one of his people, the nation of his birth. He crossed the room swiftly and heaved open the copper doors. He was not aware of how his right hand dropped to his sword hilt, an action that had become part of him.

Uriang-Khadai and Bayar stood there, with his brother between them. Their expressions were grim and Kublai did not speak, gesturing for them to enter. Arik-Boke was forced to shuffle forward, his feet tied so he could take only the smallest of steps. He almost fell and General Bayar gripped him by the shoulder to keep him upright.

“Wait outside,” Kublai said softly to the two men.

They bowed briefly without protest, sheathing their swords as they went. Uriang-Khadai pulled the doors shut and Kublai watched the gap close on the orlok’s cold eyes.

He was alone with his brother, for the first time in many years. Arik-Boke stood with his arms behind his back, straight and strong as he looked around the room. The only sound was the hissing wheeze from the old scar across his nose. Kublai looked for some sign of the boy he had known, but the face had coarsened, grown heavy and hard, as Arik-Boke’s eyes glittered under the inspection.

It was difficult not to think of the last time they had met in that place, with Mongke full of life and plans and the world before them. Much had changed since then and Kublai’s heart broke to think of it.

“So tell me, brother,” he said, “now that the war is over, were you in the right, or was I?”

Arik-Boke turned his head slowly, his face growing mottled as he flushed in slow anger.

“I was in the right …” he said, his voice grating, “but now you are.”

Kublai shook his head. To his brother, there was no morality beyond the right of strength. Somehow the words and everything they revealed infuriated him. He had to struggle to find calm once again. He saw some gleam of triumph still in Arik-Boke’s eyes.

“You gave an order, brother,” Kublai said. “To butcher the women and children of my men in the camps around the city.”

Arik-Boke shrugged. “There is a price for all things,” he said. “Should I have allowed you to destroy my tumans without an answer? I am the khan of the nation, Kublai. If you take my place, you will know hard decisions in turn.”

“I do not think it was a hard decision for you,” Kublai said quietly. “Do you still think it was carried out? Do you believe the captain of the Guard would murder defenseless women while their children hung around their legs?”

Arik-Boke’s contemptuous expression faded as he understood. His shoulders dipped slightly and some of the spite and anger seeped out of him, making him look worn and tired.

“I trusted the wrong man, it seems.”

“No, brother. You were the wrong man. Even so, it is hard for me to see you like this. I wish it could have gone another way.”

“You are not the khan!” Arik-Boke snapped. “Call yourself whatever you want, but you and I know the truth of it. You have your victory, Kublai. Now tell me what you intend and don’t waste my time lecturing me. From you, scholar, I have nothing to learn. Just remember that our mother held this city and our father gave his life for the nation. They are watching you as you put on your false expression of regret. No one else knows you the way I do, so don’t preach to me. You would have done the same in my place.”

“You’re wrong, brother, but it doesn’t matter now,” Kublai replied. He walked to the copper doors and thumped on them with his fist. “I have an empire to rule, one that has grown weak under your hand. I will not fail in strength or will. Take solace in that, Arik-Boke, if you care about the nation at all. I will be a good master for our people.”

“And bring me out each month to parade me in my defeat?” Arik-Boke said, his face flushing once again. “Or shall I be exiled for you to show the peasants your famous mercy? I know you, brother. I looked up to you once, but no longer. You are a weak man and for all your fine talk, for all your scholarship, you will fail in everything you do.”

In the face of his brother’s spite, Kublai closed his eyes for a moment, making the decision with a wrench that felt like ripping the scab from a wound. Family was a strange thing and even as he felt Arik-Boke’s hatred battering at him, he still remembered the young boy who had swum in a waterfall and looked at him in simple adoration. They had laughed together a thousand times, grown drunk and shared precious memories of their parents. Kublai felt his throat grow thick with grief.

Uriang-Khadai and Bayar entered the room once more.

