WOLF OF
THE PLAINS

CONN IGGULDEN

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2007

Copyright © Conn Iggulden 2007

Maps © John Gilkes

Conn Iggulden asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007201747

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007285341

Version: 2018-10-08

Dedication

To my brothers John, David and Hal

‘A multitude of rulers is not a good thing.

Let there be one ruler, one king.’

– Homer, the Iliad

Contents

Title Page Copyright Dedication Epigraph Prologue Part One Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Part Two Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Epilogue Afterword Keep Reading Acknowledgements Sample Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five About The Author Also By Conn Iggulden About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The snow was blinding as the Mongol archers encircled the Tartar raiding party. Each man guided his pony with his knees, standing on the stirrups to fire shaft after shaft with withering accuracy. They were grimly silent, the hooves of their galloping ponies the only sound to challenge the cries of the wounded and the howling wind. The Tartars could not escape the whirring death that came out of the darkening wings of the battle. Their horses fell groaning to their knees, blood spattering bright from their nostrils.

On an outcrop of yellow-grey rock, Yesugei watched the battle, hunched deep into his furs. The wind was a roaring devil on the plain, tearing at his skin where it had lost its covering of mutton grease. He did not show the discomfort. He had borne it for so many years he could not have been sure he even felt it any more. It was just a fact of his life, like having warriors to ride at his word, or enemies to kill.

The Tartars did not lack courage, for all he despised them. Yesugei saw them rally around a young warrior and heard his shouts carry over the wind. The Tartar wore a chain-mail vest that Yesugei envied, lusted after. With curt words of command, the man was preventing the raiders from scattering and Yesugei saw the moment had come to ride. His arban of nine companions felt it, the best of his tribe, blood brothers and bondsmen. They had earned the precious armour they wore, boiled leather inscribed with the leaping figure of a young wolf.

‘Are you ready, my brothers?’ he said, feeling them turn to him.

One of the mares whinnied excitedly and his first warrior, Eeluk, chuckled.

‘We will kill them for you, little one,’ Eeluk said, rubbing her ears.

Yesugei kicked in his heels and they broke effortlessly into a trot towards the screaming, roiling battlefield in the snow. From their height above the fighting, they could all see the full stretch of the wind. Yesugei murmured in awe as he saw the arms of the sky father reach around and around the frail warriors in great white scarves, heavy with ice.

They moved into a gallop without the formation changing and without thought, as each man judged the distances around him as he had for decades. They thought only of how best to cut the enemy from their saddles and leave them cold on the plains.

Yesugei’s arban crashed into the centre of the fighting men, making for the leader who had risen in the last few moments. If he was allowed to live, perhaps he would become a torch for all his tribe to follow. Yesugei smiled as his pony hammered into the first of the enemy. Not today.

The impact broke the back of a Tartar warrior even as he turned to meet the new threat. Yesugei held his mount’s mane in one hand, using his sword in single strikes that left dead men falling like leaves. He refused two blows where the blade of his father might have been lost, instead using the pony to trample the men down and the hilt as a hammer for one unknown soldier. Then he was past and had reached the knotted core of the Tartar resistance. Yesugei’s nine followers were still with him, protecting their khan as they had been sworn from birth. He knew they were there without looking, guarding his back. He saw their presence in the way the Tartar captain’s eyes flickered to each side of him. He would be seeing his death in their flat, grinning faces. Perhaps he had also become aware of all the bodies around him, stiff with arrows. The raid had been crushed.

Yesugei was pleased when the Tartar rose in his stirrups and pointed a long red blade at him. There was no fear in the eyes, only anger and disappointment that the day had come to nothing. The lesson would be wasted on the frozen dead, but Yesugei knew the Tartar tribes would not miss the significance. They would find the blackened bones when the spring came and they would know not to raid his herds again.

Yesugei chuckled, making the Tartar warrior frown as they stared at each other. No, they would not learn. Tartars could starve to death deciding on a mother’s tit. They would be back and he would ride out to them again, killing even more of their dishonest blood. The prospect pleased him.

He saw that the Tartar who had challenged him was young. Yesugei thought of the son being born to him over the hills to the east and wondered if he too would face a grizzled older warrior across the length of a sword one day.

‘What is your name?’ Yesugei said.

The battle had finished around them and already his Mongols walked among the corpses, taking anything of use. The wind still roared, but the question was heard and Yesugei saw a frown pass across the face of his young enemy.

‘What is yours, yak penis?’

Yesugei chuckled, but his exposed skin was beginning to ache and he was tired. They had tracked the raiding party for almost two days across his land, going without sleep and surviving on nothing more than a handful of wet milk curd each day. His sword was ready to take another life and he raised the blade.

‘It does not matter, boy. Come to me.’

The Tartar warrior must have seen something in his eyes that was more certain than an arrow. He nodded, resigned.

‘My name is Temujin-Uge,’ he said. ‘My death will be avenged. I am the son of a great house.’

He dug in his heels and his mount surged at Yesugei. The khan’s sword whipped through the air in a single stroke of perfect economy. The body fell at his feet and the pony bolted across the battleground.

‘You are carrion, boy,’ Yesugei said, ‘as are all men who steal from my herds.’

He looked around him at his gathered warriors. Forty- seven had left their ger tents to answer his call. They had lost four of their brothers against the ferocity of the Tartar raid, but not one of twenty Tartars would return home. The price had been high, but the winter drove men to the edge in all things.

‘Strip the bodies quickly,’ Yesugei ordered. ‘It is too late to return to the tribe. We will camp in the shelter of the rocks.’

Valuable metal or bows were much prized for trade and to replace broken weapons. Except for the chain-mail vest, the pickings were poor, confirming Yesugei’s thought that this was simply a party of young warriors out to skirmish and prove themselves. They had not planned to fight to the death on earth as hard as stone. He draped the bloody metal garment over his saddle horn when it was thrown to him. It was of good quality and would stop a dagger’s blow, at least. He wondered who the young warrior had been to own such a valuable thing, turning his name over in his mind. He shrugged. It no longer mattered. He would trade his share of their ponies for strong drink and furs when the tribes met to trade. Despite the cold in his bones, it had been a good day.

The storm had not eased by the following morning, when Yesugei and his men returned to the camp. Only the outriders moved lightly as they rode, staying alert against sudden attack. The rest were so bundled in furs and weighed down with looted goods that they were shapeless and half-frozen, rimed in dirty ice and grease.

The families had chosen their site well, against the lee of a craggy hill of rock and wind-blasted lichen, the gers almost invisible in the snow. The only light was a dim brightening behind boiling clouds, yet the returning warriors were spotted by one of the sharp-eyed boys who watched for attack. It lifted Yesugei’s heart to hear the piping voices warn of his approach.

The women and children of the tribe could hardly be stirring yet, he thought. In such a cold, they dragged themselves from sleep only to light the iron stoves. The time of true rising came an hour or two later, when the great tents of felt and wicker had lost the snap of ice in the air.

As the ponies came closer, Yesugei heard a scream rise like the grey smoke coming from Hoelun’s ger and felt his heart beat faster in anticipation. He had one baby son, but death was always close for the young. A khan needed as many heirs as his tents could hold. He whispered a prayer for another boy, a brother for the first.

He heard his hawk echo the high note inside the ger as he vaulted from the saddle, his leather armour creaking at each step. He barely saw the servant who took the reins, standing impassively in his furs. Yesugei pushed open the wooden door and entered his home, the snow on his armour melting instantly and dripping in pools.

‘Ha! Get off!’ he said, laughing as his two hounds jumped up in a frenzy, licking and bounding madly around him. His hawk chirruped a welcome, though he thought it was more a desire to be off on the hunt. His first son, Bekter, crawled naked in a corner, playing with curds of cheese as hard as stones. All these things Yesugei registered without his eyes leaving the woman on the furs. Hoelun was flushed with the stove’s heat, but her eyes were bright in the gold lamplight. Her fine, strong face shone with sweat and he saw a trace of blood on her forehead where she had wiped the back of her hand. The midwife was fussing with a bundle of cloth and he knew from Hoelun’s smile that he had a second son.

‘Give him to me,’ Yesugei ordered, stepping forward.

The midwife drew back with her wrinkled mouth puckering in irritation.

‘You will crush him with your big hands. Let him take his mother’s milk. You can hold him later, when he is strong.’

Yesugei could not resist craning for a sight of the little boy as the midwife laid him down, cleaning the small limbs with a rag. In his furs, he loomed over them both and the child seemed to see him, launching a ferocious bout of squalling.

‘He knows me,’ Yesugei said, with pride.

The midwife snorted. ‘He is too young,’ she muttered.

Yesugei did not respond. He smiled down at the red-faced infant, then, without warning, his manner changed and his arm snapped out. He gripped the elderly midwife around the wrist.

‘What is that in his hand?’ he asked, his voice hushed.

The midwife had been about to wipe the fingers clean, but under Yesugei’s fierce gaze, she opened the infant’s hand gently, revealing a clot of blood the size of an eye that trembled with the tiniest movement. It was black and shone like oil. Hoelun had raised herself up to see what part of her newborn boy had caught Yesugei’s attention. When she saw the dark lump, she moaned to herself.

‘He holds blood in his right hand,’ she whispered. ‘He will walk with death all his life.’

Yesugei drew in a sharp breath, wishing she had not spoken. It was reckless to invite an evil fate for the boy. He brooded in silence for a time, considering. The midwife continued nervously with her wrapping and cleaning, the clot quivering on the blankets. Yesugei reached for it and held it in his own hand, glistening.

‘He was born with death in his right hand, Hoelun. That is fitting. He is a khan’s son and death is a companion for him. He will be a great warrior.’ He watched as the baby boy was handed over at last to his exhausted mother, suckling ferociously on a nipple as soon as it was presented to him. His mother winced, then bit her lip.

Yesugei’s expression was still troubled as he turned to the midwife.

‘Throw the bones, old mother. Let us see if this clot of blood means good or evil for the Wolves.’ His eyes were bleak and he did not need to say that the child’s life depended on the outcome. He was the khan and the tribe looked to him for strength. He wanted to believe the words he had used to avert the sky father’s jealousy, but he feared that Hoelun’s prophecy had been the truth.

The midwife bowed her head, understanding that something fearful and strange had come into the birthing rituals. She reached into a bag of sheep ankle bones by the stove, dyed red and green by the children of the tribe. Depending on how they fell, they could be named horse, cow, sheep or yak, and there were a thousand games played with them. The elders knew they could reveal more when cast at the right time and place. The midwife drew back her arm to throw, but again Yesugei restrained her, his sudden clasp making her wince.

‘He is my blood, this little warrior. Let me,’ he said, taking four of the bones from her. She did not resist, chilled by his cold expression. Even the dogs and hawk had grown still.

Yesugei threw the bones and the old midwife gasped as they came to rest.

‘Aiee. Four horses is very lucky. He will be a great rider. He will conquer from a horse.’

Yesugei nodded fiercely. He wanted to hold up his son to the tribe, and would have if the storm had not raged around the ger, searching for a way into the warmth. The cold was an enemy, yet it kept the tribes strong. The old did not suffer for long in such bitter winters. The weakling children perished quickly. His son would not be one of those.

Yesugei watched the tiny scrap of a child pulling at his mother’s soft breast. The boy had gold-coloured eyes like his own, almost wolf yellow in their lightness. Hoelun looked up at the father and nodded, his pride easing her worry. She was certain the clot was a dark omen, but the bones had gone some way towards calming her.

‘Have you a name for him?’ the midwife asked Hoelun.

Yesugei replied without a hesitation. ‘My son’s name is Temujin,’ he said. ‘He will be iron.’ Outside, the storm roared on without a sign of ceasing.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

On a spring day in his twelfth year, Temujin raced his four brothers across the steppes, in the shadow of the mountain known as Deli’un-Boldakh. The eldest, Bekter, rode a grey mare with skill and concentration and Temujin matched his pace, waiting for a chance to go past. Behind them came Khasar, whooping wildly as he moved up on the two leaders. At ten, Khasar was a favourite in the tribe, as light-hearted as Bekter was sullen and dark. His red- mottled stallion snorted and whickered after Bekter’s mare, making the little boy laugh. Kachiun came next in the galloping line, an eight-year-old not given to the openness that made people love Khasar. Of all of them, Kachiun seemed the most serious, even secretive. He spoke only rarely and did not complain, no matter what Bekter did to him. Kachiun had a knack with the ponies that few others could match, able to nurse a burst of speed when the rest were flagging. Temujin glanced over his shoulder to where Kachiun had positioned himself, his balance perfect. He seemed to be idling along, but they had all been surprised before and Temujin kept a close eye on him.

Already some way behind his brothers, the smallest and youngest of them could be heard calling plaintively for them to wait. Temuge was a boy with too much love for sweet things and laziness, and it showed in his riding. Temujin grinned at the sight of the chubby boy flapping his arms for more speed. Their mother had warned against including the youngest in their wild tournaments. Temuge had barely grown out of the need to be tied to the saddle, but he wailed if they left him behind. Bekter had yet to find a kind word for Temuge.

Their high voices carried far across the spring grass of the plain. They galloped flat out, with each boy perched like a bird on the ponies’ backs. Yesugei had once called them his sparrows and looked on with pride at their skill. Temujin had told Bekter that he was too fat to be a sparrow and had been forced to spend a night hiding out from the older boy’s bad temper.

On such a day, though, the mood of the whole tribe was light. The spring rains had come and the rivers ran full again, winding across plains where dry clay had been only days before. The mares had warm milk for drinking and making into cheese and cool yoghurt. Already, the first touches of green were showing through the bones of the hills and with it came the promise of a summer and warm days. It was a gathering year, and before the next winter, the tribes would come together in peace to compete and trade. Yesugei had decreed that this year the families of the Wolves would make the trip of more than a thousand miles to replenish their herds. The prospect of seeing the wrestlers and archers was enough to have the boys on their best behaviour. The races, though, were what held them rapt and played across their imaginations as they rode. Except for Bekter, the boys had all seen their mother privately, asking Hoelun to put in a word with Yesugei. Each of them wanted to race the long distance or the sprints, to make a name for themselves and be honoured.

It went unspoken that a boy who returned to his gers with a title such as ‘Exalted rider’ or ‘Master of Horse’ might one day win their father’s position when he retired to tend his herds. With the possible exception of fat Temuge, the others could not help but dream. It galled Temujin that Bekter assumed he would be the one, as if a year or two of age made a difference. Their relationship had become strained ever since Bekter had returned from his betrothal year away from the tribe. The older boy had grown in some indefinable way and though Temujin was still the tallest of the brothers, he had found the new Bekter a humourless companion.

It had seemed an act at first to Temujin, with Bekter only pretending at maturity. The brooding boy no longer spoke without thinking and seemed to weigh every statement in his mind before he allowed it past his lips. Temujin had mocked his seriousness, but the months of winter had come and gone with no sign of an easing. There were moments when Temujin still found his brother’s pompous moods amusing, but he could respect Bekter’s temper, if not his right to inherit their father’s tents and sword.

Temujin watched Bekter as he rode, careful not to let a gap grow between them. It was too fine a day to worry about the distant future and Temujin daydreamed about all four brothers – all five with Bekter, even – sweeping the board of honours at the tribal gathering. Yesugei would swell with pride and Hoelun would grip them one by one and call them her little warriors, her little horsemen. Even Temuge could be entered at six years of age, though the risks of a fall were huge. Temujin frowned to himself as Bekter glanced over his shoulder, checking his lead. Despite their subtle manoeuvring, Yesugei had not yet given permission for any of them to take part as the spring came.

Hoelun was pregnant again and close to the end of her time. The pregnancy had been hard on her and quite different from the ones before. Each day began and ended with her retching over a bucket until her face was speckled with spots of blood under the skin. Her sons were on their best behaviour while they waited for Yesugei to cease his worried pacing outside the gers. In the end, the khan had grown tired of their stares and careful silence, sending them off to run the winter out of the horses. Temujin had continued to chatter and Yesugei had picked him up in one powerful hand and tossed him at a stallion with a white sock. Temujin had twisted in the air to land and launch into a gallop in one movement. Whitefoot was a baleful, snappy beast, but his father had known he was the boy’s favourite.

Yesugei had watched the others mount without a sign of his pride on his broad, dark face. Like his father before him, he was not a man to show emotion, especially not to sons he could make weak. It was part of a father’s responsibility to be feared, though there were times when he ached to hug the boys and throw them up into the air. Knowing which horses they preferred showed his affection, and if they guessed at his feelings from a glance or a light in his eye, that was no more than his own father had done years before. He valued those memories in part for their rarity and could still recall the time his father had finally grunted approval at his knots and ropework with a heavy load. It was a small thing, but Yesugei thought of the old man whenever he yanked a rope tight, his knee hard into the bales. He watched his boys ride into the bright sunshine, and when they could no longer see him, his expression eased. His father had known the need for hard men in a hard land. Yesugei knew they would have to survive battle, thirst and hunger if they were to reach manhood. Only one could be khan of the tribe. The others would either bend the knee or leave with just a wanderer’s gift of goats and sheep. Yesugei shook his head at the thought, gazing after the dust trail of his sons’ ponies. The future loomed over them, while they saw only the spring and the green hills.

The sun was bright on his face as Temujin galloped. He revelled in the lift in spirit that came from a fast horse straining under him, the wind in his face. Ahead, he saw Bekter’s grey mare recover from a stumble on a loose stone. His brother reacted with a sharp blow to the side of the mare’s head, but they had lost a length and Temujin whooped as if he were about to ride past. It was not the right moment. He loved to lead, but he also enjoyed pressuring Bekter, because of the way it annoyed him.

Bekter was already almost the man he would be, with wide, muscular shoulders and immense stamina. His betrothal year with the Olkhun’ut people had given him an aura of worldly knowledge he never failed to exploit. It irritated Temujin like a thorn under his skin, especially when his brothers pestered Bekter with questions about their mother’s people and their customs. Temujin too wanted to know, but he decided grimly that he would wait to find out on his own, when Yesugei took him.

When a young warrior returned from his wife’s tribe, he was given the status of a man for the first time. When the girl came into her blood, she would be sent after him with an honour guard to show her value. A ger would be ready for her and her young husband would wait at its door to take her inside.

