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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, honouring 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 grey 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 cut-throats.
‘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’ 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 towards the centre 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 towards 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. 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 recognised 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 recognised 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. 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 honour, 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 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, 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 honour 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 Chagatai’s drunken stupor had vanished with a bit of fast riding. Genghis’ 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 realised 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 an oath to him, to promise horses, gers, salt and blood, 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 honour 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.
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 honoured? 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 colour 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 centre. 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.