“Take him outside, General,” Kublai said. “Orlok, stay for a moment.”

Bayar took his brother into the corridor, the shuffling steps somehow pitiful.

Kublai faced Uriang-Khadai and took a deep, slow breath before he spoke.

“If he hadn’t ordered the death of the families, I could spare him,” Kublai said.

Uriang-Khadai nodded, his eyes dark pools. His own wife and children had been in the city, at his home.

“The tumans expect me to have him killed, Orlok. They are waiting for the word.”

“But it is your decision, my lord. In the end, it is your choice.”

Kublai looked away from the older man. There would be no comfort from him, no attempt to make it easier. Uriang-Khadai had never offered him the weak way and he respected him for it, as much as it hurt. Kublai nodded.

“Yes. Not public, Uriang-Khadai. Not for my brother. Put aside your anger if you honor me and make his death quick and clean, as much as it can be.” His voice grew rough as he spoke the last words.

“And the body, my lord?”

“He was khan, Orlok. Give him a funeral pyre to light up the sky. Let the nation mourn his passing if they will. None of that matters. He is my brother, Uriang-Khadai. Just … make it quick.”

THE SUMMER SUN WAS WARM ON THE BACK OF HIS NECK AS Kublai sat in the gardens of the palace, his son, Zhenjin, beside him. In the distance, a black plume of smoke rose into the sky, but Kublai had not wanted to stand and watch his brother’s funeral. Instead, he rested with closed eyes, taking simple pleasure in his son’s company.

“I will be going on to Xanadu in a few days,” Kublai said. “You’ll see your mother again there.”

“I’m glad I had the chance to see this city first,” Zhenjin replied. “It is so full of history.”

Kublai smiled. “It isn’t history to me, boy. It’s my family and I miss them all. I rode with Genghis when I was younger than you, barely able to stay on a saddle.”

“What was he like?” Zhenjin asked.

Kublai opened his eyes to find his son watching him.

“He was a man who loved his children and his people, Zhenjin. He took the Chin foot off the throat of the nation and made us look up from the struggles of tribes. He changed the world.”

Zhenjin looked down, playing with a cherry twig in his hands, bending it this way and that.

“I would like to change the world,” he said.

Kublai smiled, with just an edge of sadness in his eyes.

“You will, my son, you will. But no one can change it forever.”

HISTORICAL NOTE

THERE ARE FEW SURVIVING DETAILS OF GUYUK’S KHANATE. IT IS true that he brought an army to attack Batu in his own lands, after Batu failed to give his oath at a quiriltai, or gathering. We know that Batu was warned by Sorhatani and then Guyuk died in a manner unknown, with the armies in sight of each other. People do just die at times, obviously, but as with the death of Genghis’s son Jochi, some endings are a little too fortuitous to believe the official record. I should add that there is no evidence that Guyuk was homosexual. I needed to explain how he fell out with Batu on the return from Russia—a detail missing from the historical record. As he was khan for only two years and died conveniently early, I was thinking of him as a character similar to England’s Edward II, who was homosexual. The development came naturally. Guyuk achieved nothing of note.

Guyuk’s death cleared the way for Mongke to become khan, beginning a conflict within the Mongol nation as the forces of modernization, as represented by Chin influence, struggled against traditional Mongol culture and outlook. Mongke was supported by Batu, who owed Sorhatani his life.

Mongke was about thirty-six when he became khan, strong and fit, with good years ahead of him. It is true that he began his reign with a gathering at Avraga, then a slaughter of the opposition as he cleared house, including Guyuk’s wife, Oghul Khaimish. She was accused of sorcery.

