Conqueror: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Conn Iggulden
spent three nights with the raiding party. They did not speak of it. The airag warmed their empty stomachs and gave them a rush of energy they sorely needed. Milk and blood would follow later in the day. It would be enough.
The three brothers and Arslan were dusty and tired by the time they caught a glimpse of their prey. The trail had wound up through a range of hills and the broken ground had slowed their headlong pace. Temujin had not spoken a word to any of them, his gaze constantly on the horizon as he searched for the last of the Tartars.
The sun was low on the horizon when they reached a crest and saw the ragged group at the far end of the valley. All four of them slid out of the saddles and pulled their ponies down with them, so that they would not be easy to see. Temujin lay with his arm over the neck of his mount, pressing it into the grass.
‘It will be tonight, then,’ he said. ‘We’ll take them when they make camp.’
‘I have three arrows,’ Kachiun said. ‘All that were left in the quiver when I rode out.’
Temujin turned to his younger brother, his face like stone.
‘If you can, I want them down but not dead. I do not want it to be quick, for these.’
‘You make it harder, Temujin,’ Arslan said, peering at the small group in the far distance. ‘Better to spring an attack and kill as many as we can. They too have bows and swords, remember.’
Temujin ignored the older man, holding Kachiun’s eyes.
‘If you can,’ he repeated. ‘If Borte is alive, I want her to see them die, perhaps with her own knife.’
‘I understand,’ Kachiun murmured, remembering when they had killed Bekter. Temujin had worn the same expression, though it was made worse by the ugly line of stitches seaming his forehead. Kachiun was not able to hold the fierce gaze and he too looked over the valley. The Tartars had reached the end and passed into thick trees.
‘Time to move,’ Temujin said, rising. ‘We must close the gap before they make camp for the night. I do not want to lose them in the dark.’ He did not look to see if they followed as he forced his pony to gallop once more. He knew they would.
Borte lay on her side on a damp layer of old leaves and pine needles. Her hands and feet had been expertly tied by the Tartar tribesmen as they made their camp in the woods. She watched them fearfully as they used a hatchet to hack out the dry wood from a dead tree and built a small fire. They were all starving and the stunned despair of the first few nights was only just beginning to fade. She listened to their guttural voices and tried not to be afraid. It was hard. They had ridden into Temujin’s camp with every expectation of a successful raid. Instead, they had been smashed and broken, losing brothers and friends and almost their own lives. Two of them in particular were still seething at the shame of their retreat. It was those two who had come for her on the first night, taking out their frustration and anger in the only way they had left. Borte shuddered as she lay there, feeling again their rough hands on her. The youngest of them was little more than a boy, but he had been the cruellest and smacked his closed fist across her face until she was dazed and bleeding. Then he had raped her with the others.
Borte made a small sound in her throat, an animal sound of fear that she could not control. She told herself to be strong, but as the young one stood up from the fire and walked over to her, she felt her bladder give way in a sudden hot rush, steaming in the cold air. Though it was growing dark, he saw it and showed his teeth.
‘I thought about you all day when we were riding,’ he told her, crouching at her side.
She began to shiver and hated herself for the signs of weakness. Temujin had told her she was a wolf, as he was; that she could endure anything. She did not cry out as the young Tartar took her by a foot and dragged her behind him to the men around the fire. Instead, she tried to think of her childhood and running amongst the gers. Even then, the memories were all of her father hitting her, or her mother’s indifference to her misery. The only memory that stayed was the day Temujin had come for her at last, so tall and handsome in his furs that the Olkhun’ut could not even look at him.
The Tartars around the fire watched with interest as the youngest untied her feet. She could see the lust in their eyes and she gathered herself to fight them again. It would not stop them, but it was all she had left and she would not give them that last piece of her pride. As soon as her legs were free, she kicked out, her bare foot thumping uselessly into the young Tartar’s chest. He slapped it away with a grim chuckle.
‘You are all dead men,’ she snapped. ‘He will kill you all.’
The youngest was flushed and excited and he did not respond as he yanked at her deel and exposed her breasts to the evening cold. She struggled wildly and he nodded to one of the others to help him hold her down. The one who rose was thick-bodied and stank. She had smelled his foul breath close to her face the night before and the memory made her gag, her empty stomach heaving uselessly. She kicked out with all her strength and the young one cursed.
‘Take her legs, Aelic,’ he ordered, pulling at his furs to expose himself.
The older man reached down to do as he was told and then they all heard the crunch of footsteps on the leaves.
Four men strode out from between the trees. Three carried swords ready in their hands and the fourth had a bow drawn right back to his ear.
The Tartars reacted quickly, leaping up and grabbing their weapons. Borte was dropped back onto the wet ground and scrambled to her knees. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest as she saw Temujin and his brothers, with the swordsmith Arslan in their midst. They ran forward on light feet, perfectly balanced for the first strikes.
The Tartars roared in alarm, but the newcomers were silent as they darted in. Temujin swayed aside from a sweeping blade, then used his hilt to punch a man from his feet. He kicked down hard as he went over his enemy, feeling the nose bone snap under his heel. The next was rising from Borte and Temujin did not dare look at her as the man threw himself forward, armed only with a knife. Temujin let him come in, shifting just a little so that the blow was lost in his deel. He punched out hard with his left hand, rocking the Tartar backwards, then ripped his sword across the man’s thighs, shoving him onto his back as he yelled in pain. The knife fell in the leaves as Temujin turned away panting, looking for another target. It came to rest by Borte and she picked it up in her bound hands.
The young Tartar lay howling on the ground, his limbs flailing as he tried to rise. Temujin had moved away to attack a third with Kachiun, and the Tartar did not see Borte at first as she crept towards him on her knees. When his gaze fell on her, he shook his head, desperately. He raised his fists, but Borte jammed a knee onto his right arm and struggled to bring the blade down. His free hand found her throat and his strength was still frightening. She felt her vision blur as he squeezed desperately, but she would not be denied. Her head was shoved up high by his locked arm as she found his pulsing throat under her fingers. She could have pushed the knife in there, but she eased her hand higher, holding his straining head still as best she could. He struggled, but blood was pouring from his legs and she could feel him growing weaker as she grew strong.
She found his eyes and dug her nails into them, listening to him scream. The knife point scraped along his face, laying his cheek open before she was able to press her full weight down. Suddenly there was no resistance, as she found the eye socket and shoved. The arm at her throat fell away limply and she slumped, gasping. She could still smell the men on her skin and she mouthed wordless rage as she twisted the blade in the socket, digging deeper.
‘He is dead,’ Arslan said at her side, laying a hand on her shoulder. She jerked away from the touch as if it had scalded her, and when she looked up, the older man’s eyes were full of sorrow. ‘You are safe now.’
Borte did not speak, though her eyes filled with tears. In a rush, the sounds of the camp came back to her from where she had lost herself. The rest of the Tartars were crying out in agony and fear all around. It was no more than she would have wanted.
Borte sat back on her haunches, looking dazedly at the blood that covered her hands.