Bones of the Hills. Conn Iggulden
fighting like cats for the honour, but your man may as well join them.’
Genghis could feel Jochi’s mother watching him as he spoke. Borte would be looking for some public acceptance of her first-born son before she too welcomed him home. As silence fell, Genghis turned at last to Jochi. It was hard not to bristle under that flat, black stare. It had been a long time in the camps since any man dared to meet the eyes of the khan in such a way and Genghis felt his heart thump faster, as if he faced an enemy.
‘I am pleased to see you well and strong, father,’ Jochi said, his voice deeper than Genghis had expected. ‘When I left, you were still weak from the assassin’s poison.’
Genghis saw Tsubodai’s hand twitch, as if he wanted to raise it to Jochi in warning. The general had sharper wits than Jochi, it seemed. The young warrior stood proudly before him as if he were not a rape-born whelp, barely welcome in the gers of his family.
Genghis struggled with his temper, very aware of the silent presence of his wife.
‘It seems I am a difficult man to kill,’ he said softly. ‘You are welcome in my camp, Jochi.’
His son remained still, though for Genghis to grant him guest rights like any common warrior was a subtle barb. He had not said the words to Tsubodai or Khasar; they were not needed between friends.
‘You honour me, my lord khan,’ Jochi said, bowing his head so that his father could not see his furious eyes.
Genghis nodded, weighing the young man as Jochi took his mother’s hands gently in his own and bowed, his face pale and strained. Borte’s eyes filled with tears of joy, but there was more restraint between mother and son than there had been with Ogedai. In such an atmosphere, she could not embrace the tall young warrior. Before Genghis could speak again, Jochi turned to his younger brother and all the stiffness left him in a rush.
‘I see you, little man,’ Jochi said.
Ogedai grinned and came forward to punch Jochi on the shoulder, prompting a brief wrestling match that ended with his head jammed into Jochi’s armpit. Genghis watched irritably, wanting to say something else that would prick Jochi’s easy manner. Instead, Jochi walked Ogedai away over his muffled protests at having his head rubbed. The khan had not actually dismissed his son, and Genghis opened his mouth to have him brought back.
‘Your son has learned well, lord,’ Tsubodai said before he could speak. ‘He has commanded a thousand in battles against the warriors of Russia and the men respect him.’
Genghis scowled, knowing the moment had somehow escaped him.
‘You have not raised him too fast?’ he said.
A weaker man might have agreed, but Tsubodai shook his head immediately, loyal to the young man he had fostered for three years.
‘He learned quickly what it means to command, lord, to have every man look to you alone for strength. My poet has many verses about Jochi and the men speak well of the khan’s son. He can lead. I have no greater praise.’
Genghis glanced over to where Jochi was laughing with Ogedai. Together, they looked younger, more like the boys who had grown in his ger. He nodded grudgingly, but when he spoke again, Tsubodai’s hopes fell.
‘Bad blood may come to the surface at any time, general. In a charge, or a battle, he could turn. Be careful not to risk your life on that one.’
Tsubodai could not contradict the khan without giving insult, though he burned to speak against the unfairness. In the end, his struggle remained internal and he bowed his head.
‘Jelme and Chagatai are only three days away,’ Genghis said, his expression lightening. ‘You will see a son of mine then, Tsubodai, and know why I am proud of him. We will light the land with lamps and eat and drink enough so that men will talk of it for years.’
‘As you say, lord,’ Tsubodai replied, hiding his distress. Over three years, he had seen Jochi grow into a fine man, one capable of leading armies. Tsubodai had seen no weaknesses in him and he knew he was a good judge of men. As he followed the khan’s gaze to his oldest son, Tsubodai grieved for the hurt Jochi must feel. No man should ever be rejected by his father. If Jochi had every other general at his feet and the scorn of Genghis, he would feel only the scorn. As Genghis turned away with Khasar and Kachiun, Tsubodai shook his head slightly before he reasserted the cold face and joined the other men in preparing for the feast. Jelme and Chagatai were coming and Tsubodai did not look forward to seeing Genghis praise his second son over the first.
CHAPTER FOUR
Something wrenched Jelme from a deep sleep. In complete darkness, he sat up, listening intently. The smoke hole in his ger was covered and his eyes could not adjust to the lack of light. At his side, a Chin woman stirred and he reached out to touch her face.
‘Be quiet,’ he whispered. He knew the sounds of the camp: the whickering of ponies, the laughter or weeping in the night that eased him into sleep. He knew the sounds of his people and the slightest change in them. Like a wild dog, some part of him never fully slept. He was too much of an old hand to dismiss the prickling sense of danger as a bad dream. In silence, he threw back his furs and stood bare-chested, wearing just an old pair of leggings.
It was low and distant, but the sound of a scout’s horn was unmistakable. As the note died away, Jelme grabbed for a sword hanging from the central pole. He pulled on soft boots, threw a heavy coat over his shoulders and ducked out into the night.
The camp was already waking around him, warriors mounting with murmurs and clicks to their animals. They were barely a day’s ride from Genghis and Jelme had no idea who could be mad enough to risk the legs of precious horses in the dark. One marmot hole in the wrong place and a foreleg could snap. Jelme could not imagine an enemy on the empty plains, not one who would dare to attack him. Still, he would make ready. He would not be surprised in his own camp.
Chagatai came running across the black grass, his stumbling gait showing the quantity of airag he had put away that evening. The young man winced as lamps were lit around Jelme’s ger, but the general had no sympathy. A warrior should always be ready to ride and he ignored the sallow features of Genghis’ son.
‘Take a hundred men, Chagatai,’ he snapped, his strain showing. ‘Scout around for an enemy, anything. Someone is out tonight.’
The young prince moved away quickly, already whistling for his sub-officers. Jelme drew men in, organising them without hesitation. The scouts had given him time and he did not waste it. Ranks coalesced in the blackness and the night was suddenly noisy as every man, woman and child prepared weapons or stowed supplies and bound up carts. Heavily armed guards ran in pairs through the camp, looking for attackers or thieves.
Jelme sat at the centre of the storm, sensing the swirl of movement all around him. There were no cries of alarm, not yet, though he heard the distant scout’s horn sound once more. In the flickering, hissing light of mutton-fat lamps, his servants brought his favourite gelding and he took the full quiver handed up to him.
By the time Jelme trotted out into the darkness, his army was alert and ready. The first five thousand warriors rode with him, a force of blooded men, well practised in battle. No one liked to fight in the dark and if they had to charge, men and horses would be killed. Jelme clenched his jaw against the cold, feeling it for the first time since he had woken.
Genghis galloped in the darkness, blind drunk and so light he felt the stirrups served a purpose in preventing him from floating away. As tradition demanded, he had begun each skin of airag by flicking a few drops for the spirits that guarded his people. He had spat more over the feast fires, so that the flash sent him reeling in sweet smoke. Despite all that, a fair amount had reached his throat and he had lost count of the skins he had thrown down.
The feast had begun two days before. Genghis had welcomed his returning sons