Genghis: Birth of an Empire (34 page)

Arslan showed nothing of his internal struggle, but by the time the Olkhun’ut warriors were on them, he had emptied his mind and was perfectly still.

The riders screamed and whooped as they galloped close with bows drawn and arrows fitted to the strings. The display was meant to impress, but neither Arslan nor Temujin paid it any heed. Arslan saw one of the riders check and yank on the reins as he caught sight of Temujin’s face. The sharp movement almost brought his pony to its knees, and the warrior’s face grew tight with astonishment.

“It is you,” the rider said.

Temujin nodded. “I have come for my wife, Koke. I told you I would.”

Arslan watched as the Olkhun’ut warrior hawked his throat clear of phlegm and spat on the ground. Pressure from his heels brought his gelding close enough for him to reach out. Temujin looked on impassively as Koke raised his arm as if to strike him, his face working in pale rage.

Arslan moved, kicking his pony into range. His sword licked out so that its razor tip sat snugly under Koke’s throat, resting there. The other warriors roared in anger, milling around them. They bent their bows ready to fire and Arslan ignored them as if they were not there. He waited until Koke’s eyes flickered toward him, seeing the sick fear there.

“You do not touch the khan,” Arslan said softly. He used his peripheral vision to watch the other men, seeing how one bow bent farther than the others. Death was close enough to feel on the breeze, and the day seemed to grow still.

“Speak carefully, Koke,” Temujin said, smiling. “If your men shoot, you will be dead before we are.”

Arslan saw that Temujin had noted the bending bow, and wondered again at his calm.

Koke was like a statue, though his gelding shifted nervously. He took a tighter grip on the reins rather than have his throat cut by a sudden jerk of his mount.

“If you kill me, you will be cut to pieces,” he said in a whisper.

Temujin grinned at him. “That is true,” he replied, offering no further help. Though he smiled, he felt a cold lump of anger surface deep inside. He had no patience for the ritual humiliation of strangers, not from these people.

“Remove the sword,” Koke said.

To his credit, his voice was calm, but Temujin could see sweat appear on his forehead, despite the wind. Coming close to death would do that for a man, he thought. He wondered why he felt no fear himself, but there was not a trace of it in him. A vague memory of wings beating his face came back to him, and he had a sense of being detached from the moment, untouched by danger. Perhaps his father’s spirit watched him still, he thought.

“Welcome me to your camp,” Temujin said.

Koke’s gaze jumped back from Arslan to the young man he had known from so long before. He was in an impossible position, Temujin knew. Either he had to back down and be humiliated, or he would die.

Temujin waited, uncaring. He glanced around him at the other men, spending a long moment looking at the warrior who had drawn an arrow back to his ear. The man was ready to loose and Temujin raised his chin in a small jerk, showing he knew.

“You are welcome in the camp,” Koke whispered.

“Louder,” Temujin said.

“You are
welcome
,” Koke said again, through gritted teeth.

“Excellent,” Temujin replied. He turned in the saddle to the man who still waited with a drawn bow.

“If you loose that arrow, I will pull it out and shove it down your throat,” he told him. The man blinked and Temujin stared until the needle-sharp point was lowered almost sheepishly. He heard Koke’s gasp behind him as Arslan removed the blade, and he took a deep breath, finding to his surprise that he was enjoying himself.

“Ride in with us then, Koke,” he said, clapping his cousin on the back. “I have come for my wife.”

* * *

T
here was no question of entering the camp without visiting the khan of the Olkhun’ut. With a pang of memory, Temujin remembered Yesugei’s games of status with Sansar, as one khan to another. He kept his head high, but he felt no shame as Koke led him to Sansar’s ger in the center of the camp. Despite his successes against the Tartars, he was not Sansar’s equal, as his father had been. At best, he was a war leader, a raider barely approaching the level where he could be received. If he had lacked even that status, Temujin knew that only his father’s memory would have granted him an audience and perhaps not even then.

He and Arslan dismounted and allowed their ponies to be taken away, their bows with them. Koke had grown into a man in the years since they had last met, and Temujin was interested to see how the khan’s bondsmen accepted his cousin’s right to enter the ger after just a few murmured words. Koke had come up in the world, Temujin realized. He wondered what service he had performed for the khan of the Olkhun’ut.

