Lords of the Bow. Conn Iggulden
frowned. He did not sheathe his sword, but stepped forward and ran a rough thumb over the oval wound in Kokchu’s arm.
‘None. It is a useful skill,’ he admitted grudgingly. ‘Can it be taught?’
Kokchu smiled, no longer afraid.
‘The spirits will not come to those they have not chosen, lord.’
Genghis nodded, stepping away. Even in the cold wind, the shaman stank like an old goat and he did not know what to make of the strange wound that did not bleed.
With a grunt, he ran his fingers along his blade and sheathed it.
‘I will give you a year of life, shaman. It is enough time to prove your worth.’
Kokchu fell to his knees, pressing his face into the ground.
‘You are the great khan, as I have foretold,’ he said, tears staining the dust on his cheeks. He felt the coldness of whispering spirits leave him then. He shrugged his sleeve forward to hide the fast-growing spot of blood.
‘I am,’ Genghis replied. He looked down the hill at the army waiting for him to return. ‘The world will hear my name.’ When he spoke again, it was so quiet that Kokchu had to strain to hear him.
‘This is not a time of death, shaman. We are one people and there will be no more battles between us. I will summon us all. Cities will fall to us, new lands will be ours to ride. Women will weep and I will be pleased to hear it.’
He looked down at the prostrate shaman, frowning.
‘You will live, shaman. I have said it. Get off your knees and walk down with me.’
At the foot of the hill, Genghis nodded to his brothers, Kachiun and Khasar. Each of them had grown in authority in the years since they had begun the gathering of tribes, but they were still young and Kachiun smiled as his brother walked amongst them.
‘Who is this?’ Khasar asked, staring at Kokchu in his ragged deel.
‘The shaman of the Naimans,’ Genghis replied.
Another man guided his pony close and dismounted, his eyes fastened on Kokchu. Arslan had once been swordsmith to the Naiman tribe and Kokchu recognised him as he approached. The man was a murderer, he remembered, forced into banishment. It was no surprise to find such as he amongst Genghis’ trusted officers.
‘I remember you,’ Arslan said. ‘Has your father died then?’
‘Years ago, oathbreaker,’ Kokchu replied, nettled by the tone. For the first time, he realised he had lost the authority he had won so painfully with the Naimans. There were few men in that tribe who would have looked on him without lowering their eyes, for fear that they would be accused of disloyalty and face his knives and fire. Kokchu met the gaze of the Naiman traitor without flinching. They would come to know him.
Genghis watched the tension between the two men with something like amusement.
‘Do not give offence, shaman. Not to the first warrior to come to my banners. There are no Naimans any longer, nor ties to tribe. I have claimed them all.’
‘I have seen it in the visions,’ Kokchu replied immediately. ‘You have been blessed by the spirits.’
Genghis’ face grew tight at the words.
‘It has been a rough blessing. The army you see around you has been won by strength and skill. If the souls of our fathers were aiding us, they were too subtle for me to see them.’
Kokchu blinked. The khan of the Naimans had been credulous and easy to lead. He realised this new man was not as open to his influence. Still, the air was sweet in his lungs. He lived and he had not expected even that an hour before.
Genghis turned to his brothers, dismissing Kokchu from his thoughts.
‘Have the new men give their oath to me this evening, as the sun sets,’ he said to Khasar. ‘Spread them amongst the others so that they begin to feel part of us, rather than beaten enemies. Do it carefully. I cannot be watching for knives at my back.’
Khasar dipped his head before turning away and striding through the warriors to where the defeated tribes still knelt.
Kokchu saw a smile of affection pass between Genghis and his younger brother Kachiun. The two men were friends and Kokchu was beginning to learn everything he could. Even the smallest detail would be useful in the years to come.
‘We have broken the alliance, Kachiun. Did I not say we would?’ Genghis said, clapping him on the back. ‘Your armoured horses came in at the perfect time.’
‘As you taught me,’ Kachiun replied, easy with the praise.
‘With the new men, this is an army to ride the plains,’ Genghis said, smiling. ‘It is time to set the path, at last.’ He thought for a moment.
‘Send out riders in every direction, Kachiun. I want the land scoured of every wanderer family and small tribe. Tell them to come to the black mountain next spring, near the Onon River. It is a flat plain that will hold all the thousands of our people. We will gather there, ready to ride.’
‘What message shall they take?’ Kachiun asked.
‘Tell them to come to me,’ he said softly. ‘Tell them Genghis calls them to a gathering. There is no one to stand against us now. They can follow me or they can spend their last days waiting for my warriors on the horizon. Tell them that.’ He looked around him with satisfaction. In seven years, he had gathered more than ten thousand men. With the survivors of the defeated allied tribes, he had almost twice that number. There was no one left on the plains who could challenge his leadership. He looked away from the sun to the east, imagining the bloated, wealthy cities of the Chin.
‘They have kept us apart for a thousand generations, Kachiun. They have ridden us until we were nothing more than savage dogs. That is the past. I have brought us together and they will be trembling. I’ll give them cause.’
In the summer dusk, the encampment of the Mongols stretched for miles in every direction, the great gathering still dwarfed by the plain in the shadow of the black mountain. Ger tents speckled the landscape as far as the eye could see and around them thousands of cooking fires lit the ground. Beyond those, herds of ponies, goats, sheep and yaks stripped the ground of grass in their constant hunger. Each dawn saw them driven away to the river and good grazing before returning to the gers. Though Genghis guaranteed the peace, tension and suspicion grew each day. None there had seen such a host before and it was easy to feel hemmed in by the numbers. Insults imaginary and real were exchanged as all felt the pressure of living too close to warriors they did not know. In the evenings, there were many fights between the young men, despite the prohibition. Each dawn found one or two bodies of those who had tried to settle an old score or grudge. The tribes muttered among themselves while they waited to hear why they had been brought so far from their own lands.
In the centre of the army of tents and carts stood the ger of Genghis himself, unlike anything seen before on the plains. Half as high again as the others, it was twice the width and built of stronger materials than the wicker lattice of the gers around it. The construction had proved too heavy to dismantle easily and was mounted on a wheeled cart drawn by eight oxen. As the night came, many hundreds of warriors directed their feet towards it, just to confirm what they had heard and to marvel.
Inside, the great ger was lit with mutton-oil lamps, casting a warm glow over the inhabitants and making the air thick. The walls were hung with silk war banners, but Genghis disdained any show of wealth and sat on a rough wooden bench. His brothers lay sprawled on piled horse blankets and saddles, drinking and chatting idly.
Before Genghis sat a nervous young warrior, still sweating