For the Wolves, it was tradition for the young man to challenge his khan’s bondsmen before he was fully accepted as a warrior. Bekter had been eager and Temujin remembered watching in awe as Bekter had walked up to the bondsmen’s fire, close to Yesugei’s ger. Bekter had nodded to them and three men had stood to see if his time with the Olkhun’ut had weakened him. From the shadows, Temujin had watched, with Khasar and Kachiun silent at his side. Bekter had wrestled all three of the bondsmen, one after the other, taking terrible punishment without complaint. Eeluk had been the last, and the man was like a pony himself, a wall of flat muscle and wide arms. He had thrown Bekter so hard that blood had run from one of his ears, but then to Temujin’s surprise, Eeluk had helped Bekter up and held a cup of hot black airag for him to drink. Bekter had almost choked at the bitter fluid mingling with his own blood, but the warriors had not seemed to mind.

Temujin had enjoyed witnessing his older brother beaten almost senseless, but he saw too that the men no longer scorned him around the fires at night. Bekter’s courage had won him something intangible but important. As a result, he had become a stone in Temujin’s path.

As the brothers raced across the plains under a spring sun, there was no finishing line, as there would be at the great gathering of tribes. Even if there had been, it was too soon after winter to really push their mounts. They all knew better than to exhaust the ponies before they had a little summer fat and good green grass in their bellies. This was a race away from chores and responsibilities, and it would leave them with nothing but arguments about who had cheated, or should have won.

Bekter rode almost upright, so that he seemed peculiarly motionless as the horse galloped under him. It was an illusion, Temujin knew. Bekter’s hands on the reins were guiding subtly and his grey mare was fresh and strong. He would take some beating. Temujin rode as Khasar did, low on the saddle, so that he was practically flat against the horse’s neck. The wind seemed to sting a little more and both boys preferred the position.

Temujin sensed Khasar moving up on his right shoulder. He urged the last breath of speed from Whitefoot and the little pony snorted with something like anger as it galloped. Temujin could see Khasar’s pony out of the corner of his eye and he considered veering slightly, as if by accident. Khasar seemed to sense his intention and lost a length as he moved away, leaving Temujin grinning. They knew each other too well to race, he sometimes thought. He could see Bekter glance back and their eyes met for a second. Temujin raised his eyebrows and showed his teeth.

‘I am coming,’ he called. ‘Try to stop me!’

Bekter turned his back on him, stiff with dislike. It was something of a rarity to have Bekter come riding with them, but as he was there, Temujin could see he was determined to show the ‘children’ how a warrior could ride. He would not take a loss easily, which was why Temujin would strain every muscle and sinew to beat him.

Khasar had gained on both of them, and before Temujin could move to block him, he had almost drawn level. The two boys smiled at each other, confirming that they shared the joy of the day and the speed. The long, dark winter was behind, and though it would come back too soon, they would have this time and take pleasure in it. There was no better way to live. The tribe would eat fat mutton and the herds would birth more sheep and goats for food and trade. The evenings would be spent fletching arrows or braiding horsetails into twine; in song or listening to stories and the history of the tribes. Yesugei would ride against any young Tartars who raided their herds and the tribe would move lightly on the plains, from river to river. There would be work, but in summer the days were long enough to give hours free to waste, a luxury they never seemed to find in the cold months. What was the point in wandering away to explore when a wild dog might find and bite you in the night? That had happened to Temujin when he was only a little older than Kachiun and the fear had stayed with him.

It was Khasar who saw that Temuge had fallen, glancing back in case Kachiun was staging a late rush for the grass crown. Khasar claimed to have the sharpest eyes of the tribe and he saw that the sprawled speck was not moving, making a decision in an instant. He whistled high-low to Bekter and Temujin, letting them know he was pulling out. Both boys looked back and then further to where Temuge lay in a still heap. Temujin and his older brother shared a moment of indecision, neither willing to give the race to the other. Bekter shrugged as if it did not matter and reined his mare into a wide circle back the way they had come. Temujin matched him exactly and they galloped as a pair behind the others, the leaders become the led. It was Kachiun now who rode first amongst them, though Temujin doubted the boy even thought of it. At eight, Kachiun was closest in age to Temuge and had spent many long evenings teaching him the names of things in the gers, demonstrating an unusual patience and kindness. Perhaps as a result, Temuge spoke better than many boys of his age, though he was hopeless with the knots Kachiun’s quick fingers tried to show him. The youngest of Yesugei’s sons was clumsy, and if any of them had been asked to guess at the identity of a fallen rider, they would have said ‘Temuge’ without a moment’s hesitation.

Temujin jumped from his saddle as he reached the others. Kachiun was already on the ground with Khasar, lifting the supine Temuge into a sitting position.

The little boy’s face was very pale and bruised-looking. Kachiun slapped him gently, wincing as Temuge’s head lolled.

‘Wake up, little man,’ Kachiun told his brother, but there was no response. Temujin’s shadow fell across them and Kachiun deferred to him immediately.

‘I didn’t see him fall,’ he said, as if his seeing would have helped.

Temujin nodded, his deft hands feeling Temuge for broken bones or signs of a wound. There was a lump on the side of his head, hidden by the black hair. Temujin prodded at it.

‘He’s knocked out, but I can’t feel a break. Give me a little water for him.’

He held out a hand and Khasar pulled a leather bottle from a saddle cloth, drawing the stopper with his teeth. Temujin dribbled the warm liquid into Temuge’s open mouth.

‘Don’t choke him,’ Bekter advised, reminding them he was still mounted, as if he supervised the others.

Temujin didn’t trouble to reply. He was filled with dread as to what their mother Hoelun would say if Temuge died. They could hardly give her such news while her belly was filled with another child. She was weak from sickness and Temujin thought the shock and grief might kill her, yet how could they hide it? She doted on Temuge and her habit of feeding him the sweet yoghurt curds was part of the reason for his chubby flesh.

Without warning, Temuge choked and spat water. Bekter made an irritable sound with his lips, tired of the children’s games. The rest of them beamed at each other.

‘I dreamed of the eagle,’ Temuge said.

Temujin nodded at him. ‘That is a good dream,’ he said, ‘but you must learn to ride, little man. Our father would be shamed in front of his bondsmen if he heard you had fallen.’ Another thought struck him and he frowned. ‘If he does hear, we may not be allowed to race at the gathering.’

Even Khasar lost his smile at that, and Kachiun pursed his mouth in silent worry. Temuge smacked his lips for more water and Temujin passed him the bottle.

‘If anyone asks about your lump, tell them we were playing and you hit your head – understand, Temuge? This is a secret. The sons of Yesugei do not fall.’

Temuge saw that they were all watching his response, even Bekter, who frightened him. He nodded vigorously, wincing at the pain.

‘I hit my head,’ he said, dazedly. ‘And I saw the eagle from the red hill.’

‘There are no eagles on the red hill,’ Khasar replied. ‘I was trapping marmots there only ten days ago. I would have seen a sign.’

Temuge shrugged, which was unusual in itself. The little boy was a terrible liar and, when challenged, he would shout, as if by growing louder they would be forced to believe him. Bekter was in the process of turning his pony away when he looked thoughtfully at the little boy.

‘When did you see the eagle?’ Bekter said.

Temuge shrugged. ‘I saw him yesterday, circling over the red hill. In my dream, he was larger than a normal eagle. He had claws as large as …’

‘You saw a real eagle?’ Temujin interrupted. He reached out and held his arm. ‘A real bird, this early in the season? You saw one?’ He wanted to be certain it was not one of Temuge’s idiotic stories. They all remembered the time he had come into the ger one night claiming to have been chased by marmots who rose up on their hind legs and spoke to him.

Bekter’s expression showed he shared the same memory. ‘He is dizzy from the fall,’ he said.

Temujin noticed how Bekter had taken a firmer hold on the reins. As slowly as he might approach a wild deer, Temujin rose to his feet, risking a glance to where his own pony cropped busily at the turf. Their father’s hawk had died and he still mourned the loss of the great-hearted bird. Temujin knew Yesugei dreamed of hunting with an eagle, but sightings were rare and the nests were usually on cliffs sheer enough and high enough to defeat the most determined climber. Temujin saw that Kachiun had reached his pony and was ready to go. A nest could have an eagle chick for their father to keep. Perhaps Bekter wanted one for himself, but the others knew that Yesugei would be overcome with gratitude to the boy who brought him the khan of birds. The eagles ruled the air as the tribes ruled the land, and they lived almost as long as a man. Such a gift would mean they all could ride in the races that year, for certain. It would be seen as a good omen that an eagle had come to their father, strengthening his position with the families.

Temuge had made it to his feet, touching his head and wincing at the speck of blood that showed on his fingers. He did seem dazed, but they believed what he had said. The race of the morning had been a light-hearted thing. This one would be real.

Temujin was the first to move, fast as a dog snapping. He leapt for Whitefoot’s back, calling ‘Chuh!’ as he landed and startling the ill-tempered beast into a snorting run. Kachiun flowed onto his horse with the neatness and balance that marked all his movement, Khasar only an instant behind him, laughing aloud with excitement.

Bekter was already lunging forward, his mare’s haunches bunching under him as he kicked in and went. In just a few heartbeats, Temuge was left standing alone on the plain, staring bemusedly after the cloud of dust from his brothers. Shaking his head to clear his blurred vision, he took a moment to vomit a milky breakfast onto the grass. He felt a little better after that and clambered up onto the saddle, heaving his pony’s head from its grazing. With a last pull at the grass, the pony snorted and he too was off, jolting and bouncing behind his brothers.

CHAPTER TWO

The sun was high in the sky before the boys reached the red hill. After the initial wild gallop, each one of them had settled into a mile-eating trot their sturdy ponies could keep up for hours at a time. Bekter and Temujin rode together at the front in mutual truce, Khasar and Kachiun just behind. They were all tired by the time they sighted the great rock the tribes called the red hill, an immense boulder hundreds of feet high. It was surrounded by a dozen others of lesser size, like a wolf mother with her cubs. The boys had spent many hours climbing there the previous summer and knew the area well.

Bekter and Temujin scanned the horizon restlessly, looking for sign of other riders. The Wolves claimed no hunting rights to land this far away from the gers. Like so much else on the plains, the stream water, the milk, the furs and meat, everything belonged to whoever had the strength to take it, or better still, the strength to keep it. Khasar and Kachiun saw no further than the excitement of finding an eagle chick, but the two older boys were ready to defend themselves or run. Both carried knives and Bekter had a quiver and a small bow across his back that could be quickly strung. Against boys from another tribe, they would acquit themselves well, Temujin thought. Against fully grown warriors, they would be in serious danger and their father’s name would not help them.

Temuge was again a speck behind the other four, persevering despite the sweat and buzzing flies that seemed to find him delicious. To his miserable eye, his brothers in their neat pairs seemed like a different breed, like hawks to his lark, or wolves to his dog. He wanted them to like him, but they were all so tall and competent. He was even clumsier in their presence than on his own and he could never seem to speak the way he wanted to, except sometimes to Kachiun, in the quiet of the evenings.

Temuge dug his heels in viciously, but his pony sensed his lack of skill and rarely raised itself even to a trot, never mind a gallop. Kachiun had said he was too tender-hearted, but Temuge had tried beating the pony mercilessly when he was out of sight of his brothers. It made no difference to the lazy beast.

If he had not known his brothers’ destination, he would have been lost and left behind in the first hour. Their mother had told them never to leave him, but they did it anyway and he knew complaining to her would earn him cuffs around the ears from all of them. By the time the red hill came into sight, Temuge was feeling thoroughly sorry for himself. Even from a distance, he could hear Bekter and Temujin arguing. Temuge sighed, shifting his buttocks where they had begun to ache. He felt in his pockets for more of the sweet milk curds and found the end of an old one. Before the others could see, he stuffed the little white stick into his cheek, hiding his blissful enjoyment from their sharp sight.

The four brothers stood by their ponies, staring at Temuge as he ambled closer.

‘I could carry him faster than that,’ Temujin said.

The ride to the red hill had become a race again in the last mile and they had arrived at full gallop, leaping off and tumbling in the dust. Only then had it occurred to them that someone had to stay with the ponies. They could be hobbled by wrapping reins around their legs, but the boys were far from their tribe and who knew what thieves were ready to ride in and snatch them away? Bekter had told Kachiun to stay at the bottom, but the boy was a better climber than the other three and refused. After a few minutes of argument, they had all nominated one of the others and Khasar and Kachiun had come to blows, with Khasar sitting on his younger brother’s head while he struggled in silent fury. Bekter had cuffed them apart with a curse when Kachiun went a dark purple. Waiting for Temuge to get there was the only sensible solution and, in truth, more than one of them had taken a good look at the sheer face of the red hill and had second thoughts about racing his brothers up it. Perhaps more worrying than the bare rock was the complete lack of eagle sign. It was too much to expect droppings, or even the sight of a circling bird guarding the nest or hunting. In the absence of any proof, they could not help but wonder again if Temuge had been lying, or spinning a wild tale to impress them.

Temujin felt his stomach begin to ache. He had missed the morning meal and, with a hard climb ahead, he didn’t want to risk becoming weak. While the others watched Temuge approach, he picked up a handful of reddish dust and made it into a paste with a dribble of water from the saddle bottle. Whitefoot bared his teeth and whinnied, but did not resist as Temujin tied his reins to a scrub bush and drew his knife.

It was the work of a moment to nick a vein in the pony’s shoulder and clamp his mouth to it. The blood was hot and thin and Temujin felt it restore his energy and warm his empty belly like the best black airag. He counted six mouthfuls before he took his lips away and pressed a bloody finger over the wound. The paste of dust and water helped the clotting and he knew there would be just a small scab by the time he returned. He grinned, showing red teeth to his brothers and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could feel his strength return now that his stomach was full. He checked the blood was clotting on Whitefoot’s shoulder, watching a slow dribble reach down the leg. The pony didn’t seem to feel it and resumed cropping the spring grass. Temujin brushed a fly away from the blood trail and patted the animal on its neck.

Bekter too had dismounted. Seeing Temujin feed himself, the older boy knelt and directed a thin trail of warm milk into his mouth from his mare’s teat, smacking his lips in noisy appreciation. Temujin ignored the display, though Khasar and Kachiun looked up hopefully. They knew from experience that if they asked they would be refused, but if they ignored their thirst, Bekter might condescend to allow a warm mouthful to each boy.

‘Drink, Khasar?’ Bekter said, raising his head sharply.

Khasar did not wait to be asked twice and ducked his head like a foal to where Bekter held the dark teat, shining with milk. Khasar sucked greedily at the spray, getting some of it over his face and hands. He snorted, choking, and even Bekter smiled before he beckoned Kachiun over.

Kachiun looked at Temujin, seeing how stiffly he stood. The little boy narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. Bekter shrugged, releasing the teat with just a glance at Temujin before he stretched his back and watched the youngest of their brothers clamber down from his pony.

Temuge dismounted with his usual caution. For a boy of only six summers it was a long way to the ground, though other children in the tribe would leap from the saddle with all the fearlessness of their older brethren. Temuge could not manage such a simple thing and all his brothers winced as he landed and staggered. Bekter made a clicking sound in his throat and Temuge’s face darkened under their scrutiny.

‘This is the place?’ Temujin asked.

Temuge nodded. ‘I saw an eagle circling here. The nest is somewhere near the top,’ he said, squinting upwards.

Bekter grimaced. ‘It was probably a hawk,’ he muttered, following Temuge’s gaze.

Temuge flushed even deeper. ‘It was an eagle! Dark brown and larger than any hawk who ever lived!’

Bekter shrugged at the outburst, choosing the moment to spit a wad of milky phlegm onto the ground.

‘Maybe. I’ll know when I find the nest.’

Temujin might have replied to the challenge, but Kachiun had tired of their bickering and strode past them all, pulling at the waist cloth that held his padded deel in place. He let the coat fall, revealing just a bare-armed tunic and linen leggings, as he took his first handholds on the rocks. The soft leather of his boots gripped almost as well as his bare feet. The others stripped down as he had, seeing the sense in leaving the heaviest cloth on the ground.

Temujin moved twenty paces around the base before he saw another place to begin, spitting on his hands and taking a grip. Khasar grinned in excitement and threw his reins at Temuge, startling the little boy. Bekter found his own place and set his strong hands and feet in clefts, lifting himself up with a small grunt.

In a few moments, Temuge was alone again. At first, he was miserable and his neck ached from staring up at the climbing figures. When they were no larger than spiders, his stomach made its presence felt. With a last look at his more energetic brothers, he strolled over to steal a stomachful of milk from Bekter’s mare. There were some advantages to being last, he had discovered.

After a hundred feet, Temujin knew he was high enough for the fall to kill him. He listened over his panting breath for his brothers, but there was no sound or sight of them in any direction. He clung by fingertips and boots, leaning out as far as he could to see a route higher. The air seemed colder and the sky was achingly clear above his head, without a cloud to spoil the illusion of climbing towards a blue bowl. Small lizards scurried away from his questing fingers and he almost lost his grip when one was trapped, squirming, under his hand. When his heart had stopped hammering, he brushed its broken body from the ledge where it had been enjoying the sun, watching it twist in the wind as it fell.

Far below, Temujin saw Temuge pulling at the teats of Bekter’s mare and hoped he had enough sense to leave some. Bekter would thrash him if he found the milk gone, and the greedy little boy probably deserved it.

The sun was hard on the back of his neck and Temujin felt a line of sweat touch his eyelashes, making him blink against the sting. He shook his head, hanging from just his hands as his feet scrabbled for a new place to rest. Temuge could have killed one of them with his stories of eagles, but it was too late for doubts. Temujin was not even sure he could get back down the sheer slope. At such a height, he had to find a place to rest, or he would fall.

The blood in his stomach gurgled as he moved, reminding him of its strength and making him belch its bitter smell. Temujin bared his teeth as he pulled himself higher. He could feel a worm of fear in his stomach and it began to make him angry. He would not be afraid. He was a son of Yesugei, a Wolf. He would be khan one day. He would not be afraid and he would not fall. He began to murmur the words to himself, over and over as he climbed, staying close to the rock as the wind grew in force, tugging at him. It also helped to imagine Bekter’s irritation if Temujin reached the top first.

