Conqueror: The Complete 5-Book Collection. Conn Iggulden
heard Arslan call. ‘Come and tend her.’ She saw the swordsmith pick up the knife and toss it into the trees. She did not understand why he would waste a good blade and she raised her head to ask him.
Temujin strode across the camp, scattering the small fire without noticing or caring. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her into his arms. She struggled then, bursting into sobs as she tried to get away from him.
‘Be still!’ he ordered as she raised her fists to hammer at his face. The first blows made him duck his head and hold her tighter. ‘It is over, Borte. Be still!’
The fight went out of her in an instant and she sagged in his embrace, weeping.
‘I have you now,’ he whispered. ‘You are safe and it is over.’ He repeated the words in a mumble, his emotions whirling painfully. He was relieved to find her alive, but still there was a red core to him that wanted to hurt the men who had taken her. He glanced to where his brothers were tying the Tartars. Two of them were yelling like children, with Kachiun’s arrows in their legs and arms. A third would probably die from where Arslan had opened his gut, but the others would live long enough.
‘Build up the fire,’ Temujin said to his brothers. ‘I want them to feel the heat and know what is coming.’
Khasar and Kachiun set about gathering the embers he had kicked apart, dragging an old log onto the rest. Flames soon licked around the dry wood, catching quickly.
Arslan watched as husband and wife stood together. Borte’s face was blank, almost as if she had fainted. The swordsmith shook his head.
‘Let us kill them and go back to the others,’ Arslan said. ‘There is no honour in what you are planning.’
Temujin turned to him, his eyes wild.
‘Leave if you want to,’ he snapped. ‘This is a blood debt.’
Arslan stood very still.
‘I will take no part in it,’ he said at last.
Temujin nodded. Khasar and Kachiun had come to stand by his side. All three brothers looked at the swordsmith and he felt cold. There was no pity in any of their eyes. Behind them, the Tartars moaned in terror and the fire crackled as it grew.
Temujin stood bare-chested, sweat gleaming on his skin. His brothers had piled wood on the fire until it was an inferno and they could not approach the roaring yellow heart.
‘I give these lives to the sky and earth, scattering their souls in fire,’ Temujin said, raising his head to the cold stars. His mouth and chest were bloody in a great black streak that reached down to his waist. He held the last Tartar by the throat. The man was weak from his wounds, but he still struggled feebly, his legs scratching marks in the ground. Temujin did not seem to feel the weight. He stood so close to the fire that the fine hair on his arms had vanished, but he was lost in the trance of death and felt no pain.
Kachiun and Khasar watched in grim silence from a few paces further back. They too had been marked with the blood of the Tartars and tasted flesh burnt in the flames. Three bodies lay naked to one side of the fire, two of them with black holes in their chests and enough blood to wash away grief and anger. They had not cut the man Borte had killed. The fire was only for the living.
Unaware of them all, Temujin began to chant words he had not heard since old Chagatai had whispered them on a frozen night long before. The Shaman’s chant spoke of loss and revenge, of winter, ice and blood. He did not have to struggle to recall the words; they were ready on his tongue as if he had always known them.
The last Tartar moaned in terror, his hands clawing at Temujin’s arm and scratching the skin with broken nails. Temujin looked down at him.
‘Come closer, Borte,’ he said, holding the man’s gaze.
Borte stepped into the firelight, the shadows of the flames playing on her skin. Her eyes caught the flickering light, so that she seemed to have flames within her.
Temujin looked up at his wife and drew his knife again from his belt, already slick with dark life. In a sharp jerk, he opened a gash in the Tartar’s chest, ripping the weapon back and forth to slice through muscle. The Tartar’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Shining organs pulsed as Temujin reached in, gripping and sawing. Between two fingers, he pulled out a piece of streaming flesh from the heart. He pressed it onto the tip of his blade and held it into the flames, so that his own skin blistered as the meat sizzled and spat. He grunted at the pain, aware of it but uncaring. He let the Tartar fall onto the crisping leaves, his eyes still open. Without a word, Temujin pulled the seared flesh from the blade and held it out to Borte, watching as she held it to her lips.
It was still almost raw and she chewed hard to swallow it, feeling hot blood dribble over her lips. She had not known what to expect. This was the oldest magic: the eating of souls. She felt the meat slide down her throat and with it came a sense of great lightness, and of strength. Her lips slid back to show her teeth and Temujin seemed to slump as if something had gone out of him. Before, he had been a worker of dark incantations, a bringer of retribution. In an instant, he was no more than a tired man, worn out by grief and pain.
Borte raised her hand to her husband’s face, touching his cheek and leaving a smear of blood there.
‘It is enough,’ she said over the crackle of flame. ‘You can sleep now.’
He nodded wearily, stepping away from the flames at last to join his brothers. Arslan stood further back, his expression dark. He had not joined in the blood-letting, or eaten the slivers of flesh cut from live men. He had not felt the rush of life that came with it, nor the exhaustion that followed. He did not look at the mutilated bodies of the Tartars as he settled himself on the ground and drew his arms into the deel. He knew his dreams would be terrible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Togrul of the Kerait was roused from sleep by the hand of his first wife, shaking him roughly.
‘Up, lazy!’ she said, her hard voice splitting apart a happy dream with its usual force.
Togrul groaned as he opened his eyes. Six daughters she had given him and not a single son. He regarded her irritably as he rubbed his face.
‘Why do you disturb me, woman? I was dreaming of when you were young and attractive.’
Her response was to poke him hard in the ribs.
‘This new man you summoned has arrived with his ragged followers. They look no better than dirty wanderers, from what I can see. Will you stay all day in your fat slumber while they inspect your gers?’
Togrul frowned, stifling a yawn as he scratched himself. He swung his legs onto the cold floor and looked around.
‘I do not see food to give me strength,’ he said, frowning. ‘Must I go out to them on an empty stomach?’
‘That stomach is never empty,’ she retorted. ‘It is not fitting to keep them waiting while you force another sheep down your throat.’
‘Woman, tell me again why I keep you on,’ he said, standing. ‘I have forgotten.’
She snorted as he dressed, moving surprisingly quickly for such a large man. As he splashed water on his face, she pressed a warm pouch of mutton and bread into his hands, thick with grease. He smiled at last on seeing it, taking half in a great bite and belching softly as he chewed. Sitting down once more, he worked on finishing it as his wife tied his boots. He loved her very much.
‘You look like a sheep herder,’ she told him as he moved towards the door. ‘If they ask where the real khan of the Kerait is hiding, tell them you ate him.’
‘Woman, you are the light of my heart,’ he said, dipping his head to pass out into the dawn light. He chuckled as she threw something that clattered against the closing door.
His