Mongke began his khanate with a push outward, reestablishing the Mongol war machine in all directions. He ruled from 1251 to 1259, eight years of expansion and slaughter. His brother Hulegu went west to crush the Islamic world, while at Mongke’s order, Kublai was sent east and south into Sung China. Their mother, Sorhatani, died in 1252, more than seventy years old. In her life, she had ruled Mongolia in her own right and seen her eldest son become khan. A Nestorian Christian herself, she had her sons taught Buddhism and established mosques and madrasa schools in Islamic regions. For the breadth of her imagination and reach, she was simply the most extraordinary woman of her era. It is a pleasure of historical fiction that I sometimes come across people who deserve books all to themselves—Julius Caesar’s uncle Marius was one. Sorhatani is another. I have almost certainly not done justice to her.

If it had not actually happened, a fictional account of Kublai’s attack on Sung lands would be ludicrous. He had no experience in battle and had lived a mostly scholarly life. At that time, just one city in Sung territory held more people than the entire Mongol nation. It was, to put it lightly, an immense task, even for a grandson of Genghis. As a side note, homemade sheepskin rafts of the sort I have described were used by Kublai and are still used today to cross rivers in China.

Mongke did give Kublai experienced generals. For plot reasons in previous books, I wrote Tsubodai as childless. In fact, Uriang-Khadai was Tsubodai’s son and a renowned general in his own right. Mongke gave Kublai the best for his first campaign, as well as a minor first objective that he could accomplish with ease. There again, Genghis showed the way. As Genghis had attacked the Xi Xia kingdom first, to establish a back door into Chin territory, Mongke saw the Yunnan region with its single city of Ta-li as the way into the Sung. Kublai’s army would have been outnumbered, but that would not have been too worrying. They were always outnumbered. It is interesting to note that the popular idea of a Mongol horde overwhelming smaller armies is almost completely false.

Mongke offered Kublai a choice of two vast estates in China. In the history, Kublai had time to ask Yao Shu for advice and the old man recommended Ching-chao in the north as it had rich soil. In time, Kublai would establish thousands of farms there that produced a vast fortune and led to trouble with his brother over his income. It was on those lands that he began his “Upper Capital,” known as Shang-du, or in the more common English form, Xanadu. It may not have had a “pleasure dome,” as in the poem by Samuel Coleridge, but it did have an immense deer park within its walls, where Kublai could hunt.

The Assassin fortress in Alamut came under attack by Hulegu’s forces around 1256. The head of the Muslim sect that held the fortress of Alamut was, in fact, Ala Ad-Din. I avoided his true name because of the similarity to “Aladdin” and because I’d used one too similar in a previous book. Here I have used Suleiman. The Ismaili Shia Moslem Assassins were extremely powerful in the region at this time, with at least four major fortresses, though Alamut was the strongest, an impregnable eyrie in the mountains south of the Caspian Sea. Interestingly, the story line around Hasan and the leader comes from the record of the Mongols written by Ata al-Mulk Juvaini, a Persian writer and historian who accompanied Hulegu both to Alamut and Baghdad, later becoming governor of that defeated city. We do not know it was Hasan who murdered his master, but he seems the most likely candidate. Hasan had been tortured over years for amusement, even to the point of being abused with his wife in the bedchamber. It is one of those interesting events in history that the leader of the Assassins was killed at exactly the wrong moment, making Hulegu’s task simple. The Assassins were compelled to surrender and their new leader, Rukn-al-Din, was kicked to death on Hulegu’s orders—a great honor from the Mongol point of view as it did not shed blood and therefore recognized his status as leader of the sect.

THE FALL OF BAGHDAD TO HULEGU IS ONE OF THE MOST shocking slaughters ever to occur in the line of Genghis. Hulegu did insist on disarming the city, then went on to butcher at least eight hundred thousand of the one million population. The Tigris is said to have run red with the blood of scholars. The caliph was allowed to choose one hundred of his seven hundred harem women to save, then Hulegu had him killed and the women were added to Hulegu’s gers.

