Authors: Conn Iggulden
Wen bowed again before speaking.
“I bring greetings of the Jade Court. We have heard much of your success here, and there are many things to discuss. Your brother in the Kerait sends his greetings.”
“What does Togrul want with me?” Temujin replied.
Wen fumed, feeling the cold bite at him. Would he not be invited into the warm gers? He decided to push a little.
“Have I not been granted guest rights, my lord? It is not fitting to talk of great issues with so many ears around us.”
Temujin shrugged. The man was clearly freezing and he wanted to hear what had brought him across a hostile plain before he passed out.
“You are welcome here”—he tasted the name on his tongue before mangling it horribly—“Wencho?”
The old man controlled a wince and Temujin smiled at his pride.
“Wen
Chao,
my lord,” the diplomat replied. “The tongue must touch the roof of the mouth.”
Temujin nodded. “Come in to the warmth then, Wen. I will have hot salt tea brought to you.”
“Ah, the tea,” Wen Chao murmured, as he followed Temujin into a ragged ger. “How I have missed it.”
In the gloom, Wen seated himself and waited patiently until a bowl of hot tea was pressed into his hands by Temujin himself. The ger filled with men who stared at him uneasily, and Wen forced himself to breathe shallowly until he became used to the sweaty closeness of them. He longed for a bath, but such pleasures were long behind.
Temujin watched as Wen tasted the tea through pursed lips, clearly pretending to enjoy it.
“Tell me of your people,” Temujin said. “I have heard they are very numerous.”
Wen nodded, grateful for the chance to speak rather than sip.
“We are a divided kingdom. The southern borders hold more than sixty thousand souls under the Sung emperor,” he said. “The northern Chin, perhaps the same.”
Temujin blinked. The numbers were larger than he could imagine.
“I think you are exaggerating, Wen Chao,” he replied, pronouncing the name correctly in his surprise.
Wen shrugged. “Who can be sure? The peasants breed worse than lice. There are more than a thousand officials in the Kaifeng court alone, and the official count took many months. I do not have the exact figure.” Wen enjoyed the looks of astonishment that passed between the warriors.
“And you? Are you a khan amongst them?” Temujin persisted.
Wen shook his head. “I passed my…” He searched his vocabulary and found there was no word. “Struggles? No.” He said a strange word. “It means sitting at a desk and answering questions with hundreds of others, first in a district, then in Kaifeng itself for the emperor’s officials. I came first among all those who were tested that year.” He looked into the depths of his memory and raised his bowl to his mouth. “It was a long time ago.”
“Whose man are you, then?” Temujin said, trying to understand.
Wen smiled. “Perhaps the first minister of the civil service, but I think you mean the Sung emperors. They rule the north and south. Perhaps I will live to see both halves of the Middle Kingdom rejoined.”
Temujin struggled to understand. As they stared at him, Wen placed his bowl down and reached inside his robe for a pouch. A collective tension stopped him.
“I am reaching for a picture, my lord, that is all.”
Temujin gestured for him to continue, fascinated at the idea. He watched as Wen removed a packet of brightly colored papers and passed one to him. There were strange symbols on it, but in the middle was the face of a young man, glaring out. Temujin held the paper at different angles, astonished that the little face seemed to watch him.
“You have painters of skill,” he admitted grudgingly.
“That is true, my lord, but the paper you hold was printed on a great machine. It has a value and is given in exchange for goods. With a few more like it, I could buy a good horse in the capital, or a young woman for the passage of a night.”
He saw Temujin pass it around to the others and watched their expressions with interest. They were like children, he thought. Perhaps he should give them each a note as a gift before he left.
“You use words I do not know,” Temujin said. “What is the printing you mentioned? A great machine? Perhaps you have decided to fool us in our gers.”
He did not speak lightly, and Wen reminded himself that the tribesmen could be ruthless even with their friends. If they thought for a moment that he was mocking them, he would not survive. If they were children, it was best to remember they were deadly as well.
“It is just a way of painting faster than one man alone,” Wen said soothingly. “Perhaps you will visit Chin territory one day and see for yourself. I know that the khan of the Kerait is much taken with my culture. He has spoken many times of his desire for land in the Middle Kingdom.”
“Togrul said that?” Temujin asked.
Wen nodded, taking the note back from the last man to hold it. He folded it carefully and replaced the pouch while all their eyes watched.
“It is his dearest wish. There is soil there so rich and black that anything can be grown, herds of wild horses beyond counting and better hunting than anywhere in the world. Our lords live in great houses of stone and have a thousand servants to indulge their every whim. Togrul of the Kerait would wish such a life for himself and his heirs.”
