Genghis: Birth of an Empire (12 page)

“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.

A
S 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.