I have tried to contrast Hulegu with Kublai, as they had such differing styles. In many ways, Hulegu struggled to be like Mongke and Genghis, while Kublai became as Chinese as the most tradition-bound Chin lord—and greater. Baghdad was ransacked and looted, as Hulegu seems to have had a greed for gold that Genghis would never have understood. In comparison, it is true that Kublai spared cities if they surrendered, making it a central part of his style. He forbade his men indiscriminate killing of the Chin and Sung, on pain of their own execution if they disobeyed him. His character must be set against the traditional ruthlessness of his culture to understand what an unusual man he was. He was certainly influenced in that by Yao Shu, a man still revered in China for his Buddhist principles and the lives he saved.

Mongke still felt the need to join the Sung attack on a different front in the end. One source puts the size of the army he brought into Sung lands as sixty tumans—a true horde of six hundred thousand men, though a smaller figure is much more likely. Enemies of the khans always had trouble estimating Mongol army sizes because of the vast herd of remounts they kept with them. We do not know if Kublai had stalled, or whether Mongke had always agreed with his brother that a two-pronged attack would be necessary to unite the Chinese empires.

The manner of Mongke’s death en route to Sung China is disputed. It was either an arrow wound that became infected, or dysentery, or cholera: such a wide range of possibilities that it allowed me to work with the idea that Hulegu’s attack on the Assassins could well have earned their final vengeance. Kublai knew he had to pull back when the news reached him of the death of Mongke. It was an established tradition, and even Tsubodai’s conquest of western Europe had been abandoned on the death of Ogedai. The Sung generals would have heard almost as soon as Kublai himself and their relief can only be imagined. Yet Kublai refused to leave China. He had already begun to divorce himself from the politics of home. China was his khanate, his empire, even then.

Mongke’s army had no such reluctance and immediately abandoned their progress south in Sung lands. When Hulegu heard the news, he too returned from the Middle East, loyal to the end. He left only some twenty thousand men under General Kitbuqa (who did indeed insist on holding Christian Mass in conquered mosques). Without the other tumans in support, they were destroyed by resurgent Moslem forces, using, of all tactics, the feigned retreat so beloved by Mongol armies. However, Hulegu had won his own khanate, which eventually became modern-day Iran. Only Kublai ignored the call.

At home in Karakorum, Arik-Boke made a decision that would affect all the generations of his family to come. He had ruled the capital in Mongke’s absence and was already established as the khan of the homeland. With the return of Mongke’s army, he convinced himself there was no better candidate and declared himself great khan. The youngest son of Sorhatani and Tolui had come to rule.

In the same year, 1260, his brother Kublai declared himself khan while standing on foreign soil. Kublai could not have known that he was sowing the seeds of a civil war between brothers that would bring the empire of Genghis to its knees.

I HAVE ALTERED THE ORDER OF SUNG EMPERORS RATHER than omit scenes with the boy emperor, Huaizong, who ruled slightly later in the period. Emperor Lizong had reigned for some forty years when he finally died childless in 1264. He was succeeded by his nephew, Emperor Duzong, a man of immense appetites. He lasted only ten years until 1274 and was succeeded by his eight-year-old younger brother, who in turn would survive only four years and see Kublai’s triumph over his house.

On the subject of numbers: fourteen is extremely unlucky in Chinese culture, as the sound is similar to the words for “want to die” in both Cantonese and Mandarin. Nine, as the greatest single integer, is one of the luckiest numbers and is associated with the emperor.

BY THIS TIME, THERE WERE SIMPLY TOO MANY PRINCES TO include them all. Lord Alghu was son to Baidur, grandson to Chagatai, great-grandson to Genghis. He ruled the Chagatai khanate and initially supported Arik-Boke in the civil war before turning against him. It is true that he was the first of his line to convert to Islam, a fairly sound tactical move given the people he ruled in the khanate around Samarkand and Bukhara, in modern-day Uzbekistan. A century after these events, Samarkand would become the capital of the conqueror Tamerlane.