When Koke did not return, Temujin was struck by a memory and chuckled suddenly, startling Arslan from his silent tension.

“They always make me wait, these people,” Temujin said. “But I have patience, do I not, Arslan? I bear their insults with great humility.” His eyes glittered with something other than amusement, and Arslan only bowed his head. The cool control he had seen in Temujin was under strain in that camp. Though he showed no sign if it, Arslan considered there was a chance of them both being killed through a rash word.

“You honor your father with your restraint,” he said softly. “Knowing it is not from weakness, but from strength.”

Temujin glanced sharply at him, but the words seemed to settle his nerves. Arslan kept his face clear of any relief. For all his ability, Temujin was only eighteen. Wryly, Arslan admitted that Temujin had chosen his companion well for the trip south. They had ridden into terrible danger and Temujin was as prickly as any other young man with his new status and pride. Arslan readied himself to be the calming force Temujin had known he needed when his judgment was clear.

Koke returned after an age, stiff disdain in every movement.

“My lord Sansar will see you,” he said, “but you will give up your weapons.”

Temujin opened his mouth to object, but Arslan untied his scabbard with a flick of his fingers and slapped the hilt of his sword into Koke’s open hand.

“Guard the blade well, boy,” Arslan told him. “You will not see another of that quality in your lifetime.”

Koke could not resist feeling the balance of the sword, but Temujin spoiled his attempt by pressing the second of Arslan’s blades into his arms, so that he had to take it or drop them both. Temujin’s hand felt empty as he let it go, and his gaze remained fixed on the weapons as Koke stepped back.

It was Arslan who faced one of the khan’s bondsmen at the door, opening his arms wide and inviting a search. There was nothing passive in the way he stood there, and Temujin was reminded of the deadly stillness of a snake about to strike. The guard sensed it too and patted down every inch of the swordsmith, including the cuffs of his deel and his ankles.

Temujin could do no less and he endured the search without expression, though inwardly he began to simmer. He could not like these people, for all he dreamed of forming a great tribe of tribes across the land. When he did, the Olkhun’ut would not be part of it until they had been bled clean.

When the bondsmen were satisfied, they ducked into the ger and, in an instant, Temujin was back on the night he had learned of his father’s injury. The polished wooden floor was the same and Sansar himself seemed unmarked by the passage of years.

The khan of the Olkhun’ut remained seated as they approached, his dark eyes watching them with a hint of jaded amusement.

“I am honored to be in your presence, lord,” Temujin said clearly.

Sansar smiled, his skin crinkling like parchment. “I had not thought to see you here again, Temujin. Your father’s passing was a loss for all our people, all the tribes.”

“There is a high price still to pay for those who betrayed him,” Temujin replied. He sensed a subtle tension in the air then as Sansar leaned forward in his great chair, as if expecting something more. When the silence had become painful, Sansar smiled.

“I have heard of your attacks in the north,” the khan said, his voice sibilant in the gloom. “You are making a name for yourself. I think, yes, I think your father would be proud of you.”

Temujin lowered his gaze, unsure how to respond.

“But you have not come to me to boast of little battles against a few raiders, I am sure,” Sansar went on.

His voice held a malice that set Temujin on edge, but he replied with calm.

“I have come for what I was promised,” he said, looking Sansar squarely in the eye.

Sansar pretended to be confused for a moment.

“The girl? But you came to us then as the son of a khan, one who might well inherit the Wolves. That story has been told and ended.”

“Not all of it,” Temujin replied, watching as Sansar blinked slowly, his inner amusement sparkling in his gaze. The man was enjoying himself and Temujin wondered if he would be allowed to leave alive. There were two bondsmen in the ger with their khan, both armed with swords. Koke stood to one side with his head bowed. In a glance, Temujin saw that the swords he held could be snatched from his grip. His cousin was still a fool.

Temujin forced himself to relax. He had not come to die in that ger. He had seen Arslan kill with blows from his hands, and he thought they might survive the first strikes of the bondsmen. Once the warriors gathered in his defense, it would be the end. Temujin dismissed the idea. Sansar was not worth his life; not then, or ever.

“Is the word of the Olkhun’ut not good, then?” he said softly.