“How can you move a house of stone?” one of the other men asked suddenly.
Wen nodded to him in greeting. “It cannot be moved, as you move your gers. There are some the size of mountains.”
Temujin laughed at that, knowing at last that the strange little man was playing games with them.
“Then it would not suit me, Wen,” he said. “The tribes must move when the hunting is poor. I would starve to death in that stone mountain, I think.”
“You would not, my lord, because your servants would buy food in the markets. They would raise animals to eat and grow crops to make bread and rice for you. You could have a thousand wives and never know hunger.”
“And that appeals to Togrul,” Temujin said softly. “I see how it could.” His mind was whirling with so many strange new ideas, but he still had not heard the reason for Wen to seek him out in the wilderness, so far from his home. He offered Wen a cup and filled it with airag. When he saw the man was setting his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, Temujin grunted.
“Rub it on your hands and face and I will refill the cup,” he said.
Wen inclined his head in thanks before doing as Temujin suggested. The clear liquid brought a flush to his yellow skin, making it bloom with sudden heat. He drained the rest down his throat and emptied the second as soon as Temujin had poured it, holding the cup out for a third.
“Perhaps I will journey east someday,” Temujin said, “and see these strange things with my own eyes. Yet I wonder why you would leave all that behind, to travel where my people rule with sword and bow. We do not think of your emperor here.”
“Though he is father to us all,” Wen said automatically. Temujin stared at him and Wen regretted drinking so quickly on an empty stomach.
“I have been among the tribes for two years, my lord. There are times when I miss my people very much. I was sent here to gather allies against the Tartars in the north. Togrul of the Kerait believes you are one who shares our dislike for those pale-skinned dogs.”
“Togrul is well informed, it seems,” Temujin replied. “How does he know so much of my business?” He refilled Wen’s cup a fourth time and watched as it too went the way of the others. It pleased him to see the man drink, and he filled a cup of his own, sipping carefully to keep his head clear.
“The khan of the Kerait is a man of wisdom,” Wen Chao replied. “He has fought the Tartars for years in the north and received much gold as tribute from my masters. It is a balance, you understand? If I send an order to Kaifeng for a hundred ponies to be driven west, they come in a season and, in return, the Kerait spill Tartar blood and keep them away from our borders. We do not want them straying into our land.”
One of the listening tribesmen shifted uncomfortably and Temujin glanced at him.
“I will want your advice on this, Arslan, when we talk alone,” Temujin said.
The man settled himself, satisfied. Wen looked around at them all.
“I am here to offer you the same arrangement. I can give you gold, or horses…”
“Swords,” Temujin said. “And bows. If I agree, I would want a dozen sets of the armor your men are wearing outside, as well as a hundred ponies, mares and stallions both. I have no more use for gold than I have for a house of stone I cannot move.”
“I did not see a hundred men in the camp,” Wen protested. Inside, he rejoiced. The bargaining had begun with more ease than he could have imagined.
“You did not see them all,” Temujin said, with a snort. “And I have not said I agree. What part does Togrul play in this? I have never met the man, though I know of the Kerait. Will he come after you to beg me for my help?”
Wen colored, putting down the cup of airag he had raised.
“The Kerait are a strong tribe, with more than three hundred men under arms, my lord. They heard from Tartar prisoners that you were raiding farther and farther north.” He paused, choosing his words. “Togrul is a man of vision and he sent me, not to beg, but rather to have you join your force to his. Together, you will drive the Tartars back for a dozen generations, perhaps.”
The man Temujin had called Arslan seemed to bristle again, and Wen saw Temujin drop a hand to his arm.
“Here I am khan, responsible for my people,” he said. “You would have me bend the knee to Togrul in return for a few ponies?” A subtle menace had come into the crowded ger, and Wen found himself wishing Yuan had been allowed to accompany him.
“You have merely to refuse and I will leave,” he said. “Togrul does not need a bondsman. He needs a war leader with ruthlessness and strength. He needs every man you can bring.”
Temujin glanced at Jelme. After the endless winter, he knew as well as anyone that the Tartars would be thirsting for revenge. The idea of joining forces with a greater tribe was tempting, but he needed time to think.
“You have said much of interest, Wen Chao,” Temujin said, after a time. “Leave me now to make my decision. Kachiun? Find warm beds for his men and have some stew brought to ease their hunger.” He saw Wen’s gaze drop to the half-empty skin of airag by his feet. “And some airag to warm him tonight, as well,” he added, carried away by his own generosity.