THE ANSWER ARIK-BOKE GAVE TO HIS BROTHER, “I WAS IN the right but now you are,” is part of the historical record and fascinating for what it reveals of the man. Like Guyuk Khan before him, Arik-Boke’s death remains one of those oddly convenient occurrences in history. He was in the prime of his life, healthy and strong, yet shortly after losing to Kublai, he dies. It is not difficult to suspect foul play.

WHEN I BEGAN THIS SERIES, I INTENDED TO WRITE ALL OF Kublai Khan’s life. The most famous events—meeting Marco Polo, both attacks on Japan—seemed like vital parts of the story. Yet it is a truth of historical fiction that all the characters are long dead; all the lives and stories have ended, and usually not well. Very few lives finish in glory and I have already written the deaths of Julius Caesar and Genghis Khan. For once, I thought I might finish a series with a character still alive and with all his dreams and hopes still to come. I might know that Kublai’s wife and son died before him, leaving him a broken man given to drinking and eating far too much, but at this point in his life, he does not—and that is how I wanted to leave him.

There will always be loose ends with such a decision. Kublai defeated the Sung at last and established the Yuan dynasty of a united China, a name still used for the currency today. His descendants ruled for almost a hundred years before fading into history, though the bloodline of Genghis ruled other khanates for far longer.

This story began with a single, starving family, hunted and alone on the plains of Mongolia—and ends with Kublai Khan ruling an empire larger than that of Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar. Over just three generations, that is simply the greatest rags-to-riches tale in human history.

Conn Iggulden

London, 2011

GLOSSARY OF TERMS

airag/black airag—clear alcohol, distilled from mare’s milk.

arban—small raiding group, usually ten men.

bondsmen—warriors sworn to personal service, guards to a khan.

Chuh!—phonetic representation of the Mongol horse command for speed.

deel—lightly padded full-length robe with wide sleeves, tied at the waist.

earth mother—earth spirit, partner to the sky father.

gers—circular homes of felt and wicker lattice, sometimes mistakenly called yurts.

guest rights—the offer of temporary protection or truce while in a man’s home.

gur-khan/great khan—khan of khans, leader of the nation.

jagun—military unit of a hundred men.

khan—tribal leader; no “k” sound in Mongolian, so pronounced: “Haan.”

minghaan—military unit of a thousand.

Nokhoi Khor!—pronounced: “Ner-hoy, Hor.” Literally: “Hold the Dog!”—a greeting when approaching strangers.

orlok—overall commander of a Mongol army.

quiriltai—a gathering of princes for the purpose of electing a new khan.

shaman—medicine man in a tribe, both a healer and one who communes with spirits.

sky father—sometimes called Tëngri; Mongol deity, partner to the earth mother.

tuman—unit of ten thousand.

yam stations—stops for fast scouts to change horses, twenty-five miles apart.

INDEX OF CHARACTERS

Ala-ud-Din Mohammed

Shah of Khwarezm. Died exhausted on an island in the Caspian Sea.

Alkhun

Senior officer of the khan’s guards in Karakorum.

Arik-Boke

Fourth and youngest son of Sorhatani and Tolui. Grandson of Genghis Khan.

Arslan

Master swordsmith who was once armorer to the Naiman tribe. Father to Jelme. Died of disease in Samarkand.

Baabgai

The bear. A Chin recruit who becomes a successful wrestler.

Baidur

Son of Chagatai. Rules his father’s khanate around modern-day Afghanistan.

Barchuk

Khan of the Uighurs.

Basan

Wolf tribe. Bondsman of Yesugei in Birth of an Empire.

Batu

Son to Jochi and grandson to Genghis Khan. Leads a tuman with Tsubodai and becomes a lord with vast lands in Russia.

Bayar

General to Kublai.

Bekter

Oldest son of Yesugei and Hoelun. Murdered by his brothers.

Bela IV

King of Hungary at the time Tsubodai’s tumans attacked.