A gust made his stomach drop with a sudden feeling that he would be plucked and thrown from the high rock, smashing into the ground by Temuge. He found that his fingers were shaking with each new grip, the first sign of weakness. He took strength from his anger and went on.

It was hard to guess how far he had come, but Temuge and the ponies were only specks below and his arms and legs burned with effort. Temujin came to a ridge where he could stand out of the wind and gasped there, recovering. He could see no way to go further at first, and craned around a shelf of rock. He would surely not be stuck there while the others found easier routes up? Only Kachiun was a better climber and Temujin knew he should take time to rest his aching muscles. He took a deep breath of the warm air, enjoying the view for miles around. He felt as if he could see all the way to the gers of their tribe and wondered if Hoelun had given birth. Surely many hours had passed since they arrived at the red hill?

‘Are you stuck?’ he heard above him.

Temujin swore aloud as he saw Kachiun’s face peering over the ledge. The boy met his gaze with the beginnings of a smile crinkling his eyes. Temujin shuffled along the ledge until he grasped a decent handhold. He had to hope it would lead to another above. With Kachiun looking on, he controlled his breathing and showed the cold face of the warrior. He had to jump up to reach for a second grip and, for a moment, fear overwhelmed him. On the ground it would have been nothing, but on the ground he would have fallen only a little way. With the wind moaning around the crags, Temujin did not dare think of the emptiness at his back.

His arms and legs blurred as he shoved himself up by sheer strength and energy. To stop moving was to begin to fall and Temujin roared as he made it to where Kachiun was kneeling, calmly watching his progress.

‘Ha! Khans of the mountain do not get stuck,’ he told Kachiun, triumphantly.

His brother digested this in silence.

‘The hill breaks apart just above us,’ he said. ‘Bekter has taken the south col to the peak.’

Temujin was impressed at his brother’s calm. He watched as Kachiun walked to the edge of the red boulder he’d climbed in panic, going close enough to have the wind pull at his braided hair.

‘Bekter does not know where the eagles are, if they are here at all,’ Temujin told him.

Kachiun shrugged again. ‘He took the easier path. I don’t think an eagle would build a nest where it could be so easily reached.’

‘There’s another way, then?’ Temujin asked. As he spoke, he scrambled up a shallow slope to get a better view of the summits of the red hill. There were two, as Kachiun had said, and Temujin could see Bekter and Khasar on the one to the south. Even from a distance, both boys could identify the powerful figure of their eldest brother, moving slowly but steadily. The northern peak that loomed above Temujin and Kachiun was a spike of rock even more daunting than the initial sheer slope they had climbed.

Temujin clenched his fists, feeling the heaviness in his arms and calves.

‘Are you ready?’ Kachiun asked him, nodding towards the northern face.

Temujin reached out and caught his serious little brother around the back of the head in a quick clasp. He saw that Kachiun had lost a fingernail from his right hand. There was a crust of blood running right along his forearm to the sinewy muscles there, but the boy showed no sign of his discomfort.

‘I am ready,’ Temujin said. ‘Why did you wait for me?’

Kachiun grunted softly, taking a fresh hold on the rock.

‘If you fell, Bekter would be khan one day.’

‘He might be a good one,’ Temujin said, grudgingly. He did not believe it, but he remembered how Bekter had wrestled his father’s bondsmen. There were aspects of the adult world he did not yet fully understand and Bekter had at least the attitudes of a warrior.

Kachiun snorted at that. ‘He rides like a stone, Temujin. Who can follow a man who sits so badly?’

Temujin smiled as he and Kachiun began to climb.

It was a fraction easier with two of them working together. More than once, Temujin used his strength to support Kachiun’s foot as the boy swarmed up the face like an agile spider. He climbed as well as he rode, but his young body was showing signs of exhaustion and Temujin saw he was growing pale as they put another hundred feet behind them. Both boys were panting and their arms and legs seemed too heavy to move.

The sun had crossed the highest point of the sky and begun its trail towards the west. Temujin eyed its position whenever he could find a place to snatch a moment of relief from the strain. They could not be caught on the face in the dark, or both of them would fall. More worrying was the sight of a looming ridge of cloud in the distance. A summer storm would tear them all off the red hill, and he feared for his brothers as Kachiun slipped and almost took them both to their deaths.

‘I have you. Find another hold,’ Temujin grunted, his breath coming like fire from his open mouth. He could not remember being so tired and still the summit seemed impossibly far. Kachiun managed to take his weight off Temujin’s arm, looking back for a moment at the bleeding scuff marks his boot had left on Temujin’s bare skin. Kachiun followed his brother’s gaze out over the plains and stiffened as he saw the clouds. The wind was difficult to judge as it gusted around the crags, but both boys had the feeling it was coming straight at them.

‘Come on, keep moving. If it starts to rain, we’re all dead,’ Temujin growled at him, pushing his brother upwards. Kachiun nodded, though he closed his eyes for a moment and seemed dazed. It was easy to forget how young he was at times. Temujin felt a fierce, protective pride for the little boy and vowed not to let him fall.

The southern peak was still visible as they climbed, though there was no sign of either Bekter or Khasar. Temujin wondered if they had reached the top and were even then on their way back down with an eagle chick safe under a tunic. Bekter would be insufferable if he brought one of the great birds back to their father’s tents, and the thought was enough to lend a little extra energy to Temujin’s tired muscles.

Neither boy understood at first what the high-pitched sounds meant. They had never heard the cries of young eagles, and the wind was a constant companion with its own sound over the rocks. The clouds had spread to fill the sky and Temujin was more concerned about finding a place for shelter. The thought of getting down with every handhold slick with rain made his heart sink. Even Kachiun could not do it, he was certain. One of them would fall, at least.

The threat of dark clouds could not completely hold the attention of the two boys as they dragged themselves up to a cleft stuffed with twigs and feathers. Temujin could smell the scent of rotting meat before he was able to bring his eyes up to the level of the nest. At last he realised that the whistling sound was from a pair of young eagles, watching the climbers with feral interest.

The adult birds must have mated early as the chicks were neither scrawny nor helpless. Both still carried their lighter feathering, with only touches of the golden brown that would carry them soaring over mountains in search of prey. Their wings were stubby and ugly-looking, though both boys thought they had never seen anything quite so beautiful. The claws seemed too large for the young birds, great yellow toes ending in darker spikes that looked already capable of tearing flesh.

Kachiun had frozen in wonder on the ledge, hanging from his fingertips. One of the birds took his stillness as some sort of challenge and hissed at him, spreading its wings in a show of courage that made Kachiun beam in pleasure.

‘They are little khans,’ he said, his eyes shining.

Temujin nodded, unable to speak. Already he was wondering how to get both birds down alive with a storm on the way. He scanned the horizon at the sudden worrying thought that the adult eagles might be driven home before the clouds. At such a precarious height, an attacking eagle would be more than a match for two boys trying to shepherd fledglings to the ground.

Temujin watched as Kachiun drew himself up into a crouch on the very edge of the nest, seemingly oblivious to the precarious position. Kachiun reached out a hand, but Temujin snapped a warning. ‘The clouds are too close for us to get down now,’ he said. ‘Leave them in the nest and we can take them in the morning.’

As he spoke, a rumble of thunder growled across the plains and both boys looked towards the source. The sun was still bright over them, but in the distance they could see rain sheeting down in twisting dark threads, the shadow racing towards the red hill. At that height, it was a scene to inspire awe as well as fear.

They shared a glance and Kachiun nodded, dropping back from the nest edge to the one below.

‘We’ll starve,’ he said, putting his sore finger in his mouth and sucking at the crust of dried blood.

Temujin nodded, resigned. ‘Better that than falling,’ he said. ‘The rain is nearly here and I want to find a place where I can sleep without dropping off. It will be a miserable night.’

‘Not for me,’ Kachiun said, softly. ‘I have looked into the eyes of an eagle.’

With affection, Temujin cuffed the little boy, helping him traverse the ridge to where they could climb further up. A cleft between two slopes beckoned. They could wedge themselves in as far as possible and rest at last.

‘Bekter will be furious,’ Kachiun said, enjoying the idea.

Temujin helped him up into the cleft and watched him wriggle his way in deeper, disturbing a pair of tiny lizards. One of them ran to the edge and leapt in panic with its legs outstretched, falling for a long time. There was barely room for both boys, but at least they were out of the wind. It would be uncomfortable and frightening after dark and Temujin knew he would be lucky to sleep at all.

‘Bekter chose the easy way up,’ he said, taking Kachiun’s hand and pulling himself in.

CHAPTER THREE

The storm battered the red hill for all the hours of darkness, clearing only as dawn came. The sun shone strongly once more from an empty sky, drying the sons of Yesugei as they emerged from their cracks and hiding places. All four had been caught too high to dare a descent. They had spent the night in shivering wet misery; drowsing, then jerking awake with dreams of falling. As the dawn light reached the twin peaks of the red hill, they were yawning and stiff, with dark circles under their eyes.

Temujin and Kachiun had suffered less than the other pair because of what they had found. As soon as there was light enough to see, Temujin began to scramble out of the cleft to collect the first of the young eagles. He almost lost his grip when a dark shape swept in from the west, an adult eagle that seemed as large as he was.

The bird was not happy to find two trespassers so close to its young. Temujin knew the females were larger than the males and he assumed the creature had to be the mother, as it screamed and raged at them. The chicks went unfed as the great bird took off again and again to float on the wind and look into the rock cleft that sheltered the two boys. It was terrifying and wondrous to be so high and stare into the black eyes of the bird, hanging unsupported on outstretched wings. Its claws opened and clutched convulsively, as if it imagined tearing into their flesh. Kachiun shuddered at the sight, lost in awe and fear that the huge bird would suddenly spear in at them, winkling them out as it might have done with a marmot in its hole. They had no more than Temujin’s pitiful little knife to defend themselves against a hunter that could break the back of a dog with a single heavy strike.

Temujin watched the brown-gold head turn back and forth in agitation. He guessed the bird could remain there all day and he did not enjoy the thought of being exposed on the ledge below the nest. One blow from a claw there and he would be torn loose. He tried to remember anything he had ever heard about the wild birds. Could he shout to frighten the mother away? He considered it, but he did not want to summon Bekter and Khasar up to the lonely peak, not until he had the chicks wrapped in cloth and close to his chest.

At his shoulder, Kachiun clung to the sloping red rock in the cleft. Temujin saw he had prised out a loose stone and was weighing it in his hand.

‘Can you hit it?’ Temujin asked.

Kachiun only shrugged. ‘Maybe. I’d have to be lucky to knock it down and this is the only one I could find.’

Temujin cursed under his breath. The adult eagle had disappeared for a time, but the birds were skilled hunters and he was not tempted to be lured out of his safe haven. He blew air out of his mouth in frustration. He was starving, with a difficult climb down ahead of him. He and Kachiun deserved better than to leave empty-handed.

He remembered Bekter’s bow, far below with Temuge and the ponies, and cursed himself for not having thought to bring it. Not that Bekter would have let him lay a hand on the double-curved weapon. His elder brother was as pompous about that as he was about all the trappings of a warrior.

‘You take the stone,’ Kachiun said. ‘I’ll get back up to the nest, and if she comes, you can knock her away.’

Temujin frowned. It was a reasonable plan. He was an excellent shot and Kachiun was the better climber. The only problem was that it would be Kachiun who had taken the birds, not him. It was a subtle thing, perhaps, but he wanted no other claim on them before his own.

‘You take the stone. I’ll get the chicks,’ he replied.

Kachiun turned his dark eyes on his older brother, seeming to read his thoughts. He shrugged. ‘All right. Have you cloth to bind them?’

Temujin used his knife to remove strips from the edge of his tunic. The garment was ruined, but the birds were a far greater prize and worth the loss. He wrapped a length around each palm to have them ready, then craned out of the cleft, searching for a moving shadow, or a speck circling above. The bird had looked into his eyes and known what he was trying to do, he was certain. He had seen intelligence there, as much as any dog or hawk, perhaps more.

He felt his stiff muscles twinge as he climbed out into the sunlight. Once more he could hear thin screeching from the nest, the chicks desperate for food after a night alone. Perhaps they too had suffered without their mother’s warm body to protect them from the storm. Temujin worried that he could hear only one call and that the other might have perished. He glanced behind him in case the adult eagle was soaring in to hammer him against the rock. There was nothing there and he pulled himself onto the high ledge, dragging up his legs until he crouched as Kachiun had the previous evening.

The nest was deep in a hollow, wide and steep-sided, so that the active young birds could not clamber out and fall before they could fly. As they caught sight of his face, both of the scrawny young eagles scuttled away from him, wagging their featherless wings in panic and cawing for help. Once more, he scanned the blue sky and said a quick prayer to the sky father to keep him safe. He eased forward, his right knee pressing into the damp thatch and old feathers. Small bones crunched under his weight and he smelled a nauseating gust from ancient prey.

One of the birds cowered from his reaching fingers, but the other tried to bite him with its beak, raking his hand with talons. The needle claws were too small to do more than lightly score his skin and he ignored the sting as he held the bird up to his face and watched as it writhed.

‘My father will hunt for twenty years with you,’ he murmured, freeing a strip from one hand and trussing the bird by wing and leg. The second had almost climbed out of the nest in panic and Temujin was forced to drag it back by one yellow claw, causing it to wail and struggle. He saw that the young feathers had a tinge of red amidst the gold.

‘I would call you the red bird, if you were mine,’ he told it, pushing them both down inside his tunic. The birds seemed quieter against his skin, though he could feel claws scrabble at him. He thought his chest would look as if he’d fallen in a thorn bush by the time he was down.

Temujin saw the adult eagle coming as a flicker of darkness above his head. It was moving faster than he would have believed possible and he only had time to raise an arm before he heard Kachiun yell and their single stone thumped into the bird’s side, knocking it off its strike. It screamed in rage as real as he’d ever heard from an animal, reminding Temujin that this was a hunter, with a hunter’s instincts. He saw the bird try to flap its huge wings, scrabbling at the ledge for balance. Temujin could do nothing but crouch in that confined space and try to protect his face and neck from the lunging claws. He heard it screech in his ear and felt the wings beat against him before the bird fell, calling in anger all the way. Both boys watched the eagle spiral down and down, barely in control of the descent. One wing was still, but the other seemed to twist and flutter in the updraught. Temujin breathed more slowly, feeling his heart begin to slow. He had the bird for his father and perhaps he would be allowed to train the red bird for himself.

Bekter and Khasar had joined Temuge with the ponies by the time Temujin made his slow way down. Kachiun had stayed with him, aiding where he could so that Temujin never had to scramble for a hold, or risk his precious cargo. Even so, when he finally stood on the flat ground and looked up to the heights, they seemed impossibly far away; already strange, as if other boys had climbed them.

‘Did you find the nest?’ Khasar asked, seeing their answer in their pride.

Kachiun nodded. ‘With two eagle chicks in it. We fought off the mother and took them both.’

Temujin let his young brother tell the story, knowing that the others would not understand what it had been like to crouch with the world under his feet and death beating against his shoulders. He had not been afraid, he’d found, though his heart and body had reacted. He had experienced a moment of exhilaration on the red hill and it disturbed him too much to talk of it, at least for the moment. Perhaps he would mention it to Yesugei when the khan was in a mellow mood.

Temuge too had spent a miserable night, though he had been able to shelter with the ponies and had occasional squirts of warm milk to sustain him. It didn’t occur to the other four to thank him for his sighting of the eagle. Temuge hadn’t climbed with them. All he had from his brothers was a hard clip from Bekter when he discovered that Temuge had emptied the mare’s teats during the night. The little boy howled as they set off, but the others had no sympathy. They were all parched and starving, and even the usually sunny Khasar frowned at him for his greed. They had soon left him behind as they trotted together across the green plain.

The boys saw their father’s warriors long before they were in sight of the gers of the tribe. Almost as soon as they were out of the shadow of the red hill they were spotted, the high-pitched horn calls carrying a long way.

They did not show their nervousness, though the presence of riders could only mean their absence had been noticed. Unconsciously, they rode a little closer together as they recognised Eeluk galloping towards them and saw that he did not smile in greeting.

‘Your father sent us out to find you,’ Eeluk said, addressing the words to Bekter.

Temujin bristled automatically. ‘We’ve spent nights out before,’ he replied.

Eeluk turned his small, black eyes on him and ran a hand over his chin. He shook his head. ‘Not without warning, not in a storm, and not with your mother giving birth,’ he said, speaking sharply as if to scold a child.

Temujin saw Bekter was flushing with shame and refused to let the emotion trouble him. ‘You have found us, then. If our father is angry, that is between him and us.’

Eeluk shook his head again, and Temujin saw the flash of spite in his eyes. He had never liked his father’s bondsman, though he could not have said why. There was malice in Eeluk’s voice as he went on.

‘Your mother almost lost the child through worrying about the rest of you,’ he said.

His eyes demanded Temujin lower his gaze, but instead the boy felt a slow anger building. Riding with eagles next to his chest gave him courage. He knew his father would forgive them anything once he saw the birds. Temujin raised a hand to stop the others and even Bekter reined in with him, unable just to ride on. Eeluk too was forced to turn his pony back to them, his face dark with irritation.

‘You will not ride with us, Eeluk. Go back,’ Temujin said. He saw the warrior stiffen and shook his head, deliberately. ‘Today we ride only with eagles,’ Temujin said, his face revealing nothing of his inner amusement.

His brothers grinned around him, enjoying the secret and the frown that troubled Eeluk’s hard features. The man looked to Bekter and saw that he was staring into nothing, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

Then he snorted. ‘Your father will beat some humility into your thick skins,’ he said, his face mottling with anger.

Temujin looked calmly at the older man, and even his pony was absolutely still.

‘No. He will not. One of us will be khan one day, Eeluk. Think of that and go back, as I told you. We will come in alone.’

‘Go,’ Bekter said, suddenly, his voice deeper than any of his brothers.

