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 Genghi
s 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.