They all stood as Wen rose to his feet, not quite as steady as when he had come in. The man bowed once more, and Temujin noticed how it was a fraction deeper than the first attempt. Perhaps he had been stiff from traveling.
When they were alone, Temujin turned his bright gaze on his most trusted men.
“I want this,” he said. “I want to learn as much as I can about these people. Houses of stone! Slaves by the thousand! Did it not make you itch?”
“You do not know this Togrul,” Arslan said. “Are the silver people for sale, then?” He snorted. “These Chin think we can be bought with promises, awed with talk of the teeming millions in their cities. What are they to us?”
“Let us find out,” Temujin said. “With the men of the Kerait, I can drive a spike into the Tartars. Let the rivers run red with what we will do.”
“My oath is to you, not to Togrul,” Arslan said.
Temujin faced him. “I know it. I will not be bondsman to any other. Yet if he will join his strength with us, I will have the greater part of the bargain. Think of Jelme, Arslan. Think of his future. We are too full of life to build our tribe in ones and twos. Let us leap upwards in great bounds and risk it all each time. Would you sit and wait for the Tartars?”
“You know I would not,” Arslan said.
“Then my decision is made,” Temujin said, filled with excitement.
CHAPTER 25
W
EN
C
HAO STAYED
for three days in the camp, discussing terms. He allowed them to press skins of airag on him before he lowered the gold curtains of his litter and Yuan gave the signal for him to be lifted.
Behind the silk hangings, Wen scratched himself, convinced he had picked up lice from the gers. It had been a trial, as he had expected, but they seemed as keen on war with the Tartars as Togrul had hoped. It was no surprise, Wen thought to himself, as he was borne over the plains. The tribes raided each other even in winter. Now that the spring had brought the first grass through the frozen ground, they would be at their business in earnest. It had always been their way. Wen smiled to himself as he read the works of Xun Zi and drowsed, occasionally making notes in the margins. The minister had been right to send someone with his diplomatic skills, he thought. Little Zhang could not have brokered such a deal, even with the promises of ponies and armor. The lisping eunuch would certainly have shown his disgust at the wedding ceremony Wen Chao had witnessed the previous day. He shuddered at the thought of the hot drink of milk and blood he had been given. Xun Zi would have applauded his discipline then. The woman Borte had been as stringy and hard as her husband, Wen reflected. Not his taste at all, though the young raider seemed to find her pleasing. What Wen would have given for a night with one of the Willow women! There was no place for sleek, powdered thighs in that hard land, and Wen cursed his work yet again, miserably.
On the fourth day out, he was ready to give the order to stop for a meal, when Yuan galloped back from his scouting. Wen listened impatiently from inside the litter as Yuan snapped orders. It was frustrating to play the part of the noble when interesting things were going on around him. He sighed to himself. His curiosity had landed him in trouble more than once before.
When Yuan finally approached the litter, Wen had stowed his scrolls and warmed himself with a draft of the clear fluid the tribes brewed. That, at least, was useful, though it paled in comparison with the rice wine he knew at home.
“Why do you disturb me this time, Yuan?” he asked. “I was going to take a nap before the meal.” In fact, one glance at his first guard’s flushed face had set his pulses throbbing. He needed rebalancing, he was sure of it. Too much time amongst the tribes and he would be thinking of taking up a sword himself like a common soldier. They had that effect on even the most cultured of men.
“Riders, my lord. Tartars,” Yuan said, touching his forehead to the icy grass.
“Well? We are in Tartar lands, are we not? It is no surprise to meet a few of them while we travel south to the Kerait. Let them pass, Yuan. If they stand in our way, kill them. You have disturbed me for nothing.”
Yuan bowed his head and Wen spoke quickly to avoid shaming his first guard. The man was as prickly as a eunuch over matters of honor.
“I spoke rashly, Yuan. You were right to bring it to my attention.”
“My lord, there are thirty warriors, all of them well armed and riding fresh ponies. They can only be from a larger camp.”
Wen spoke slowly, trying to restrain his patience. “I do not see how that affects us, Yuan. They know better than to interfere with a representative of the Chin. Tell them to go around us.”
“I thought…” Yuan began. “I wondered if you might send a rider back to the camp we left, my lord. To warn them. The Tartars could well be looking for them.”
Wen blinked at his first guard in surprise. “You have grown affectionate toward our hosts, I see. It is a weakness in you, Yuan. What do I care if the Tartars and Mongols kill each other? Is that not my task, handed down from the first minister himself? Honestly, I think you forget yourself.”