Eeluk looked as if he had been struck. His eyes were hidden as he spun his mount, guiding only with his knees. He did not speak again, but at last he nodded sharply and rode away, leaving them alone and shaking with an odd release of tension. They had not been in danger, Temujin was almost certain. Eeluk was not fool enough to draw steel on Yesugei’s sons. At worst, he might have thrashed them and made them walk back. Still, it felt as if a battle had been won and Temujin sensed Bekter’s gaze on his neck the whole way to the river and his father’s people.

They smelled the tang of urine on the wind before they saw the gers. After spending winter in the shadow of Deli’un-Boldakh, the scent had sunk into the soil in a great ring around the families. There was only so far a man was willing to walk in the dark, after all. Still, it was home.

Eeluk had dismounted near their father’s ger, obviously waiting to see them punished. Temujin enjoyed the skulking man’s interest in them and kept his head high. Khasar and Kachiun took their lead from him, though Temuge was distracted by the smell of cooking mutton and Bekter assumed his usual sullen expression.

Yesugei came out as he heard their ponies whinny a welcome to the others in the herd. He wore his sword on his hip and a deel robe of blue and gold that reached down to his knees. His boots and trousers were clean and well brushed and he seemed to stand even taller than usual. His face showed no anger, but they knew he prided himself on the mask that all warriors had to learn. For Yesugei it was no more than the habit of a lifetime to assess his sons as they rode up to him. He took note of the way Temujin protected something at his chest and the barely controlled excitement in all of them. Even Bekter was struggling not to show pleasure and Yesugei began to wonder what his boys had brought back.

He saw too that Eeluk hovered nearby, pretending to brush down his pony. This from a bondsman who let his mare’s tail grow thick with mud and thorns. Yesugei knew Eeluk well enough to sense his sour mood was directed at the boys rather than himself. He would have shrugged if he had not adopted a warrior’s stillness. As it was, he dismissed Eeluk’s concerns from his mind.

Khasar and Kachiun dismounted in such a way that Temujin was hidden for a moment. Yesugei watched closely and saw in a flash that Temujin’s tunic was moving. His heart began to beat faster in anticipation. Still, he would not make it too easy for them.

‘You have a sister, though the birth was harder for your absence. Your mother was almost blood lost with fear for you.’

They did lower their gazes at that. He frowned, tempted to thrash each one of them for their selfishness.

‘We were at the red hill,’ Kachiun murmured, quailing under his father’s gaze. ‘Temuge saw an eagle there and we climbed for the nest.’

Yesugei’s heart soared at the news. There could only be one thing squirming at Temujin’s breast, but he hardly dared hope for it. No one in the tribe had caught an eagle for three generations or more, not since the Wolves had come down from the far west. The birds were more valuable than a dozen fine stallions, not least for the meat they could bring from hunting.

‘You have the bird?’ Yesugei said to Temujin, taking a step forward.

The boy could not hold back his excitement any longer and he grinned, standing proudly as he fished around inside his tunic.

‘Kachiun and I found two,’ he said.

His father’s cold face broke at this and he showed his teeth, very white against his dark skin and wispy beard.

Gently, the two birds were brought out and placed in their father’s hands, squalling as they came into the light. Temujin felt the loss of their heat next to his skin as soon as they were clear. He looked at the red bird with an owner’s eyes, watching every movement.

Yesugei could not find words. He saw that Eeluk had come closer to see the chicks and he held them up, his face alight with interest. He turned to his sons.

‘Go in and see your mother, all of you. Make your apologies for frightening her and welcome your new sister.’

Temuge was through the door of the ger before his father had finished speaking and they all heard Hoelun’s cry of pleasure at seeing her youngest son. Kachiun and Khasar followed, but Temujin and Bekter remained where they were.

‘One is a little smaller than the other,’ Temujin said, indicating the birds. He was desperate not to be dismissed. ‘There is a touch of red to his feathers and I have been calling him the red bird.’

‘It is a good name,’ Yesugei confirmed.

Temujin cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. ‘I had hoped to keep him, the red bird. As there are two.’

Yesugei looked blankly at his son. ‘Hold out your arm,’ he said.

Temujin raised his arm to the shoulder, puzzled. Yesugei held the pair of trussed chicks in the crook of one arm and used the other to press against Temujin’s hand, forcing his arm down.

‘They weigh as much as a dog, when they are grown. Could you hold a dog on your wrist? No. This is a great gift and I thank you for it. But the red bird is not for a boy, even a son of mine.’

Temujin felt tears prickle his eyes as his morning’s dreams were trampled. His father seemed oblivious to his anger and despair as he called Eeluk over.

To Temujin’s eye, Eeluk’s smile was sly and unpleasant as he came to stand by them.

‘You have been my first warrior,’ Yesugei said to the man. ‘The red bird is yours.’

Eeluk’s eyes widened with awe. He took the bird reverently, the boys forgotten. ‘You honour me,’ he said, bowing his head.

Yesugei laughed aloud. ‘Your service honours me,’ he replied. ‘We will hunt with them together. Tonight we will have music for two eagles come to the Wolves.’ He turned to Temujin. ‘You will have to tell old Chagatai all about the climb, so that he can write the words for a great song.’

Temujin did not reply, unable to stand and watch Eeluk holding the red bird any longer. He and Bekter ducked through the low doorway of the ger to see Hoelun and their new sister, surrounded by their brothers. The boys could hear their father outside, shouting to the men to see what his sons had brought him. There would be a feast that night and yet, somehow, they were uncomfortable as they met each other’s eyes. Their father’s pleasure meant a lot to all of them, but the red bird was Temujin’s.

That evening, the tribe burned the dry dung of sheep and goats and roasted mutton in the flames and great bubbling pots. The bard, Chagatai, sang of finding two eagles on a red hill, his voice an eerie combination of high and low pitch. The young men and women of the tribe cheered the verses and Yesugei was pressed into showing the birds again and again while they called piteously for their lost nest.

The boys who had climbed the red hill accepted cup after cup of black airag as they sat around the fires in the darkness. Khasar went pale and silent after the second drink, and after a third, Kachiun gave a low snort and fell slowly backwards, his cup tumbling onto the grass. Temujin stared into the flames, making himself night blind. He did not hear his father approach and he would not have cared if he had. The airag had heated his blood with strange colours that he could feel coursing through him.

Yesugei sat down by his sons, drawing his powerful legs up into a crouch. He wore a deel robe lined with fur against the night cold, but underneath, his chest was bare. The black airag gave him enough heat and he had always claimed a khan’s immunity from the cold.

‘Do not drink too much, Temujin,’ he said. ‘You have shown you are ready to be treated as a man. I will complete my father’s duty to you tomorrow and take you to the Olkhun’ut, your mother’s people.’ He saw Temujin look up and completely missed the significance of the pale golden gaze. ‘We will see their most beautiful daughters and find one to warm your bed when her blood comes.’ He clapped Temujin on the shoulder.

‘And I will stay with them while Eeluk raises the red bird,’ Temujin replied, his voice flat and cold. Some of the tone seeped through Yesugei’s drunkenness and he frowned.

‘You will do as you are told by your father,’ he said. He struck Temujin hard on the side of his head, perhaps harder than he had meant to. Temujin rocked forward, then came erect once again, staring back at his father. Yesugei had already lost interest, looking away to cheer as Chagatai stirred his old bones in a dance, his arms cutting the air like an eagle’s wings. After a time, Yesugei saw that Temujin was still watching him.

‘I will miss the gathering of tribes, the races,’ Temujin said, as their eyes met, fighting angry tears.

Yesugei regarded him, his face unreadable. ‘The Olkhun’ut will travel to the gathering, just as we will. You will have Whitefoot. Perhaps they will let you race him against your brothers.’

‘I would rather stay here,’ Temujin said, ready for another blow.

Yesugei didn’t seem to hear him. ‘You will live a year with them,’ he said, ‘as Bekter did. It will be hard on you, but there will be many good memories. I need not say that you will take note of their strength, their weapons, their numbers.’

‘We have no quarrel with the Olkhun’ut,’ Temujin said.

His father shrugged. ‘The winter is long,’ he replied.

CHAPTER FOUR

Temujin’s head throbbed in the weak dawn light as his father and Eeluk loaded the ponies with food and blankets. Hoelun was moving around outside, her baby daughter suckling inside her coat. She and Yesugei talked in low voices and, after a time, he bent down to her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. It was a rare moment of intimacy that did nothing to dispel Temujin’s black mood. That morning, he hated Yesugei with all the steady force a twelve-year-old boy can muster.

In grim silence, Temujin continued to grease his reins and check every last strap and knot on the halter and stirrups. He would not give his father an excuse to criticise him in front of his younger brothers. Not that they were anywhere to be seen. The ger was very quiet after the drinking the night before. The golden eagle chick could be heard calling for food and it was Hoelun who ducked through the door to feed it a scrap of bloody flesh. The task would be hers while Yesugei was away, but it hardly distracted her from making sure her husband was content and had all he needed for the trip.

The ponies snorted and called to each other, welcoming another day. It was a peaceful scene and Temujin stood in the middle like a sullen growth, looking for the smallest excuse to lash out. He did not want to find himself some cow-like wife. He wanted to raise stallions and ride with the red bird, known and feared. It felt like a punishment to be sent away, for all he knew that Bekter had gone before and come back. By the time Temujin returned, Bekter’s betrothed could well be in a ger with her new husband and his brother would be a man to the warriors.

The problem of Bekter was part of the reason for Temujin’s sour mood. It had become his habit to prod the older boy’s pride and see to it that he did not become too clearly their father’s favourite. In his absence, Temujin knew Bekter would be treated as the heir. After a year had passed, his own right to inherit might be almost forgotten.

Yet what else could he do? He knew Yesugei’s views on disobedient sons. If he refused to travel, he would be certain of a beating, and if he continued to be stubborn, he could find himself thrown out of the tribe. Yesugei often threatened such a thing when the brothers were too noisy or fought too roughly with each other. He never smiled when he made his threats, and they did not think he was bluffing. Temujin shuddered at the thought. To be a nameless wanderer was a hard fate. No one to watch the herds while you slept, or to help you climb a hill. On his own, he would starve, he was almost certain, or more likely be killed raiding a tribe for supplies.

His earliest memories were of cheerful shoving and bickering with his brothers in the gers. His people were never alone and it was difficult even to imagine what that would be like. Temujin shook his head a fraction as he watched his father load the mounts. He knew better than to show anything but the cold face. He listened as Eeluk and Yesugei grunted in rhythm, pulling the ropes as tight as they could possibly get. It was not a heavy load for just the two of them.

Temujin watched as the men finished, then stepped past Eeluk and checked each knot on his own pony one last time. His father’s bondsman seemed to stiffen, but Temujin did not care about his hurt feelings. Yesugei had told him often enough that a man must not depend on the skill of lesser men. Even then, Temujin did not dare to check Yesugei’s knots. His father’s temper was too uncertain. He might find it amusing, or simply knock his son flat for his impudence.

Temujin frowned at the thought of the ride ahead, with just his father for company and none of his brothers to break the silences. He shrugged to himself. He would endure it as he had found he could endure any other discomfort. What was this but another trial? He had waited out storms, from both Yesugei and the sky father. He had suffered thirst and hunger until he was tempted to bite himself for the taste of his own blood. He had lived through winters where the herds froze to death and one summer that burned the skin, so that they all had fat yellow blisters. His father had borne those things without complaint or sign of weakness, demonstrating limitless stamina. It lifted those around him. Even Eeluk lost his sour face in Yesugei’s presence.

Temujin was standing as stiff and pale as a silver birch sapling when Hoelun ducked under the pony’s neck and embraced her son. He could feel the tiny child at her breast wriggle as he smelled sweet milk and mutton grease. When she released him, the tiny little girl began to squawk, red in the face at the unwanted interruption. Temujin watched Hoelun tuck her flat breast back under the questing mouth. He could not look his mother in the eye and she glanced at where Yesugei stood nearby, proud and silent as he stared off into the distance. Hoelun sighed.

‘Stop it, Yesugei,’ she said loudly.

Her husband jerked, his head coming round with a flush darkening his cheeks. ‘What are you …?’ he began.

She interrupted him. ‘You know exactly what I mean. You haven’t a kind word for the boy, and you expect to ride the next three days in silence?’

Yesugei frowned, but Hoelun wasn’t finished with him.

‘You took the boy’s bird and gave it to that ugly bondsman of yours. Did you expect him to laugh and thank you for it?’

Yesugei’s pale gaze flickered over Eeluk and his son, gauging the reaction to the speech.

‘He is too young,’ he muttered.

Hoelun hissed like a pot on the stove. ‘He is a boy about to be betrothed. He is young and too proud, just as his stubborn father is. He is so much like you that you cannot even see it.’

Yesugei ignored this, and Temujin did not know what to say as his mother looked back at him.

‘He listens, though he pretends not to, Temujin,’ she murmured. ‘He is like you in that.’ She reached up to take his cheek in her strong fingers. ‘Do not be wary of the families of my people. They are good-hearted, though you must keep your eyes down around the young men. They will test you, but you must not be afraid.’

Temujin’s yellow eyes flashed.

‘I am not afraid,’ he said. She waited and his defiant expression altered subtly. ‘All right, I am listening as well,’ he said.

She nodded and from a pocket brought a bag of sweet milk curds, pressing it into his hand.

‘There is a bottle of black airag in the saddlebag against the cold. These are for the journey. Grow strong and be kind to whichever girl is chosen for you.’

‘Kind?’ Temujin replied. For the first time since his father had told him he was going, he felt a twinge of nervousness in his stomach. Somewhere there was a stranger who would be his wife and bear his children. He could not imagine what she might look like, or even what he wanted in such a woman.

‘I hope she is like you,’ he said thoughtfully.

Hoelun beamed and hugged him with a brief clasp that set his little sister crying indignantly. ‘You are a good boy, Temujin. You will make her a fine husband,’ she said.

To his astonishment, he saw tears gleaming in her eyes. She rubbed at them even as he felt an answering pang. His defences were crumbling and she saw his fear that he would be humiliated in front of Yesugei and Eeluk. Men on their way to be betrothed did not bawl with their mothers.

Hoelun gripped her son briefly around the neck, then turned away, exchanging a last few murmured words with her husband. The khan of the Wolves sighed visibly, nodding in reply as he mounted. Temujin leapt nimbly into his own saddle.

‘Temujin!’ he heard.

He smiled as he turned his white-footed pony with a gentle pressure on the reins. His sleepy brothers had roused themselves at last and come out to see him off. Temuge and Khasar clustered around his stirrups, adoration in their faces. Kachiun winced against the light as he took a moment to inspect a fraying front hoof. They were a noisy, lively group and Temujin felt the tightness in his chest begin to ease.

Bekter came out of the ger, his flat face impassive. Temujin regarded him, seeing a sparkle of triumph in the empty gaze. Bekter too had thought how much easier his life would be without Temujin there. It was hard not to worry for the younger ones, but Temujin would not shame them by voicing his concern. The bones had been thrown and the future laid out for all of them. A strong man could bend the sky to suit him, but only for himself, Temujin knew. They were on their own.

He raised a hand in final farewell to his mother and urged Whitefoot into a snorting trot at his father’s side. He did not think he could bear to look back, so he did not. The sounds of the waking tribe and the whinnying calls of horses faded quickly, and after a short time there was just the thud of hooves and jingling harness, and their people were left behind.

* * *

Yesugei rode in silence as the sun rose ahead of them. Hoelun’s people were closer than they had been in three years and it would be a journey of only a few days alone with his son. By the end of it, he would know whether the boy had it in him to rule the tribe. He had known with Bekter, after only the first day. His oldest boy was no wild flame, it was true, but the tribe needed a steady hand and Bekter was growing into a fine man.

Yesugei frowned to himself as he rode. Some part of his mind scanned the land around them for a sight of an enemy or an animal. He could never become lost while every hill was sharp in his mind, and every clipped goat ear showed him the local tribes, like a pattern stretching over the land.

He had enjoyed the ride with Bekter, though he had taken pains not to show it. It was hard to know how a boy became a leader of men, but Yesugei was certain it was not through being spoiled or kept soft. He raised his eyes to the sky father at the thought of fat Temuge back in the gers. If the little boy had not had so many strong brothers, Yesugei would have taken him away from his mother’s influence, perhaps to be fostered with another tribe. Perhaps he still would, on his return.

Yesugei shifted in the saddle, unable to maintain his usual drifting thoughts while Temujin rode at his side. The boy was too obviously aware of his surroundings, his head jerking at every new sight. Bekter had been a peaceful companion, but something about Temujin’s silence chafed on his father.

It did not help that the route to the Olkhun’ut took them near the red hill, so that Yesugei was forced to consider his son’s part in fetching the eagle chicks. He felt Temujin’s eyes on him as he looked at the sharp slopes, but the stubborn boy would not give him an opening.

Yesugei grunted in exasperation, unsure why his temper was growling on such a fine, blue day.

‘You were lucky to reach the nest at that height,’ he said.

‘It was not luck,’ Temujin replied.

Yesugei cursed inwardly. The boy was as prickly as a thorn bush.

‘You were lucky not to fall, boy, even with Kachiun helping you.’

Temujin narrowed his eyes. His father had seemed too drunk to be listening to Chagatai’s songs. Had he spoken to Kachiun? Temujin was not sure how to react, so he said nothing.

Yesugei watched him closely, and after a time, he shook his head and thought of Hoelun. He would try again, for her sake, or he might never hear the end of it.

‘It was a fine climb, I heard. Kachiun said you were nearly torn off the rock by the eagle coming back to the nest.’

Temujin softened slightly, shrugging. He was absurdly pleased that his father had shown an interest, though his cold face hid it all.

‘He forced it down with a stone,’ he replied, giving measured praise with care. Kachiun was his favourite brother by far, but he had learned the good sense of hiding likes and dislikes from others, almost an instinct by the end of his twelfth year.

Yesugei had fallen silent again, but Temujin searched his thoughts for something to break the silence before it could settle and grow firm.

‘Did your father take you to the Olkhun’ut?’ he said.

Yesugei snorted, eyeing his son.