Borte

Olkhun’ut tribe. Daughter to Sholoi and Shria. Becomes wife to Temujin/Genghis and has four sons: Jochi, Chagatai, Ogedai, and Tolui.

Chagatai

Old storyteller in Wolf tribe.

Chagatai

Same name as storyteller. Second son of Genghis and Borte. Father to Baidur.

Chakahai

Daughter to Rai Chiang of the Xi Xia. A princess given as tribute. Second wife to Genghis.

Chen Yi

Criminal gang leader in Chin city of Baotou.

Chulgetei

General of a tuman under Tsubodai.

Eeluk

Bondsman to Yesugei Khan. Becomes khan of the Wolves on Yesugei’s death.

Enq

Olkhun’ut tribe. Father to Koke. Brother to Hoelun. Uncle to Temujin/Genghis and his siblings.

Genghis Khan (see also Temujin)

First khan of the Mongol nation. Husband to Borte. Father to Jochi, Chagatai, Ogedai, and Tolui. Dies in Bones of the Hills.

Guyuk

Son of Ogedai Khan and Torogene.

Hasan

Brutalized servant in Assassin fortress of Alamut.

Hoel’un

Wife of Yesugei. Mother to Bekter, Temujin, Kachiun, Khasar, Temuge, and Temulun.

Ho Sa

Officer of the Xi Xia. Becomes envoy and officer under Genghis. Dies in Bones of the Hills.

Hulegu

Third son of Sorhatani and Tolui. Grandson of Genghis Khan.

Ilugei

General of a tuman under Tsubodai.

Inalchuk

Governor of the city of Otrar. Dies when Genghis pours molten silver into his mouth.

Jebe (originally Zurgadai)

Chosen successor to Arslan. Becomes one of Genghis’s most trusted and able generals. Leader of “Bearskin” tuman. Friend to Jochi, Genghis’s son.

Jelaudin

Son and heir to Shah Ala-ud-Din Mohammed.

Jelme

Son of Arslan. Later becomes one of Genghis’s most trusted generals.

Jochi

First son of Genghis and Borte. Some doubt over paternity. Becomes general to “Iron Wolf” tuman. Only general ever to rebel against Genghis. Killed in Bones of the Hills.

Kachiun

Fourth son of Yesugei and Hoelun. Becomes a general under Genghis.

Khalifa al-Nayan

Leader of elite Arab cavalry for Shah Mohammed.

Khasar

Third son of Yesugei and Hoelun. Becomes a general under Genghis.

Kokchu

Shaman to the Naiman Khan and later to Genghis. Killed in Bones of the Hills.

Koke

Olkhun’ut tribe. Nephew of Hoelun. Cousin to Temujin and his siblings.

Köten

Leader of the Cumans, a refugee people who fled into Hungary and converted to Christianity.

Kublai

Second son of Sorhatani and Tolui. Grandson of Genghis Khan.

Josef Landau

Master of the Livonian Brothers, an order of European knights.

Lian

Master mason and engineer from Baotou who makes siege machines for Genghis.

Mohrol

Shaman to Ogedai Khan.

Mongke

Oldest son of Tolui and Sorhatani.

Ogedai

Third son of Genghis and Borte. Husband to Torogene, father to Guyuk.

Oghul Khaimish

Wife to Guyuk Khan. Killed in purges by Mongke Khan.

Old Man of the Mountains

Traditional title for the leader of the Assassin sect. Father to Suleiman, who inherits his position.

Rai Chiang

Ruler of autonomous Xi Xia kingdom in northern China.

Rukn-al-Din

Son of Suleiman. Briefly inherits Alamut.

Samuka

Second in command to Ho Sa in his tuman. Dies in Bones of the Hills.

Sansar

Khan of the Olkhun’ut tribe. Killed by Genghis in Birth of an Empire.

Sholoi

Olkhun’ut tribe. Father of Borte. Husband to Shria.

Shria

Olkhun’ut tribe. Mother to Borte. Wife of Sholoi.