A warning shout came from one of the other guards, and both Wen and Yuan heard the approach of riders. Yuan remained where he was.
Wen closed his eyes for a moment. There was no peace to be had in this land, no silence. Whenever he thought he had found it, someone would go riding past, looking for enemies to kill. He felt a wave of homesickness strike him like a physical force, but crushed it down. Until he was recalled, this was his fate.
“If it please you, Yuan, tell them we have not seen the raiders. Tell them I am exercising my men ready for spring.”
“Your will, master.”
Wen watched as the Tartar warriors rode up. They did look as if they were armed for war, he acknowledged, though he cared nothing for Temujin or his ragged gers. He would not have shed a tear if the entire Tartar nation was destroyed, and the Mongol tribes with them. Perhaps then he would be called home at last.
He saw Yuan speak with the leader, a heavyset man wrapped in thick furs. It made Wen shudder to see such a filthy warrior, and he would certainly not lower himself to address him in person. The Tartar seemed angry, but Wen cared nothing for that. His men were chosen from the personal guard of the first minister, and any one of them was worth half a dozen screaming tribesmen. Yuan himself had won his sword in a tournament of all the army, standing first amongst his division. In that, at least, Wen had been well served.
With furious glances at the litter, the Tartars blustered and pointed their swords, while Yuan sat his horse impassively, shaking his head. Only their youthful pride prevented them from riding away, and Wen wondered if he would indeed be called out to remind them of his status. Even unwashed Tartars knew the Chin representative was not to be touched, and he was relieved when the warriors finished their display and rode on without looking back. A small part of him was disappointed that they had not decided to draw swords. Yuan would have butchered them. Idly, Wen wondered if Temujin was ready for such a force. He decided he did not care. If they found the Mongol camp, one or the other would prevail. Either way, there would be fewer tribesmen to trouble his sleep.
When they were gone, Wen found his digestion had become disturbed. Blowing air from his lips in irritation, he called for Yuan to set up the small pavilion he used to empty his bowels away from prying eyes. He did all he could to make himself comfortable, but the pleasures of the court haunted his dreams and he had not had a woman in a long, long time. Perhaps if he wrote humbly to little Zhang, he could arrange his recall. No. He could not bear the thought.
The Tartar raiders came in hard and fast as soon as they heard the warning horns sound. They kicked their ponies into a gallop and each man rode with a bow ready to send death down the throat of anyone standing in the way.
Temujin and his brothers came skidding out of their gers while the first horn notes still echoed. The warriors moved to their positions without panic. Those on the main path pulled wooden barriers up from the ground, jamming staffs under them to keep them solid. Riders would not be able to gallop right between the gers. They would have to jink around the obstacles, and be forced to slow down.
Temujin saw his men ready their arrows, laying them down on the frozen ground. They were finished moments before they sighted the first enemy in his stinking furs.
The Tartars rode three abreast, high in the saddle as they searched for targets. Temujin saw they were relying on fear and confusion, and he showed his teeth as he watched them come. He felt the ground shudder underneath his feet, and he wished he had the sword Arslan had made for him. In its place was a Tartar blade of poor quality. It would have to serve.
The first riders saw the barrier in their path. Two swung their mounts around it, interfering with the third. They saw the men in its shadow and released their shafts from instinct, hammering them uselessly into wood. As soon as they struck, Kachiun and Khasar rose above the edge and loosed, the bowstrings humming. The arrows punched through the riders, slamming two of the Tartars into the hard ground at full gallop. They did not rise again.
At first, it was a massacre. The Tartars who galloped behind their fellows found their way blocked by riderless ponies and the dead. Two of them leapt the barricade before Kachiun and Khasar could set another arrow. The riders found themselves in an open space, with drawn bows all around. They had barely time to shout before dark shafts impaled them, cutting off their war cries and sending them spinning out of the saddles.
Another of the Tartars tried to leap the first barrier. His pony missed the jump and crushed it flat, snapping the staff that held it upright. Khasar rolled away, but Kachiun’s leg was caught and he swore in pain. He lay helpless on his back as more galloped in, knowing he could measure his life in moments.
A rider saw Kachiun struggling and drew back on his bow to pin him to the ground. Before he could loose, Arslan stepped out from one side and ripped a sword across his throat. The Tartar collapsed, his pony veering wildly. Arrows whined around them as Arslan yanked Kachiun free. Khasar was on one knee, sending shaft after shaft into the Tartars, but he had lost his calm and six men broke through, untouched by any of them.
