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.”
&nb
sp; “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?”