‘I suppose you are old enough now to hear. No, I found your mother with two of her brothers when I was out riding. I saw that she was beautiful and strong.’ He sighed, and smacked his lips, his eyes gazing into the past.

‘She rode the sweetest little mare, the colour of storm water at dawn. Her legs were bare and very brown.’

Temujin had not heard the story before and rode a little closer.

‘You raided her from the Olkhun’ut?’ he said. It should not have surprised him, he knew. His father enjoyed hunting and raiding and his eyes shone when he recalled his battles. If the season was warm and food was plentiful, he sent defeated warriors back to their families on foot, with red welts on their skin from the flats of swords. In the winter, when food was scarce, it was death to be caught. Life was too hard for kindness in the dark months.

‘I chased her brothers away like a couple of young goats,’ Yesugei said. ‘I was hardly old enough to be out on my own, but I waved my sword above my head and I yelled at them.’

Caught up in the memory, he put his head back and gave out a ululating whoop, ending in laughter.

‘You should have seen their faces. One of them tried to attack me, but I was the son of a khan, Temujin, not some little dog to be cowed and sent running. I put an arrow through his hip and ran him off.’

He sighed to himself.

‘Those were very good days. I thought I would never feel the cold in my bones, back then. I had an idea that I would be given nothing in my life, that everything I had would be taken by my wits and my strength.’ He looked at his son, and his expression contained a regret Temujin could only guess at. ‘There was a time, boy, when I would have climbed for the red bird myself.’

‘If I had known, I would have come back and told you,’ Temujin began, trying to understand this great bear of a man.

Yesugei shook his head, chuckling. ‘Not now! I am too heavy to be dancing around on tiny ledges and cracks. If I tried it now I think I would crash to earth like a falling star. What is the point in having sons if they cannot grow strong and test their courage? That is one truth I remember from my father, when he was sober. Courage cannot be left like bones in a bag. It must be brought out and shown the light again and again, growing stronger each time. If you think it will keep for the times you need it, you are wrong. It is like any other part of your strength. If you ignore it, the bag will be empty when you need it most. No, you were right to climb for the nest and I was right to give the red bird to Eeluk.’

There was no hiding the sudden stiffness that came into Temujin’s bearing. Yesugei made a purring sound in frustration, deep in his throat like a growl.

‘He is my first warrior, and deadly, boy, you should believe it. I would rather have Eeluk at my side than any five of the tribe – any ten of the Olkhun’ut. His children will not rule the families. His sword will never be as good as mine, do you understand? No, you are only twelve. What can you understand of what I say to you?’

‘You had to give him something,’ Temujin snapped. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘No. It was not a debt. I honoured him with the red bird because he is my first warrior. Because he has been my friend since we were boys together and he has never complained that his family were beneath mine amongst the Wolves.’

Temujin opened his mouth to snap a reply. The red bird would be soiled by Eeluk’s dirty hands, with their thick yellow skin. The bird was too fine for the ugly bondsman. He did not speak, and instead he practised the discipline that gave him the cold face and showed the world nothing. It was his only real defence against his father’s searching gaze.

Yesugei saw through it, and snorted.

‘Boy, I was showing the cold face when you were the sky father’s dream,’ he said.

As they made camp that night by a winding stream, Temujin set about the chores that would help sustain them the following day. With the hilt of his knife, he broke chunks of hard cheese from a heavy block, passing the pieces into leather bags half filled with water. The wet mixture would sit under their saddles, churned and heated by the ponies’ skin. By noon, he and his father would have a warm drink of soft curds, bitter and refreshing.

Once that task was done, Temujin set about finding sheep droppings, pulling them apart in his fingers to see if they were dry enough to burn cleanly and well. He collected a pile of the best ones and drew a stick of flint across an old knife to light strands of them, building the sparks into a tongue of flame and then a fire. Yesugei cut pieces of dried mutton and some wild onions with sheep fat, the delicious smell making their mouths water. Hoelun had given them bread that would soon be hard, so they broke the flat loaves and soaked them in the stew.

They sat across from each other to eat, sucking the meat juices from their fingers between mouthfuls. Temujin saw his father’s gaze fall on the pack that contained the black airag and fetched it for him. He watched patiently as the khan took a deep swig.

‘Tell me about the Olkhun’ut,’ Temujin said.

His father’s mouth curled in an unconscious sneer.

‘They are not strong, though there are many of them, like ants. I sometimes think I could ride in there and kill all day before they brought me down.’

‘They don’t have warriors?’ Temujin said incredulously. His father was not above making up some outlandish story, but he seemed serious.

‘Not like Eeluk. You’ll see. They use the bow rather than the sword and they stand far off from their enemy, never coming close unless they have to. Shields would make a mockery of them, though they would kill the ponies easily enough. They are like wasps stinging, but if you ride in amongst them, they scatter like children. That is how I took your mother. I crept up, then I leapt on them.’

‘How will I learn to use a sword, then?’ Temujin demanded.

He had forgotten his father’s reaction to that tone and barely avoided the hand that came to smack a little humility into him. Yesugei went on as if nothing had happened.

‘You will have to practise on your own, boy. Bekter had to, I know that. He said they didn’t let him touch a bow or one of their knives from the first day to the day he left. Cowards, all of them. Still, their women are very fine.’

‘Why do they treat with you, with daughters for your sons?’ Temujin asked, wary of another blow. Yesugei was already arranging his deel for sleep, lying back on the sheep nibbled grass.

‘No father wants unwed daughters cluttering the ger. What would they do with them, if I did not come with a son every now and then? It is not so uncommon, especially when the tribes meet. They can strengthen their blood with the seed of other tribes.’

‘Does it strengthen us?’ Temujin asked.

His father snorted without opening his eyes.

‘The Wolves are already strong.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Yesugei’s sharp eyes spotted the Olkhun’ut scouts at exactly the moment they saw him. The deep notes of their horns carried back to the tribes, rousing the warriors to defend their herds and women.

‘You will not speak unless they speak to you,’ Yesugei warned his son. ‘Show them the cold face, no matter what happens. Understand?’

Temujin did not respond, though he swallowed nervously. The days and nights with his father had been a strange time for him. In all his life, he could not remember having Yesugei’s attention for so long, without his brothers crashing across the khan’s field of vision and distracting him. At first, Temujin had thought it would be a misery to be stuck together for the journey. They were not friends, and could not be, but there were moments when he caught a glint of something in his father’s eyes. In anyone else, it might have been pride.

In the far distance, Temujin saw dust rise from the dry ground as young warriors leapt onto their ponies, calling for weapons. Yesugei’s mouth became a thin, hard line and he sat tall in his saddle, his back straight and unbending. Temujin copied him as best he could, watching the dust cloud grow as dozens of warriors came swarming out towards the lonely pair.

‘Do not turn, Temujin,’ Yesugei snapped. ‘They are boys playing games, and you will shame me if you give honour to them.’

‘I understand,’ Temujin replied. ‘But if you sit like a stone, they will know you are aware of them. Would it not be better to talk to me, to laugh?’

He felt Yesugei’s glare and knew a moment of fear. Those golden eyes had been the last sight of more than a few young tribesmen. Yesugei was preparing himself for enemies, his instincts taking over his muscles and reactions. As Temujin turned to return the stare, he saw his father summon an effort of will and visibly relax himself. The galloping Olkhun’ut did not seem so close and the day had grown a little brighter somehow.

‘I will look a fool if they sweep us off the ponies in pieces,’ Yesugei said, forcing a stiff grin that would not have been out of place on a corpse.

Temujin laughed at his effort in genuine amusement. ‘Are you in pain? Try throwing your head back as you do it.’

His father did as Temujin suggested and his effort reduced them both to helpless laughter by the time the Olkhun’ut riders arrived. Yesugei was red-faced and wiping tears from his eyes as the yelling warriors skidded to a halt, allowing their mounts to block the pair of strangers. The drifting cloud of dust arrived with them, passing through the group on the wind and making them all narrow their eyes.

The milling group of warriors fell silent as Temujin and Yesugei mastered themselves and appeared to notice the Olkhun’ut for the first time. Temujin kept his face as blank as possible, though he could barely hide his curiosity. Everything was subtly different from what he was used to. The bloodlines of their horses were superb and the warriors themselves wore light deels of grey with gold thread markings over trousers of dark brown. They were somehow cleaner and neater-looking than his own people and Temujin felt a vague resentment start in him. His gaze fell on one who must surely have been the leader. The other riders deferred to him as he approached, looking to him for orders.

The young warrior rode as well as Kachiun, Temujin saw, but he was almost a man grown, with only the lightest of tunics and bare brown arms. He had two bows strapped to his saddle, with a good throwing axe. Temujin could see no swords on any of the others, but they too carried the small axes and he wondered how they would be used against armed men. He suspected that a good sword would reduce their hatchets to kindling in just a stroke or two – unless they threw them.

His examination of the Olkhun’ut was being returned. One of the men nudged his pony close to Yesugei. A grimy hand stretched out to finger the cloth of his deel.

Temujin barely saw his father move, but the man’s palm was striped with red before he could lay a finger on Yesugei’s belongings. The Olkhun’ut rider yelped and pulled back, his pain turning to anger in an instant.

‘You take a great risk riding here without your bondsmen, khan of the Wolves,’ the young man in a tunic said suddenly. ‘Have you brought us another of your sons for the Olkhun’ut to teach him his manhood?’

Yesugei turned to Temujin and again there was that odd light in his eye.

‘This is my son, Temujin. Temujin, this is your cousin Koke. His father is the man I shot in the hip on the day I met your mother.’

‘And he still limps,’ Koke agreed, without smiling.

His pony seemed to move without a signal and he came in range to clap Yesugei on the shoulder. The older man allowed the action, though there was something about his stillness that suggested he may not have. The other warriors relaxed as Koke moved away. He had shown he was not afraid of the khan, and Yesugei had accepted that he did not rule where the Olkhun’ut pitched their gers.

‘You must be hungry. The hunters brought in fat spring marmots this morning – will you eat with us?’

‘We will,’ Yesugei answered for both of them.

From that moment they were protected by guest rights and Yesugei lost the stiffness that suggested he’d rather be holding a sword. His dagger had vanished back into his fur-lined robe. In comparison, Temujin’s stomach felt as if it had dropped out. He had not fully appreciated how lonely he would feel surrounded by strangers, and even before they reached the outer tents of the Olkhun’ut, he was watching his father closely, dreading the moment when he would ride away and leave his son behind.

* * *

The gers of the Olkhun’ut were a different shade of white-grey from those Temujin knew. The horses were held in great corrals outside the gathering of tents, too many for him to count. With cattle, goats and sheep busy munching grass on every nearby hill, he could see the Olkhun’ut were prosperous and, as Yesugei had said, strong in numbers. Temujin saw little boys the age of his brothers racing along the outskirts of the camp. Each held a small bow and seemed to be firing directly into the ground, yelling and cursing alternately. It was all strange, and he wished Kachiun and Khasar were there with him.

His cousin Koke jumped down from his pony, giving the reins to a tiny woman with a face as wrinkled as a leaf. Temujin and Yesugei dismounted at the same time, and their ponies were taken away to be watered and fed. The other riders scattered through the camp, returning to their own gers or gathering in groups to talk. Strangers in the tribe were not common and Temujin could feel hundreds of eyes on him as Koke led the two Wolves through the midst of his people, striding ahead.

Yesugei grunted in displeasure at being forced to walk behind the young man. The khan walked even slower in response, pausing to inspect the decorative knotwork on the ger of a lesser family. With a frown on his face, Koke was forced to wait for his guests, or arrive at his destination without them. Temujin might have applauded the subtle way his father had turned the little game of status to his advantage. Instead of hurrying along after the younger man, they had made the trip a tour of the Olkhun’ut gers. Yesugei even spoke to one or two of the people, but never with a question they might not have answered, only with a compliment or a simple remark. The Olkhun’ut stared after the pair of Wolves and Temujin sensed his father was enjoying the tensions as much as a battle.

By the time they stopped outside a ger with a bright blue door, Koke was irritated with them both, though he could not exactly have said why.

‘Is your father well?’ Yesugei said.

The young warrior was forced to pause as he ducked into the ger. ‘He is as strong as ever,’ Koke replied.

Yesugei nodded. ‘Tell him I am here,’ he said, looking blandly at his nephew by marriage.

Koke coloured slightly before disappearing into the darkness within. Though there were eyes and ears all around them, Temujin and Yesugei had been left alone.

‘Observe the courtesies when we go in,’ Yesugei murmured. ‘These are not the families you know. They will notice every fault and rejoice in it.’

‘I understand,’ Temujin replied, barely moving his lips. ‘How old is my cousin Koke?’

‘Thirteen or fourteen,’ Yesugei replied.

Temujin looked up with interest. ‘So he is alive only because you shot his father in the hip and not the heart?’

Yesugei shrugged. ‘I did not shoot for the hip. I shot to kill, but I had only an instant to loose the shaft before your mother’s other brother threw an axe at me.’

‘Is he here as well?’ Temujin asked, looking round.

Yesugei chuckled. ‘Not unless he managed to put his head back on.’

Temujin fell silent as he considered this. The Olkhun’ut had no reason to love his father and many to hate him, yet he sent his sons to them for wives. The certainties he had known among his own people were vanishing and he felt lost and fearful. Temujin drew on his determination with an effort, composing his features into the cold face. Bekter had withstood his year with the tribe, after all. They would not kill him and anything else was bearable, he was almost certain.

‘Why has he not come out?’ he murmured to his father.

Yesugei grunted, breaking off from staring at some young Olkhun’ut women milking goats.

‘He makes us wait because he thinks I will be insulted. He made me wait when I came with Bekter two years ago. No doubt he will make me wait when I come with Khasar. The man is an idiot, but all dogs bark at a wolf.’

‘Why do you visit him first, then?’ Temujin said, dropping his voice even lower.

‘The blood tie brings me safe amongst them. It galls them to welcome me, but they give your mother honour by doing it. I play my part, and my sons have wives.’

‘Will you see their khan?’ Temujin asked.

Yesugei shook his head. ‘If Sansar sees me, he will be forced to offer his tents and women for as long as I am here. He will have gone hunting, as I would if he came to the Wolves.’

‘You like him,’ Temujin said, watching his father’s face closely.

‘The man has honour enough not to pretend he is a friend when he is not. I respect him. If I ever decide to take his herds, I will let him keep a few sheep and a woman or two, perhaps even a bow and a good cloak against the cold.’

Yesugei smiled at the thought, gazing back at the girls tending their bleating flock. Temujin wondered if they knew the wolf was already amongst them.

The inside of the ger was gloomy and thick with the smell of mutton and sweat. As Temujin ducked low to pass under the lintel, it occurred to him for the first time just how vulnerable a man was as he went into another family’s home. Perhaps the small doors had another function apart from keeping out the winter.

The ger had carved wooden beds and chairs around the edges, with a small stove in the middle. Temujin felt vaguely disappointed at the ordinary look of the interior, though his sharp eyes noticed a beautiful bow on the far wall, double curved and layered in horn and sinew. He wondered if he would have the chance to practise his archery with the Olkhun’ut. If they forbade him weapons for the full turn of seasons, he might well lose the skills he had worked so hard to gain.

Koke stood with his head respectfully bowed, but another man rose as Yesugei came to greet him, standing a head shorter than the khan of the Wolves.

‘I have brought another son to you, Enq,’ Yesugei said formally. ‘The Olkhun’ut are friends to the Wolves and do us great honour with strong wives.’

Temujin watched his uncle in fascination. His mother’s brother. It was strange to think of her growing up around this very ger, riding a sheep, perhaps, as the babies sometimes did.

Enq was a thin spear of a man, his flesh tight on his bones, so that the lines of his shaven skull could be easily seen. Even in the dark ger, his skin shone with grease, with just one thick lock of grey hair hanging from his scalp between his eyes. The glance he gave Temujin was not welcoming, though he gripped Yesugei’s hand in greeting and his wife prepared salted tea to refresh them.

‘Is my sister well?’ Enq said as the silence swelled around them.

‘She has given me a daughter,’ Yesugei replied. ‘Perhaps you will send an Olkhun’ut son to me one day.’

Enq nodded, though the idea did not seem to please him.

‘Has the girl you found for my elder son come into her blood?’ Yesugei asked.

Enq grimaced over his tea. ‘Her mother says that she hasn’t,’ he replied. ‘She will come when she is ready.’ He seemed about to speak again and then shut his mouth tight, so that the wrinkles around his lips deepened.

Temujin perched himself on the edge of a bed, taking note of the fine quality of the blankets. Remembering what his father had said, he took the bowl of tea he was offered in his right hand, his left cupping his right elbow in the traditional style. No one could have faulted his manners in front of the Olkhun’ut.

They settled themselves and drank the liquid in silence. Temujin began to relax.

‘Why has your son not greeted me?’ Enq asked Yesugei slyly.

Temujin stiffened as his father frowned. He put aside the bowl and rose once more. Enq stood with him and Temujin was pleased to find he was the man’s equal in height.

‘I am honoured to meet you, uncle,’ he said. ‘I am Temujin, second son to the khan of Wolves. My mother sends you her greetings. Are you well?’

‘I am, boy,’ Enq replied. ‘Though I see you have yet to learn the courtesies of our people.’

Yesugei cleared his throat softly and Enq closed his mouth over whatever he had been going to add. Temujin did not miss the flash of irritation in the older man’s eyes. He had been plunged into an adult world of subtlety and games and once more he began to dread the moment when his father would leave him behind.

‘How is your hip?’ Yesugei murmured.

Enq’s thin mouth tightened as he forced a smile. ‘I never think of it,’ he replied.

Temujin noticed that he moved stiffly as he took his seat once more and felt a private pleasure. He did not have to like these strange people. He understood that this too was a test, like everything else Yesugei set his sons. He would endure.

‘Is there a wife for him, in the gers?’ Yesugei asked.

Enq grimaced, draining the dregs of his tea bowl and holding it out to be refilled.

‘There is one family who have not been able to find a match for their daughter. They will be pleased to have her eating someone else’s meat and milk.’

Yesugei nodded. ‘I will see her before I leave you. She must be strong and able to bear children for the Wolves. Who knows, one day she could be mother to the tribe.’

