Bones of the Hills (13 page)

“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.

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.