Sorhatani

Wife to Tolui, the youngest son of Genghis. Mother to Mongke, Kublai, Hulegu, and Arik-Boke. At one point, she was ruler of the ancestral homeland and coruler of the capital city. Three of her four sons become khan.

Temuge

Youngest son of Yesugei and Hoelun, brother to Genghis. Shaman and administrator.

Temujin (also Genghis)

The first great khan, or gur-khan. Second son of Yesugei and Hoelun.

Temulun

Only daughter of Yesugei and Hoelun. Marries Palchuk. Murdered by Kokchu in Bones of the Hills.

Togrul

Khan of the Kerait tribe. Dies in Birth of an Empire.

Tolui

Wolf tribe bondsman.

Tolui

Same name. The fourth son of Genghis and Borte. Husband of Sorhatani and father to Mongke, Kublai, Hulegu, and Arik-Boke.

Torogene

Wife of Ogedai, mother to Guyuk. Rules Mongol nation as regent.

Tsubodai

Originally Uriankhai tribe. Becomes Genghis’s greatest general and orlok—leader of his armies.

Uriang-Khadai

Orlok to Kublai.

Conrad von Thuringen

Grand master of the Teutonic Knights.

Wei

Emperor of the Chin. Father to Xuan, Son of Heaven.

Wen Chao

Ambassador of the Chin court, sent into Mongol lands.

Xuan, Son of Heaven

Emperor of the Chin after the death of Emperor Wei.

Yao Shu

Buddhist monk brought back from China by Khasar and Temuge. Becomes chancellor to the khans.

Yaroslav

Grand Duke in Moscow at the time of Tsubodai’s attack.

Yesugei

Khan of the Wolves. Husband to Hoelun. Father to Temujin, Kachiun, Khasar, Temuge, and Temulun.

Yuan

Master swordsman and guard to Wen Chao, a Chin diplomat in Mongol lands.

Zhi Zhong

General of Chin emperor Wei’s armies. Becomes regent to Xuan after murdering his master.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Without the sterling efforts of a number of skillful and dedicated people, these books would probably never see the light of day. In particular, I must thank Katie Espiner for editing a monster, as well as Kiera Godfrey, Tim Waller, and Victoria Hobbs. Yes, it would have been easier without you lot interfering, but more importantly, it wouldn’t have been as good.

—C. Iggulden

BY CONN IGGULDEN

Emperor: The Gates of Rome

Emperor: The Death of Kings

Emperor: The Field of Swords

Emperor: The Gods of War

Genghis: Birth of an Empire

Genghis: Lords of the Bow

Genghis: Bones of the Hills

Khan: Empire of Silver

Conqueror: A Novel of Kublai Khan

BY CONN IGGULDEN AND HAL IGGULDEN

The Dangerous Book for Boys

BY CONN IGGULDEN AND DAVID IGGULDEN

The Dangerous Book of Heroes

BY CONN IGGULDEN, WITH ILLUSTRATOR LIZZY DUNCAN

Tollins: Explosive Tales for Children

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CONN IGGULDEN is the author of four previous Genghis Khan novels: Genghis: Birth of an Empire; Genghis: Lords of the Bow; Genghis: Bones of the Hills, and Khan: Empire of Silver, as well as the Emperor novels, which chronicle the life of Julius Caesar: Emperor: The Gates of Rome; Emperor: The Death of Kings; Emperor: The Field of Swords; and Emperor: The Gods of War, all of which are available in paperback from Dell. He is also the coauthor of the #1 New York Times bestseller The Dangerous Book for Boys, The Dangerous Book of Heroes, and Tollins: Explosive Tales for Children. He lives with his wife and children in Hertfordshire, England.

www.conniggulden.com

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Genghis: Birth of an Empire

Genghis: Lords of the Bow

Genghis: Bones of the Hills

Khan: Empire of Silver

Conqueror

About the Author