Temujin saw them coming. Without the first barrier, the men could ride straight down the left of the main path. He saw two of his men face them and fall with Tartar arrowheads sticking out of their backs. The second barrier group turned to send arrows after them and, behind, another group of six broke past his brothers. The raid was hanging in the balance, despite his preparations.
He waited until a Tartar had loosed his shaft before stepping out and chopping his blade into the man’s thigh. Blood spattered him as the man screamed, yanking wildly on his reins. Out of control, the Tartar turned his pony into a ger, which collapsed with a crackle of broken wood, catapulting him over the pony’s head.
The first group of six turned their bows on Temujin, forcing him to leap for cover. A snarling warrior rode at him, his bow bent to send the spiked arrow down into his chest. Temujin rolled, coming up with his sword outstretched. The man yelled as the blade buried itself in his gut and the arrow buzzed over Temujin’s head. The shoulder of the pony hit Temujin as it passed, knocking him flat. He rose groggily and looked around him.
The camp was in chaos. The Tartars had lost a lot of men, but those who lived were riding around in triumph, looking for targets. Many of them had dropped their bows and drawn swords for the close work. Temujin saw two kick their mounts at Arslan while he himself scrabbled for his own bow to send a shaft after them. The first arrow he touched was broken and the rest were scattered. He found one that would do, after a moment’s frenzied search. He could hear his mother yelling and, as he turned to see, Borte darted out from a ger, rushing after little Temulun. His young sister was running in panic and neither of them saw the Tartar bearing down on them. Temujin held his breath, but Arslan was armed and ready for his attackers. He made his choice.
Temujin heaved back on the string, aiming at the lone warrior bearing down on Borte. He heard a sudden thunder and another Tartar was riding at him, sword already swinging to take off his head. There was no time to dodge, but Temujin dropped to his knees as he let go, struggling to adjust his aim. The arrow went skipping over the ground, wasted. Then something hit him hard enough to shake the world and he fell.
Jelme stepped up to his father’s side as the two Tartars bore down on them.
“Go left,” Arslan snapped at his son, even as he stepped to the right.
The Tartars saw them move, but the father and son had left it to the very last moment and they could not adjust. Arslan’s blade tip found the neck of one man as Jelme cut the other, almost taking his head off. Both Tartars were dead in a heartbeat, their ponies hammering past without direction.
The Tartar leader had not survived the first attack on the barricades, and there were barely a dozen left of the original force. With the hill backing onto the camp, there was no chance to ride through and away, so those that still lived shouted and wheeled, cutting at anything against them. Arslan saw two pulled out of their saddles and knifed as they writhed, screaming. It was a bloody business, but the main Tartar force had been destroyed. The few survivors lay low on the saddles as they galloped back the way they had come, shafts whistling after them.
Arslan saw one coming back from the other side of the camp, and he readied himself to kill again, standing perfectly still in the pony’s path. In the last moment, he saw the kicking legs of a captive across the saddle and spoiled his own blow. His left hand snapped out to yank Borte free, but his fingers caught only an edge of cloth and then the man was past. Arslan saw Khasar was following the rider with an arrow on the string, and he shouted.
“Hold, Khasar. Hold!”
The order rang across a camp that was suddenly quiet after the roaring Tartars. Not more than six made it away and Arslan was already running for the ponies.
“Mount up!” he roared. “They have one of the women. Mount!”
He looked for Temujin as he ran, then saw a limp figure and skidded to a stop in horror. Temujin lay surrounded by dead men. A pony with a broken leg stood shivering next to him, its sides streaked with whitish sweat. Arslan ignored the animal, pushing it away as he knelt beside the young man he had rescued from the Wolves.
There was a lot of blood and Arslan felt his heart contract in a painful spasm. He reached down and touched the flap of flesh that had been torn free from Temujin’s scalp. With a shout of joy, he saw it still bled into the pool that lay around his head. Arslan lifted Temujin free of the blood that covered half his face.
“He is alive,” Arslan whispered.
Temujin remained unconscious as Arslan carried him to a tent. His brothers galloped out after the raiders, sparing only a glance for the figure in Arslan’s arms. They were grim-faced and angry as they passed him, and Arslan did not pity any Tartars they caught that day.
Arslan laid Temujin down in his mother’s ger, surrendering him to her. Temulun was crying bitterly in a corner, the sound almost painful. Hoelun looked up from her son as she reached for her needle and thread.