Sansar drew in a long breath, letting it hiss over his teeth. His bondsmen shifted, allowing their hands to touch the hilts of their swords.

“Only the young can be so careless with their lives,” Sansar said, “as to risk insulting me in my own home.” His gaze dropped to Koke and sharpened at the sight of the twin swords.

“What can a mere raider offer me for one of the Olkhun’ut women?” he said.

He did not see Arslan close his eyes for a moment, struggling with indignation. The sword he carried had been with him for more than a decade, the best he had ever made. They had nothing else to offer. For an instant, he wondered if Temujin had guessed there would be a price and chosen not to warn him.

Temujin did not reply at first. The bondsmen at Sansar’s side watched him as a man might watch a dangerous dog, waiting for it to bare its fangs and be killed.

Temujin took a deep breath. There was no choice, and he did not look at Arslan for approval.

“I offer you a perfect blade made by a man without equal in all the tribes,” he said. “Not as a price, but as a gift of honor to my mother’s people.”

Sansar bowed his head graciously, gesturing at Koke to approach him. Temujin’s cousin covered his smile and held out the two swords.

“It seems I have a choice of blades, Temujin,” Sansar said, smiling.

Temujin watched in frustration as Sansar fingered the carved hilts, rubbing the balls of his thumbs over bone and brass. Even in the gloom of the ger, they were beautiful, and Temujin could not help but remember his father’s sword, the first that had been taken from him. In the silence, he recalled the promise to his brothers and spoke again before Sansar could reply.

“As well as the woman I was promised, I need two more to be wives for my kin.”

Sansar shrugged, then drew Arslan’s blade and held it up to his eye to look along its length.

“If you will make me a gift of both blades, I will find your offer acceptable, Temujin. We have too many girls in the gers. You may take Sholoi’s daughter if she will have you. She has been a thorn in our side for long enough, and no man can say the Olkhun’ut do not honor their promises.”

“And two more, young and strong?” Temujin said, pressing.

Sansar looked at him for a long time, lowering the swords to his lap. At last, he nodded, grudgingly.

“In memory of your father, Temujin, I will give you two daughters of the Olkhun’ut. They will strengthen your line.”

Temujin would have liked to reach out and grab the khan by his skinny throat. He bowed his head and Sansar smiled.

The khan’s bony hands still fondled the weapons and his gaze became distant, as he seemed almost to have forgotten the men who stood in front of him. With an idle gesture, he signaled the pair to be removed from his presence. The bondsmen ushered them out into the cold air, and Temujin took a deep draft of it, his heart hammering in his chest.

Arslan’s face was tight with anger and Temujin reached out to touch him lightly on the wrist. The swordsmith seemed to jump at the contact, and Temujin remained still, sensing the inner force of the man as it coiled and uncoiled within him.

“It was a greater gift than you know,” Arslan said.

Temujin shook his head, seeing Koke come out behind them, his arms empty. “A sword is just a sword,” he replied. Arslan turned a cold expression on him, but Temujin did not flinch. “You will make a better one, for both of us.”

He turned to Koke then, who was watching the exchange with fascination.

“Take me to her, cousin.”

* * *

T
hough the Olkhun’ut had traveled far in the years since he had last stood in their camp, it seemed the status of Sholoi and his family had remained the same. Koke led Temujin and Arslan to the very edge of the gers, to the same patched and mended home that he remembered. He had spent just a few short days there, but they were still fresh in his mind and it was with an effort that Temujin shook off his past. He had been little more than a child. As a man, he wondered if Borte would welcome his return. Surely Sansar would have said if she had been married in his absence? Temujin thought grimly that the khan of the Olkhun’ut might very well enjoy gaining two fine swords for nothing.

As Koke approached, they saw Sholoi duck out from the little door, stretching his back and hitching up a belt of string. The old man saw them coming and shaded his eyes against the morning sun to watch. The years had left more of a mark on Sholoi than on the khan. He was skinnier than Temujin remembered and his shoulders sagged under an ancient, grubby deel. When they were close, Temujin could see a web of blue veins on his knotted hands, and the old man seemed to start, as if he had only just recognized them. No doubt his eyes were failing, though there was still a hint of strength in those legs, like an old root that would stand right up to the moment it broke.