Enq nodded, sipping at the salty liquid as if in deep concentration. Temujin wanted nothing more than to be away from the man’s sour smell and his gloomy ger, but he forced himself to remain still and listen to every word. His future hung on the moment, after all.

‘I will bring her to you,’ Enq said, but Yesugei shook his head.

‘Good blood comes from a good line, Enq. I will see her parents before I leave.’

Reluctantly, Enq nodded. ‘Very well. I had to take a piss, anyway.’

Temujin rose, standing back as his uncle ducked through the door. He could hear the noisy spatter of liquid begin almost immediately. Yesugei chuckled deep in his throat, but it was not a friendly sound. In silent communication, he reached out and gripped Temujin around the back of the neck, then both of them stepped out into the bright sunshine.

The Olkhun’ut seemed to be burdened with an insatiable curiosity about their visitors. As Temujin’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw many dozens of them had gathered around Enq’s ger, though Yesugei hardly spared them a glance. Enq strode through the crowd, sending two yellow dogs skittering out of his way with a kick. Yesugei strolled after him, meeting his son’s eyes for a moment. Temujin returned the gaze coolly until Yesugei nodded, reassured in some way.

Enq’s stiffness was far more visible as they walked behind him, every step revealing his old injury. Sensing their scrutiny, his face became flushed as he led them through the clustered gers and out to the edges of the encampment. The chattering Olkhun’ut followed them, unashamed in their interest.

A thunder of hooves sounded behind their small party and Temujin was tempted to look back. He saw his father glance and knew that if there was a threat, the khan would have drawn his sword. Though his fingers twitched at the hilt, Yesugei only smiled. Temujin listened to the hoof beats getting closer and closer until the ground trembled under their feet.

At the last possible moment, Yesugei moved with a jerk, reaching up in a blur to snatch a rider. The horse galloped on wildly, bare of reins or saddle. Freed of its burden, it bucked twice and then settled, dropping its head to nibble at dry grass.

Temujin had spun round at his father’s movement, seeing the big man lowering a child to the ground as if the weight was nothing.

It might have been a girl, but it was not easy to be sure. The hair was cut short and the face was almost black with dirt. She struggled in Yesugei’s arms as he put her down, spitting and wailing. He laughed and turned to Enq with raised eyebrows.

‘The Olkhun’ut grow them wild, I see,’ Yesugei said.

Enq’s face was twisted with what may have been amusement. He watched as the grubby little girl ran away screeching. ‘Let us continue to her father,’ he said, flashing a glance at Temujin before he limped away.

Temujin stared after the running figure, wishing he had taken a better look.

‘Is she the one?’ he said aloud. No one answered him.

The horses of the Olkhun’ut were out on the ragged edge of the tribe, whinnying and tossing their heads in the excitement of spring. The last of the gers sat on a piece of dusty ground by the corrals, baked and bare of any ornament. Even the door was unpainted wood, suggesting the owners owned nothing more than their lives and their place in the tribe. Temujin sighed at the thought of spending his year with such a poor family. He had hoped at least to be given a bow for hunting. From the look of the ger, his wife’s family would be hard-pressed even to feed him.

Yesugei’s face was blank, and Temujin tried hard to copy it in front of Enq. He had already resolved not to like the thin uncle who had given them such a reluctant welcome. It was not difficult.

The father of the girl came out to meet them, smiling and bowing. His clothes were black with old grease and dirt, layer upon layer that Temujin suspected would remain on his skin regardless of season. He showed a toothless mouth when he smiled and Temujin watched as he scratched at a dark spot in his hair, flicking some nameless parasite away with his fingers. It was hard not to be revolted after the clean ger his mother had kept all his life. The smell of urine was a sharp tang in the air and Temujin could not even see a latrine pit nearby.

He took the man’s dark hand when it was offered and went inside to drink yet another bowl of the salty tea, moving to the left after his father and Enq. His spirits sank further at the broken wood beds and lack of paint. There was an old bow on the wall, but it was a poor thing and much mended. The old man woke his wife with a hard slap and set her to boiling a kettle on the stove. He was clearly nervous in the presence of strangers and muttered to himself constantly.

Enq could not hide his cheerful mood. He smiled around at the bare felt and wooden lattice, repaired in a hundred places.

‘We are honoured to be in your home, Shria,’ he said to the woman, who bowed her head briefly before pouring the salt tea into shallow bowls for them. Enq’s good humour was growing visibly as he addressed her husband. ‘Bring your daughter, Sholoi. The boy’s father has said he wants to see her.’

The wiry little man showed his toothless gums again and went out, pulling his beltless trousers up at every second step. Temujin heard a high voice yelling and the old man’s curt reply, but he pretended not to, covering his dismay with the bowl of tea and feeling his bladder grow full.

Sholoi brought the grubby girl back in, struggling all the way. Under Yesugei’s gaze, he struck her three times in quick succession, on the face and legs. Tears sprang into her eyes, though she fought them with the same determination as she had fought her father.

‘This is Borte,’ Enq said slyly. ‘She will make your son a good and loyal wife, I am certain.’

‘She looks a little old,’ Yesugei said doubtfully.

The girl writhed away from her father’s grip and went to sit on the other side of the ger, as far from them as she could possibly get.

Enq shrugged. ‘She is fourteen, but there has been no blood. Perhaps because she is thin. There have been other suitors, of course, but they want a placid girl instead of one with fire in her. She will make a fine mother for Wolves.’

The girl in question picked up a shoe and threw it at Enq. Temujin was close enough to snatch it out of the air and she stared malevolently at him.

Yesugei crossed the ger and something about him made her go still. He was large for his own people and larger still for the Olkhun’ut, who tended towards delicacy. He reached out and touched her gently under the chin, lifting her head.

‘My son will need a strong wife,’ he said, looking into her eyes. ‘I think she will be beautiful when she has grown.’

The little girl broke her unnatural stillness and tried to slap at his hand, though he was too fast for her. Yesugei smiled, nodding to himself.

‘I like her. I accept the betrothal.’

Enq hid his displeasure behind a weak smile.

‘I am pleased to have found a good match for your son,’ he said.

Yesugei stood and stretched his back, towering over them all.

‘I will return for him in a year, Enq. Teach him discipline, but remember that one day he will be a man and he may come back to pay his debts to the Olkhun’ut.’

The threat was not lost on Enq and Sholoi, and the former clenched his jaw rather than reply before he had mastered himself.

‘It is a hard life in the gers of the Olkhun’ut. We will give you back a warrior as well as a wife for him.’

‘I do not doubt it,’ Yesugei replied.

He bent almost double to pass out through the small door and, in sudden panic, Temujin realised his father was leaving. It seemed to take for ever for the older men to follow, but he forced himself to sit until only the wizened wife was left and he could leave. By the time he stood blinking against the light, his father’s pony had been brought. Yesugei mounted easily, looking down on them all. His steady gaze found Temujin at last, but he said nothing and, after a moment, he dug in his heels, trotting away.

Temujin stared after his father as he rode, returning to his brothers, his mother, everything he loved. Though he knew he would not, Temujin hoped Yesugei would glance back before he was out of sight. He felt tears threaten and took a deep breath to hold them back, knowing it would please Enq to see weakness.

His uncle watched Yesugei leave and then he closed one nostril with a finger, blowing the contents of the other onto the dusty ground.

‘He is an arrogant fool, that one, like all the Wolves,’ he said.

Temujin turned quickly, surprising him. Enq sneered.

‘And his pups are worse than their father. Well, Sholoi beats his pups as hard as he beats his daughters and his wife. They all know their place, boy. You’ll learn yours while you are here.’

He gestured to Sholoi and the little man took Temujin’s arm in a surprisingly powerful grip. Enq smiled at the boy’s expression.

Temujin held silent, knowing they were trying to frighten him. After a pause, Enq turned and walked away, his expression sour. Temujin saw that his uncle limped much worse when Yesugei was not there to see it. In the midst of his fear and loneliness, that thought gave him a scrap of comfort. If he had been treated with kindness, he may not have had the strength. As things stood, his simmering dislike was like a draught of mare’s blood in his stomach, nourishing him.

Yesugei did not look back as he passed the last riders of the Olkhun’ut. His heart ached at leaving his precious son in the hands of weaklings like Enq and Sholoi, but to have given Temujin even a few words of comfort would have been seen as a triumph for those who looked for such things. When he was riding alone across the plain and the camp was far behind, he permitted himself a rare smile. Temujin had more than a little fierceness in him, perhaps more than any other of his sons. Where Bekter might have retreated into sullenness, he thought Temujin might surprise those who thought they could freely torment a khan’s son. Either way, he would survive the year and the Wolves would be stronger for his experiences and the wife he would bring home. Yesugei remembered the fat herds that roamed around the gers of his wife’s tribe. He had found no true weaknesses in the defences, but if the winter was hard, he could picture a day when he would ride amongst them once more, with warriors at his side. His mood lightened at the thought of seeing Enq run from his bondsmen. There would be no smiles and sly glances from the thin little man then. He dug in his heels to canter across the empty landscape, his imagination filled with pleasant thoughts of fire and screaming.

CHAPTER SIX

Temujin came abruptly from sleep when a pair of hands yanked him off his pallet and onto the wooden floor. The ger was filled with that close darkness that prevented him from even seeing his own limbs, and everything was unfamiliar. He could hear Sholoi muttering as he moved around and assumed it was the old man who had woken him. Temujin felt a surge of fresh dislike for Borte’s father. He scrambled up, stifling a cry of pain as he cracked his shin on some unseen obstacle. It was not yet dawn and the camp of the Olkhun’ut was silent all around. He did not want to start the dogs barking. A little cold water would splash away his sleepiness, he thought, yawning. He reached out to where he remembered seeing a bucket the evening before, but his hands closed on nothing.

‘Awake yet?’ Sholoi said somewhere near.

Temujin turned towards the sound and clenched his fists in the darkness. He had a bruise along the side of his face from where the old man had struck him the evening before. It had brought shameful tears to his eyes, though he’d seen that Enq had spoken the truth about life in that miserable home. Sholoi used his bony hands to enforce every order, whether he was moving a dog out of his path, or starting his daughter or wife to some task. The shrewish-looking wife seemed to have learned a sullen silence, but Borte had felt her father’s fists more than a few times on that first evening, just for being too close in the confined space of the ger. Under the dirt and old cloth, Temujin thought she must have been covered in bruises. It had taken two sharp blows from Sholoi before he too kept his head down. He’d felt her eyes on him then, her gaze scornful, but what else could he have done? Killed the old man? He didn’t think he would live long past Sholoi’s first shout for help, not surrounded by the rest of the tribe. He thought they would take a particular delight in cutting him if he gave them cause. His last waking thought the night before had been the pleasant image of dragging a bloody Sholoi behind his pony, but it was just a fantasy born of humiliation. Bekter had survived, he reminded himself, sighing, wondering how the big ox had managed to hold his temper.

He heard a creak of hinges as Sholoi opened the small door, letting in enough cold starlight for Temujin to edge around the stove and past the sleeping forms of Borte and her mother. Somewhere nearby were two other gers with Sholoi’s sons and their grubby wives and children. They had all left the old man years before, leaving only Borte. Despite his rough ways, Sholoi was khan in his own home and Temujin could only bow his head and try not to earn too many cuffs and blows.

He shivered as he stepped outside, crossing his arms in his thick deel so that he was hugging himself. Sholoi was emptying his bladder yet again, as he seemed to need to do every hour or so in the night. Temujin had woken more than once as Sholoi stumbled past him and he wondered why he had been pulled from the blankets this time. He felt a deep ache in his stomach from hunger and looked forward to something hot to start the day. With just a little warm tea, he was certain he would be able to stop his hands shaking, but he knew Sholoi would only cackle and sneer if he asked for some before the stove was even lit.

The herds were dark figures under the starlight as Temujin emptied his own urine into the soil, watching it steam. The nights were still cold in spring and he saw there was a crust of ice on the ground. With a south-facing door, he had no trouble finding east, to look for the dawn. There was no sign of it and he hoped Sholoi did not rise at such an early hour every day. The man may have been toothless, but he was as knotted and wiry as an old stick and Temujin had the sinking feeling that the day would be long and hard.

As he tucked himself in, Temujin felt Sholoi’s grip on his arm, pushing at him. The old man held a wooden bucket, and as Temujin took it, he picked up another, pressing it into his free hand.

‘Fill them and come back quick, boy,’ he said.

Temujin nodded, turning towards the sound of the nearby river. He wished Khasar and Kachiun could have been there. He missed them already and it was not hard to imagine the peaceful scene as they awoke in the ger he had known all his life, with Hoelun stirring them to begin their chores. The buckets were heavy as he headed back, but he wanted to eat and he did not doubt Sholoi would starve him if he gave him an opportunity.

The stove had been lit by the time he returned and Borte had vanished from her blankets. Sholoi’s grim little wife, Shria, was fussing around the stove, nursing the flames with tapers before shutting the door with a clang. She had not spoken a word to him since his arrival. Temujin looked thirstily at the pot of tea, but Sholoi came in just as he put the buckets down and guided him back out into the quiet darkness with a two-fingered grip on his bicep.

‘You’ll join the felters later, when the sun’s up. Can you shear?’

‘No, I’ve never had …’ Temujin began.

Sholoi grimaced. ‘Not much good to me, boy, are you? I can carry my own buckets. When it’s light you can collect sheep turds for the stove. Can you ride herd?’

‘I’ve done it,’ Temujin replied quickly, hoping he would be given his pony to tend the Olkhun’ut sheep and cattle. That would at least take him away from his new family for a while each day. Sholoi saw his eagerness and his toothless mouth curled like a wet, grubby fist.

‘Want to run back to your mother, boy, is that it? Frightened of a little hard work?’

Temujin shook his head. ‘I can tan leather and braid rope for bridles and saddles. I can carve wood, horn and bone.’ He found himself blushing, though he doubted Sholoi could see in the starlit darkness. He heard the old man snort.

‘I don’t need a saddle for a horse I don’t have, do I? Some of us weren’t born into pretty silks and furs.’

Temujin saw the old man’s blow coming and slipped it, turning his head. Sholoi wasn’t fooled and thumped at him until he fell sideways into the darker patch where the urine had eaten at the frost. As he scrambled to get up, Sholoi kicked his ribs and Temujin lost his temper. He sprang up fast and stood wavering, suddenly unsure. The old man seemed determined to humiliate him with every word, and he couldn’t understand what he wanted.

Sholoi made a whistling sound of exasperation and then spat, reaching for him with his gnarled fingers. Temujin edged backwards, completely unable to find a response that would satisfy his tormentor. He ducked and protected himself from a rain of blows, but some of them found their mark. Every instinct told him to strike back and yet he was not sure Sholoi would even feel it. The old man seemed to have grown and become fearsome in the dark, and Temujin could not imagine how to hit him hard enough to stop the attack.

‘No more,’ he cried out. ‘No more!’

Sholoi chuckled, holding the edge of Temujin’s deel in his unbreakable grip and panting as if he had run a mile in the noon sun.

‘I’ve broken ponies better than you, boy. With more spirit, too. You’re no better than I thought you were.’

There was a world of scorn in his voice and Temujin realised he could see the old man’s features. The sun’s first light had come into the east and the tribe was stirring at last. Both of them sensed they were being watched at the same time, and when they turned, Borte was there, staring.

Temujin flushed with shame more painful than the actual blows. He felt Sholoi’s hands fall away under Borte’s silent scrutiny and the old man seemed discomfited somehow. Without another word, he pushed past Temujin and disappeared into the fetid darkness of the ger.

Temujin felt an itching drip of blood come from his nostril onto his top lip and he smeared it with an angry gesture, sick of all of them. The movement seemed to startle Sholoi’s daughter and she turned her back on him, running away into the dawn gloom. For a few precious moments he was on his own and Temujin felt lost and miserable. His new family were little better than animals from what he had seen, and it was only the beginning of the first day.

Borte ran through the gers, dodging obstacles and flying past a barking dog as it tried to chase her. A few swift turns and it was left behind to yap and snarl in impotent fury. She felt alive when she ran, as if nothing in the world could touch her. When she stood still, her father could reach her with his hands, or her mother take a whip of silver birch to her back. She still carried the stripes from knocking over a pail of cool yoghurt two days before.

The breath rushed cleanly in and out of her lungs and she wished the sun would stay frozen on the distant horizon. If the tribe remained asleep, she could find a little quiet and happiness away from their stares. She knew how they talked of her and there were times when she wished she could be like the other girls in the tribe. She had even tried it when her mother had cried over her once. One day was enough to become tired of sewing and cooking and learning how to ferment the black airag for the warriors. Where was the excitement in that? She even looked different from the other girls, with a thin frame and nothing more than tiny buds of breasts to spoil the rack of ribs that was her chest. Her mother complained she did not eat enough to grow, but Borte had heard a different message. She did not want big cow bosoms that would hang down for a man to milk her. She wanted to be fast like a deer and skinny like a wild dog.

She snorted as she ran, revelling in the pleasure of feeling the wind. Her father had given her to the Wolf puppy without a second thought. The old man was too stupid to ask her whether she would have him or not. No. He would not have cared either way. She knew how hard her father could be and all she could do was run and hide from him, as she had a thousand times before. There were women in the Olkhun’ut who let her spend the night in their gers if old Sholoi was raging. Those were dangerous times, though, if their own men had been at the fermented milk. Borte always watched for the slurred voices and sweet breath that meant they would come grasping at her after dark. She had been caught once like that and it would not happen again, not while she carried her little knife, at least.

She raced past the final gers of the tribe and made a decision to reach the river without being conscious of it. The dawn light revealed the snaking black line of the water and she felt the speed was still there in her legs. Perhaps she could leap it and never come down, like a heron taking off. She laughed at the thought of running like those ungainly birds, all legs and pumping wings. Then she reached the river bank and her thighs bunched and released. She flew and, for a moment of glory, she looked up into the rising sun and thought she would not have to come down. Her feet caught the far edge of the shadowed river bank and tumbled her onto grass still stiff with frost, breathless at her own flights of imagination. She envied the birds who could drift so far from the land beneath them. How they must delight in the freedom, she thought, watching the sky for their dark shapes rising into the dawn. Nothing would give her more pleasure than simply to be able to spread wings and leave her mother and father behind like ugly specks on the ground. They would be small beneath her, she was sure, like insects. She would fly all the way to the sun and the sky father would welcome her. Until he too raised his hand against her, and she had to fly again. Borte was not too sure about the sky father. In her experience, men of any stripe were too similar to the stallions she saw mounting the mares of the Olkhun’ut. They were hot enough before and during the act, with their long poles waving around beneath them. Afterwards, they cropped the grass as if nothing had happened and she saw no tenderness there. There was no mystery to the act after living in the same ger as her parents all her life. Her father took no account of his daughter’s presence if he decided to pull Shria to him in the evenings.

Lying on the cold ground, Borte blew air through her lips. If they thought the Wolf puppy would mount her in the same way, she would leave him with a stump where his manhood had been. She imagined carrying it away with her like a red worm and him being forced to chase and demand it back. The image was amusing and she giggled to herself as her breathing calmed at last. The tribe was waking. There was work to be done around the gers and with the herds. Her father would have his hands full with the khan’s son, she thought, but she should stay close in case he still expected her to work on the untanned hides, or lay out the wool for felting. Everyone would be involved until the sheep were all sheared, and her absence would mean another turn with the birch whip if she let the day go.

She sat up in the grass and pulled a stalk to chew on. Temujin. She said it aloud, feeling the way it made her mouth move. It meant a man of iron, which was a good name, if she hadn’t seen him flinch under her father’s hand. He was younger than her and a little coward, and this was the one she would marry? This was the boy who would give her strong sons and daughters who could run as she could?

‘Never,’ she said aloud, looking into the running water. On impulse, she leaned over the surface and stared at the blurry vision of her face. It could have been anyone, she thought. Anyone who cut their own hair with a knife and was as dirty as any herder. She was no beauty, it was true, but if she could run fast enough, none of them could catch her anyway.

Under the noon sun, Temujin wiped sweat from his eyes, his stomach rumbling. Borte’s mother was as sour and unpleasant as her husband, with eyes as sharp. He dreaded the thought of having a wife so ugly and sullen. For breakfast, Shria had given him a bowl of salt tea and a curd of cheese as long as his thumb and as hard as a bit of bone. He had put it into his cheek to suck, but it had barely begun to soften by noon. Sholoi had been given three hot pouches of unleavened bread and spiced mutton, slapping the greasy packages back and forth between his hands to ward off the morning chill. The smell had made Temujin’s mouth water, but Shria had pinched his stomach and told him he could stand to miss a few meals. It was an insult, but what was one more?

While Sholoi greased leathers and checked the hooves of every Olkhun’ut pony, Temujin had carried great bales of fleeces to where the women of the tribe were laying them out on felting mats of ancient cloth. Each one was heavier than anything he had ever carried before, but he had managed to stagger with them across the camp, attracting the stares and excited chatter of small children. His calves and back had begun to burn before the second trip was over, but he was not allowed to stop. By the tenth bale, Sholoi had ceased greasing to watch his faltering progress and Temujin saw some of the men grinning and muttering bets to each other. The Olkhun’ut would bet on anything, it seemed, but he was past caring when he fell at last, his legs limp under him. No one came to help him up and he thought he’d never been so desperately unhappy as in that moment of silence while the Olkhun’ut watched him rise. There was no pity or humour on a single one of the hard faces, and when he finally stood, he felt their dislike feed his spirit, raising his head. Though the sweat stung his eyes and every panting breath seemed to scorch him, he smiled at them. To his pleasure, some of them even turned away under his gaze, though most narrowed their eyes.

He knew someone was approaching from the way the expressions of the others changed. Temujin stood with the bale balanced on a shoulder and both arms up to steady it. He did not enjoy the feeling of vulnerability as he turned to see who had caught the eye of the crowd. As he recognised his cousin, he saw that Koke was enjoying the moment. His fists hung loosely at his side, but it was easy to imagine them thumping into his unprotected stomach. Temujin tried to tense his belly, feeling it quiver in exhaustion. The bale weighed down heavily on him and his legs were still strangely weak. He showed Koke the cold face as he approached, doing his best to disconcert the boy on his home ground.

It didn’t work. Koke came first, but there were other boys of the same age behind him, bright-eyed and dangerous-looking. Out of the corner of his eye, Temujin saw the adults nudge each other and laugh. He groaned to himself and wished he had a knife to wipe the arrogance off their faces. Had Bekter suffered in this way? He had never mentioned it.

‘Pick that bale up, boy,’ Koke said, grinning.

As Temujin opened his mouth to answer, he felt a push that overbalanced the bale and he almost went with it. He staggered into Koke and was shoved roughly away. He had been in too many fights with his brothers to let that go and threw a straight punch that rocked Koke’s head back. In moments, they were rolling on the dusty ground, the fallen bale forgotten. The other boys did not cheer, but one of them rushed in and kicked Temujin in the stomach, winding him. He cried out in anger, but another one kicked him in the back as he struggled away from Koke and tried to rise. Koke was bleeding from his nose, though the blood was hardly more than a trickle, already clotting in the dust. Before Temujin regained his feet, Koke grappled him again, pressing his head into the earth while two more boys sat on his chest and legs, flattening him with their weight. Temujin was too tired to throw them off after so long carrying the bales. He struggled madly, but the dust filled every breath and soon he was choking and clawing at them. He had one of the other boys around the throat and Koke was punching at his head to make him let go. After that, he lost a little time and the noise seemed to go away.

He did not wake exactly, nor had he slept, but he came back as if he was surfacing from a dream when a bucket was upended over his head. Temujin gasped at the cold water running down him in streams of diluted blood and muddy filth. Sholoi held him upright and Temujin saw that the old man had sent the boys scurrying away at last, still jeering and laughing at their victim. Temujin looked into Sholoi’s eyes and saw nothing but irritation as the old man clicked his fingers in front of his face to catch his attention.

‘You must fetch more water now that I’ve emptied this bucket,’ he heard Sholoi say as if from far away. ‘After that, you will help beat the fleeces until we eat. If you work hard, you will have meat and hot bread to give you strength.’ He looked disgusted for a moment. ‘I think he’s still dizzy. He needs a thicker skull, this one, like his brother. That boy had a head like a yak.’

‘I hear you,’ Temujin said irritably, shaking off the last of his weakness. He snatched the bucket, not troubling to hide his anger. He could not see Koke or the others, but he vowed to finish the fight they had started. He had endured the work and the scorn of the Olkhun’ut, but a public beating was too much. He knew he could not rush blindly at the other boy. He was enough of a child to want to, but enough of a warrior to wait for his moment. It would come.

As Yesugei rode between peaks in a vast green valley, he saw the moving specks of riders in the far distance and set his mouth in a firm line. From so far away, he could not tell if the Olkhun’ut had sent warriors to shadow him back to his gers, or whether it was a raiding party from a tribe new to the area. His hope that they were herdsmen was quickly dashed as he looked around at the bare hillsides. There were no lost sheep nearby and he knew with a grim feeling that he was vulnerable if the group turned to chase him.

He watched their movement out of the corner of his eye, careful not to show them a tiny white face staring in their direction. He hoped they would not trouble to follow a single horseman, but he snorted to himself as he saw them turn, noting the rise of dust as they kicked their mounts into a gallop. The furthest outriders of his Wolves were still two days away and he would be pushed to lose the raiders on such open land. He started his gelding galloping, pleased that it was strong and well rested. Perhaps the following men had tired horses and would be left behind.

Yesugei did not glance over his shoulder as he rode. In such a wide valley, he could see for five or six miles and be seen in turn. The chase would be a long one, but without a wealth of luck, they would catch him unless he found shelter. His eyes travelled feverishly along the hills, seeing the trees on the high ridges, like distant eyelashes. They would not hide him, he thought. He needed a sheltered valley where woods stretched across the bones of the earth, layering it in ancient leaves and grey pine needles. There were many such places, but he had been spotted far from any of them. With irritation growling deep in his chest, he rode on. When he did look back, the riders were closer and he saw there were five of them in the pursuit. Their blood would be up for the chase, he knew. They would be excited and yelling, though their cries were lost far behind him. He showed his teeth in the wind as he rode. If they knew whom they were chasing, they would not be so rash. He touched his hand to the hilt of his sword, where it lay across the horse’s hindquarters, slapping the skin. The long blade had belonged to his father and was held by a thong of leather, to keep it safe while he rode. His bow was tied securely to his saddle, but he could string it in moments. Under his deel, the old shirt of chain mail he had won in a raid was a comforting weight. If they pressed him, he would butcher the lot of them, he told himself, feeling the twinges of an old excitement. He was the khan of Wolves and he feared no man. They would pay dearly for his skin.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Temujin winced as the raw wool snagged his red fingers for the hundredth time. He had seen it done before in the camp of the Wolves, but the work was usually left to older boys and young women. It was different with the Olkhun’ut and he could see that he had not been singled out. The smallest children carried buckets full of water to sprinkle on each layer of the woollen fleeces, keeping them constantly moist. Koke and the other boys tied the fleeces onto upright skins on frames and beat them with long smooth sticks for hours until the sweat ran off them in streams. Temujin had done his part, though the temptation to crack his stick into Koke’s grinning face had been almost overwhelming.

After the fleeces had been thrashed into softness, the women used the width of their outstretched arms to measure out one ald, marking the fleeces with chalk. When they had their width, they stretched them on the felting cloths, smoothing and teasing the snags and loose fibres until they resembled a single, white mat. More water helped to weigh the rough felt down in layers, but there was real skill in finding the exact thickness. Temujin had watched his hands redden and grow sore as the day wore on, working with the others while Koke mocked him and had the women giggling at his discomfort. It did not matter, Temujin had discovered. Now that he had decided to wait for his moment, Temujin found he could bear the insults and the sneers. In fact, there was a subtle pleasure in knowing that the time would come when no one else was around and he would give Koke back a little of what he deserved. Or more than a little, he thought. With his hands smarting and painful scratch lines up to his elbows, it made a pleasant picture in his mind.

When the mats were smooth and regular, an Olkhun’ut pony was backed up and the great expanse of white wool rolled onto a long cylinder, worn perfectly smooth with the labour of generations. Temujin would have given a great deal to be the one who dragged it for miles away from those people. Instead, the job went to laughing Koke, and Temujin realised he was popular in the tribe, perhaps because he made the women smile at his antics. There was nothing for Temujin to do but keep his head down and wait for the next break of mare’s milk and a pouch of vegetables and mutton. His arms and back ached as if someone had stuck a knife in him and twisted it with every movement, but he endured, standing with the others to heave the next batch of beaten fleeces onto the felting cloth.

He was not the only one to suffer, he had noticed. Sholoi seemed to supervise the process, though Temujin did not think he owned sheep himself. When one small boy ran too close and sent dust over the raw fleeces, Sholoi grabbed his arm and beat him unmercifully with a stick, ignoring his screaming until there was nothing but whimpering. The fleeces had to be kept clean or the felt would be weak, and Temujin was careful not to make the same mistake. He knelt on the very edge of the matting and allowed no small stone or drift of dust to spoil his patch.

Borte had worked across from him for part of the afternoon, and Temujin had used the opportunity to take a good look at the girl his father had accepted for him. She seemed skinny enough to be a collection of bones, with a mop of black hair that hung over her eyes and a cake of snot under her nose. He found it difficult to imagine a less attractive girl, and when she caught him glaring, she cleared her throat to spit before she remembered the clean fleeces and swallowed it. He shook his head in amazement at her, wondering what his father could have seen to like. It was just possible that Yesugei’s pride had forced him to accept what he was given, thus shaming small men like Enq and Sholoi. Temujin had to face the fact that the girl who would share his ger and give him children was as wild as a plains cat. It seemed to fit his experience of the Olkhun’ut so far, he thought miserably. They were not generous. If they were willing to give a girl away, it would be one they wanted rid of, where she would cause trouble for another tribe.

Shria smacked his arms with her felting stick, making him yelp. Of course, the other women all chuckled and one or two even imitated the sound, so that he flushed with fury.

‘Stop dreaming, Temujin,’ Borte’s mother said, as she had a dozen times before.

The work was dull and repetitive and the women either kept up a stream of chatter or worked almost in a trance, but that was a luxury not allowed to the newcomer. The slightest inattention was punished and the heat and sun seemed endless. Even the drinking water brought round to the workers was warm and salty and made him gag. He seemed to have been smashing his stick into stinking wool, or removing lice or rolling it or carrying it for ever. He could hardly believe it was still his first day.

Somewhere to the south, his father was riding home. Temujin could imagine the dogs leaping around him and the pleasure of teaching the twin eagles to hunt and return to the wrist. His brothers would be part of the training, he was sure, allowed to hold bits of meat aloft on trembling fingers. Kachiun would not flinch as the red bird took the lure, he was certain. He envied them the summer they would have.

Shria smacked him again and he reached up with lightning speed to pull the stick from her hands, laying it gently on the ground by him. She gaped at him for an instant before reaching for it, but he put his knee on its length and shook his head, feeling light-headed as his heart hammered. He saw her eyes flicker to Sholoi, who was standing nearby, watching over a new batch of the wet fleeces as they were lowered to the ground. Temujin waited for her to screech and then, to his astonishment, she shrugged, holding out her hand for the stick. It was an awkward moment, but he made a choice and handed it back to her, ready to duck. She hefted it in her hands for a moment, clearly undecided, then simply turned her back and walked away from him. He kept her firmly in his vision for a while longer as his fingers resumed the smoothing and tugging, but she didn’t return, and after a while, he was lost in the work once more.

It was Enq, his uncle, who brought a pot filled with fermented milk to give them the strength to finish. As the sun touched the hills in the west, each of them had a ladleful of the clear liquid known as black airag, which looked like water, but burned. It was hotter than the milky tea in the gers and Temujin choked on his, coughing. He wiped his mouth and then gasped with pain as the liquid found his broken skin and stung like fire. Koke was off rolling the felt behind his pony, but Sholoi saw his discomfort and laughed until Temujin thought he would have a seizure and die right in front of him. He hoped it would happen, but the old man survived to wring tears from his eyes and wheeze his way back to the pot for another ladleful. It was difficult not to resent the second cup for one who had done practically nothing, but no one else seemed to mind. The light slowly faded and the last felting mat was rolled into a cylinder and tied behind another horse.

Before anyone could object, Borte leapt into the saddle, surprising Sholoi as he stood holding the reins. No words passed between them, but the old man’s toothless mouth worked as if he had found a bit of gristle that he couldn’t reach. After a moment’s indecision, he slapped the rump of the pony and sent her out into the gloom to roll the felt into flatness and strength. It would keep the winter chill out of the gers, and make heavy rugs and horse blankets. The rough cuts would be used for babies too young to use a latrine pit without falling in. Temujin sat on his heels and stretched his back, closing his eyes against the aches. His right hand had gone numb, which worried him. He used his left to massage the blood into the fingers, but when it came, the pain brought tears to his eyes. He had never worked so hard, he thought, and wondered if it would make him stronger.

Sholoi came over as he dragged himself to his feet, and Temujin started slightly as he registered the old man’s presence. He hated his own nervousness, but there had been too many sudden blows for him not to be wary. The draught of fermented milk made him belch sourly as Sholoi took him in the two-fingered grip he was beginning to know well, pointing him back towards the ger.

‘Eat now and sleep. Tomorrow you’ll cut wood for winter.’

Temujin was too tired to respond and followed him in a daze of exhaustion, his limbs and spirit heavy.

Yesugei had found a place to camp that seemed safe enough. The valley where he’d sighted the group of riders had come to an end and he’d galloped straight through a short pass between hills, hoping to find some shelter that would confuse his trail. He knew it would not be hard to track him on the dusty ground, but he could not go on all night and risk breaking his pony’s leg in a marmot hole. Instead, he forced the courageous little gelding up a steep slope to the patchy tree line, dismounting to lead with reins and constant encouragement. It was a hard and dangerous climb and the horse’s eyes were white-rimmed with fear when its hooves slipped on the loose mulch. Yesugei had moved fast, wrapping the reins around the bole of a tree and hanging on desperately until the gelding found its footing. Even then, his shoulder and chest muscles ached terribly by the time he reached the top and the gelding was blowing noisily enough to be heard a mile away. He did not think they would follow him into the trees as the darkness came. All he had to do was stay out of sight and they could search in vain for a trail that disappeared in the mat of dead pine needles. He would have chuckled at the thought if he had been able to see them, but he could not. His prickling neck told him his pursuers were still somewhere close, looking and listening for some sign of him. He worried that his mount would whinny to their horses and give his position away, but the animal was too tired after the climb and the hard ride. With a little luck, and a night without a fire, they would abandon the search and go on their way the following morning. It did not matter if he came back to the gers of the Wolves a day late, after all.

High on the crest of the hill, he pulled a pair of stunted bushes together and tied the reins, watching with amusement as the pony eased itself down onto its knees and found that it could not lie flat as the reins grew taut. He left the saddle on its back in case he had to move quickly, loosening the belly rope a couple of notches along the braiding. The gelding snorted at the attention and made itself comfortable as best it could. After a while, he saw it close its eyes and doze, its soft muzzle falling open to reveal solid yellow teeth.

Yesugei listened for a sign that his pursuers had not given up. It would be hard for them to come close without alerting him on such broken ground. He untied the leather strap that kept his sword in the scabbard and then drew it in one smooth movement, examining the blade. It was good steel and enough of a prize on its own to make him a target for thieves. If Eeluk had been with him, he would have challenged the men on the plain, but five was probably too many even for him, unless they were unblooded boys who could be scared with a shout and a few quick cuts. His father’s blade was as sharp as ever, which was all to the good. He could not risk them hearing him stroke it with his stone that evening. Instead, he took a few gulps from his leather water bottle, with a grimace at its lightness. The gelding would be thirsty come the morning. If the streams nearby had run dry, he would have a hard day, whether the riders saw him or not. He shrugged to himself at the thought. He had lived through worse.

Yesugei stretched and yawned, smiling at the sleeping pony as he pulled dried mutton from his saddlebags and chewed on it, grunting in pleasure at the spicy taste. He missed Hoelun and his boys and wondered what they would be doing at that moment.

As he laid himself down and pulled his hands back inside his deel for sleep, he hoped Temujin had the spirit to endure Hoelun’s people. It was difficult to know whether the boy had the strength at such a young age. Yesugei would not have been surprised to find that Temujin had run away, though he hoped he would not. It would be a difficult shame to live down and the story would spread around the tribes in less than a season. Yesugei sent a silent prayer to help his son. Bekter had suffered, he knew. His eldest boy spoke with little liking for the Olkhun’ut when Hoelun was not around. It was the only way to speak of them, of course. Yesugei grunted softly to himself and thanked the sky father for giving him such a fine crop of sons. A smile touched his lips then, as he slipped into sleep. Sons and now a daughter. He had been blessed with strong seed and a good woman to bear them. He knew of other wives who lost one miserable scrap of red flesh for every one that came alive into the world, but Hoelun’s children all survived and grew strong. Grew fat, in the case of Temuge, which was still a problem he would have to face. Sleep took him at last then, and his breath came slow and steady.

When his eyes snapped open, the first light of dawn was in the east, with a strip of gold on the far hills. He loved this land and, for a moment, he gave thanks for having lived to see another day. Then he heard men moving close by and the breath stilled in his throat. He eased himself away from the frozen ground, pulling his hair from where it had stuck to the frost. He had slept with his sword bare under the deel and his fingers found the hilt, curling around it. He knew he had to rise so that they could not rush him while he was still stiff, but he did not yet know if he had been seen. His eyes slid left and right and he strained his senses, searching out the source of the noise. There was a chance it was just a herder looking for a lost goat, but he knew that wasn’t likely. He heard a horse snort nearby and then his own gelding woke and whinnied, as he had feared it would. One of his pursuers rode a mare and she answered the call no more than fifty paces to his right. Yesugei rose like smoke, ignoring the twinge from his knees and back. Without hesitation, he took his bow from the saddle and strung it, pulling a long shaft from his quiver and touching it to the string. Only Eeluk could fire an arrow further, and he did not doubt his eye. If they were hostile, he could drop one or two of them before they could come within a sword’s length. He knew to look for the leaders for those first quick strikes, leaving only men weak enough to fall to his blade.

Now that they knew his position, there was no more sound from the group and he waited patiently for them to show themselves. He stood with the sun behind him, and after a moment’s thought, he unbuttoned his deel and reversed it. His heart was in his mouth as he lay down his sword and bow, but the dark inner cloth would blend with the bushes better than the blue, making him a poor target. He took up his weapons once more and stood as still as the trees and bushes around him. He caught himself humming under his breath and killed the sound. Sleep was just a memory and the blood flowed quickly in his flesh. Despite the threat, he found he was enjoying the tension.

‘Hello the camp,’ a voice called from off to his left.

Yesugei cursed inwardly, knowing they had circled around. Without a thought, he left the gelding and moved deeper into the trees, heading towards the voice. Whoever they were, they would not kill him easily, he vowed. It crossed his mind that they might not be a threat, but a man would have to be a fool to risk his life, his horse and his father’s sword on a vague hope. On the plains, even a strong man survived only with caution, and he knew he was a valuable prize for a raiding party, whether they realised it or not.

A line of sweat prickled down from his hairline as he waited.

‘I can’t see him,’ another voice came from only a few paces away.

Yesugei eased down into a crouch, drawing back on the bow with a creak.

‘His horse is here, though,’ a third man said, the voice deeper than the others. They all sounded young to Yesugei’s ear, though he wondered at their tracking skill. Even as close as they were, he could not hear them move.

With infinite care, he turned his head to glance behind him. Through the bushes, he could see a man pulling at the knot he had tied with the gelding’s reins. Yesugei grimaced in angry silence. He could not let them steal his horse and leave him there.

He took a deep breath, and rose to his full height, startling the stranger by the gelding. The man’s hand jumped for a knife, but then registered the drawn bow and froze.

‘We’re not looking for a fight, old man,’ the stranger said loudly.

Yesugei knew he was alerting his companions, and an answering rustle from his right sent his heart tripping at higher speed.

‘Step out where I can see you, then, and stop creeping around behind me,’ Yesugei said, his voice ringing across the clearing.

The rustling stopped and the young man who stood so coolly under his arrow nodded.

‘Do as he says. I don’t want to get stuck before I’ve had breakfast this morning.’

‘Call out before you move,’ Yesugei added, ‘or die, one or the other.’

There was a long silence and the young man sighed.

‘Step out here, all of you,’ he snapped, his coolness fraying visibly under the arrow point that never wavered from his heart.

Yesugei watched with narrowed eyes as the other four men came noisily through the brush. Two of them had bows with arrows notched and ready. They were all armed and wore thickly padded deels – the sort of garment designed to stop an arrow from penetrating too far. Yesugei recognised the stitching and wondered if they, in turn, would know him for who he was. For all the light manner of the one by the gelding, this was a Tartar raiding party and Yesugei knew hard men when he saw them, out to steal what they could.

When they were all in sight, the one who had spoken first nodded to Yesugei.

‘I did call the camp, old man. Will you grant us guest rights while we eat?’

Yesugei wondered whether the rules of courtesy would apply when they were not in danger from his bow, but with two of them bending bows of their own, he nodded and eased the tension on his string. The young men all relaxed visibly and their leader twitched his shoulders to relieve stiffness.

‘My name is Ulagan, of the Tartars,’ the young man said with a smile. ‘You are from the Wolves, unless you stole that deel and sword.’

‘I am,’ Yesugei replied, then added formally, ‘You are welcome to share food and milk in my camp.’

‘And your name?’ Ulagan said, raising his eyebrows.

‘Eeluk,’ Yesugei said, without hesitating. ‘If you make a fire, I can find a cup of black airag to warm your blood.’

All the men moved slowly as they set about preparing a meal, careful not to startle each other with a sudden movement. It took longer than usual for them all to gather rocks and nurse a flame with flint and steel, but as the sun rose, they ate well with the dried meat from Yesugei’s saddlebags and some rare honey that Ulagan brought from a pouch under his deel. The sweetness was wonderful to Yesugei, who had not tasted any since the time the tribe found a wild nest three years before. He licked his fingers to get every last drip of the golden fluid, rich with waxy fragments, yet his hands never strayed too far from his sword and the arrow remained ready on the ground in front of him. There was something uncomfortable in the gaze of Ulagan as he watched him eat, though he smiled whenever Yesugei met his eyes. None of the others spoke as they broke their fast, and the tension remained in every movement.

‘Are you finished?’ Ulagan asked after a time.

Yesugei sensed a subtle tautness in them as one of the men moved to one side and dropped his trousers to defecate on the ground. The man did not try to hide himself and Yesugei had a glimpse of his manhood swinging loose as he strained.

‘In the Wolves, we keep excrement away from the food,’ Yesugei murmured.

Ulagan shrugged. He stood and Yesugei rose with him rather than be at a disadvantage. He watched in astonishment as Ulagan crossed to the steaming pile and drew his sword.

Yesugei’s own blade was in his hand before he had made a conscious decision, but he was not attacked. Instead, he watched Ulagan pull his blade through the stinking mass until its metal was slick with it along the whole length.

Ulagan wrinkled his nose and raised his head to the man whose efforts had created the pile.

‘You have diseased bowels, Nasan, have I told you?’

‘You have,’ Nasan replied without humour, repeating the action with his own blade. It was then that Yesugei realised this was no chance meeting on the plains.

‘When did you know me?’ he asked softly.

Ulagan smiled, though his eyes were cold.

‘We knew when the Olkhun’ut told us you had come to them with a son. We paid their khan well to send a rider to our little camp, but he was not hard to persuade.’ Ulagan chuckled to himself. ‘You are not a popular man. There were times when I thought you would never come, but old Sansar was as good as his word.’

Yesugei’s heart sank with the news and he feared for Temujin. As he contemplated his chances, he tried to keep his enemy talking. He had already decided Ulagan was a fool. There was no point chatting to a man you were going to kill, but the young warrior seemed to be enjoying his power over him.

‘Why is my life worth sending you out?’ Yesugei asked.

Ulagan grinned. ‘You killed the wrong man, Wolf. You killed the son of a khan who was foolish enough to steal from your herds. His father is not one to forgive easily.’

Yesugei nodded, as if he was listening intently. He saw that the other three men intended to poison their blades in the same filth and, without warning, he leapt forward and struck, cutting deep into Nasan’s neck as he turned to watch them. The Tartar fell with a death cry and Ulagan roared in anger, lunging straight at Yesugei’s chest with his blade. The Tartar was fast, but the blade slid along the chain mail under the deel, cutting a flap from the cloth.

Yesugei attacked quickly, needing better odds. The blades rang twice as the three others fanned out around him and he felt the strength in his shoulders. He would show them what it meant to be a khan of the Wolves.

Yesugei feinted his own lunge, then stepped back as quickly as he could run forward, three sliding steps taking him outside the circle before it could form around him. One of the other men turned to bring a blade down in a great arc and Yesugei stabbed him under the shoulder into the chest, wrenching his father’s blade clear as he fell. He felt a sharp pain in his back then, but another step tore him clear and a quick slash felled another of the group with half his jaw cut away.

Ulagan pressed forward, his face grim at the death of three of his brothers in arms.

‘You should have brought more to bring down a khan,’ Yesugei taunted him. ‘Five is an insult to me.’ He dropped suddenly to one knee to avoid Ulagan’s cut. With a savage jerk, Yesugei managed to chop his blade into the younger man’s shin. It was not a mortal wound, but blood drenched Ulagan’s boot and the Tartar warrior was suddenly not so confident.

As Yesugei came to his feet, he stepped left and then right, keeping the pair off balance. He trained every day with Eeluk and his bondsmen, and he knew that movement was the key to killing with swords. Any man could heave a blade around his head, but footwork separated a man from a master. He grinned as Ulagan limped after him, gesturing for him to come closer. The Tartar nodded to the one remaining warrior and Yesugei watched as he moved to the side to take him. Ulagan timed it well and Yesugei did not have space to dart away. He buried his sword in the chest of the unnamed man, but it snagged in the ribs and Ulagan struck with his full weight, punching his blade tip through the mail into Yesugei’s stomach. Yesugei’s grip was broken on his sword as it fell away. He felt a pang for his sons that was worse than the pain, but he used his right hand to hold Ulagan still against him. With his left, he drew a dagger from his belt.

Ulagan saw the movement and struggled, but Yesugei’s grip was like iron. He looked down on the young Tartar and spat into his face.

‘Your people will be torn from the land for this, Tartar. Your gers will burn and your herds will be scattered.’

With a quick slash, he cut the young man’s throat and let him fall away. As he crumpled, the Tartar blade slid out of Yesugei’s wound and he bellowed in pain, falling to his knees. He could feel blood coursing down his thighs and he used the dagger to cut a great strip from his deel, yanking and cursing the agony, with his eyes closed now that there was no one to see. His gelding pulled nervously at the reins, whinnying its distress. The animal was frightened by the smell of blood and Yesugei forced himself to speak calmly. If the horse pulled free and bolted, he knew he would not make it back to his people.

‘It’s all right, little one. They have not killed me. Do you remember when Eeluk fell on the broken sapling and it went into his back? He lived through it, with enough boiling airag poured into the wound.’

He grimaced at that thought, remembering how the usually taciturn Eeluk had screamed like a small child. To his relief, his voice seemed to quiet the pony and it ceased yanking at the knot.

‘That’s it, little one. You stay and carry me home.’

Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him, but his fingers tugged the cloth around his waist and tied the knots hard and tight. He raised his hands and sniffed at them, wincing at the smell of human filth from Ulagan’s blade. That was an evil thing, he thought. They deserved death for that alone.

He wanted just to stay on his knees with his back straight. His father’s sword was close by his hand and he took comfort from the touch of cold metal. He felt he might hold himself there for a long time and watch the sun rise. Part of him knew he could not, if Temujin was to live. He had to reach the Wolves and send warriors out for the boy. He had to get back. His body felt heavy and useless, but he summoned his strength yet again.

With a cry of distress, he pulled himself to his feet, staggering to the gelding who watched him with the whites of its eyes showing. Resting his forehead against the pony’s flank, he slid the sword into the saddle straps, taking sharp breaths through the pain. His fingers were clumsy as he undid the reins, but he managed somehow to get back into the saddle. He knew he could not make the steep slope down, but the other side of the hill was easier and he dug in his heels, his vision fixed far away, on his home and his family.

CHAPTER EIGHT

As evening came, Bekter let his mare graze while he sat on a high ridge, watching for his father’s return. His back ached with tiredness after spending the day in the saddle with the herds. It had not been dull, at least. He’d rescued a goat kid that had fallen into a strip of marshy land by the river. With a rope around his waist, he had waded into the black muck to bring out the terrified animal before it drowned. It had struggled wildly, but he had pulled it out by an ear and placed it on the dry bank, where it glared at him as if the ordeal was his fault. As he moved his slow gaze over the plain, he scratched idly at a spatter of the black mud on his skin.

He enjoyed being away from the chatter and noise of the gers. When his father was absent, he sensed a subtle difference in the way the other men treated him, especially Eeluk. The man was humble enough when Yesugei was there to demand obedience, but when they were alone, Bekter sensed an arrogance in the bondsman that made him uncomfortable. It was nothing he could have mentioned to his father, but he walked carefully around Eeluk and kept his own counsel. He had found the best course was simply to remain silent and match the warriors at work and battle drills. There at least, he could show his skills, though it helped not to have Temujin’s eyes on the back of his neck as he drew his bow. He had felt nothing but relief when Temujin went to the Olkhun’ut. In fact, he had taken satisfaction from the hope that his brother would have a little sense beaten into him, a little respect for his elders.

Bekter remembered with pleasure how Koke had tried to bait him on his very first day. The younger boy had not been a match for Bekter’s strength or ferocity and he had knocked him down and kicked him unconscious. The Olkhun’ut had seemed shocked by the violence, as if boys did not fight in their tribe. Bekter spat at the memory of their sheep-like faces accusing him. Koke had not risked taunting him again. It had been a good lesson to give early.

Enq had thrashed him, of course, with one of the felting sticks, but Bekter had borne the blows without a single sound, and when Enq was panting and tired, he had reached out and snapped the stick in his hands, showing his strength. They had left him alone after that and Enq had known better than to work him too hard. The Olkhun’ut were as weak as Yesugei said they were, though their women were soft as white butter and stirred him as they walked by.

He thought his betrothed would surely have come into her blood by now, though the Olkhun’ut had not sent her. He remembered riding out onto the plains with her and laying her down by the bank of a stream. She had struggled a little at first when she realised what he was doing and he had been clumsy. In the end, he’d had to force her, though it was no more than he had a right to do. She should not have brushed past him in the ger if she didn’t want something to happen, he told himself, smiling at the memory. Though she had cried a little afterwards, he thought she had a different light in her eye. He felt himself growing stiff as he recalled her nakedness, and wondered again when they would send her. Her father had taken a dislike to him, but the Olkhun’ut would not dare refuse Yesugei. They could hardly give her to another man after Bekter had spilled his seed in her, he thought. Perhaps she would even be pregnant. He did not think it was possible before the moon’s blood began, but he knew there were mysteries there that he did not fully understand.

The night was growing too cold to be tormenting himself with fantasies and he knew better than to be distracted from his watch. The families of the Wolves accepted that he would lead them one day, he was almost certain, though in Yesugei’s absence they all looked to Eeluk for orders. It was he who had organised the scouts and watchers, but that was only to be expected until Bekter took a wife and killed his first man. Until that time, he would still be a boy in the eyes of seasoned warriors, as his brothers were boys to him.

In the gathering gloom, he saw a dark spot moving out on the plain below his position. Bekter rose to his feet instantly, pulling his horn free of the folds of his deel. He hesitated as he raised it to his lips, his eyes searching for more of a threat than a single rider. The height he had chosen gave him a view of a great expanse of the grassland and whoever it was seemed to be alone. Bekter frowned to himself, hoping it was not one of his idiot brothers out without telling anyone. It would not help his status in the tribe if he called the warriors from their meal without cause.

He chose to wait, watching as the tiny figure came closer. The rider was clearly in no hurry. Bekter could see the pony was walking almost aimlessly, as if the man on his back was wandering without a destination.

He frowned at that thought. There were men who claimed allegiance to no particular tribe. They drifted between the families of the plains, exchanging a day’s work for a meal or occasionally bringing goods to trade. They were not popular and there was always the danger that they would steal whatever they could lay their hands on, then disappear. Men without a tribe could not be trusted, Bekter knew. He wondered if the rider was one of those.

The sun had sunk behind the hills and the light was fading quickly. Bekter realised he should sound his horn before the stranger was lost in darkness. He raised it to his lips and hesitated. Something about the distant figure made him pause. It could not be Yesugei, surely? His father would never ride so poorly.

He had almost waited too long when he finally blew the warning note. The sound was long and mournful as it echoed across the hills. Other horns answered him from watchers around the camp and he tucked it back into his deel, satisfied. Now that the warning had been given, he could go down to see who the rider was. He mounted his mare and checked his knife and bow were within easy reach. In the silence of the evening, he could already hear answering shouts and the sound of horses as the warriors came boiling out of the gers. Bekter dug in his heels to guide his pony down the slope, wanting to get there before Eeluk and the older men. He felt a sense of ownership for the single rider. He had spotted him, after all. As he reached the flat ground and broke into a gallop, thoughts of the Olkhun’ut and his betrothed slipped away from his mind and his heart began to beat faster. The evening wind was cool and he hungered to show the other men that he could lead them.

The Wolves rode hard out of the encampment, Eeluk at their head. In the last moments of light, they saw Bekter kick his mount into a run and went after him, not yet seeing his reason for raising the alarm.

Eeluk sent a dozen riders left and right to skirt the camp, looking for an attack from another direction. It would not do to leave the gers defenceless while they went after a feint or a diversion. Their enemies were devious enough to draw the watchers away and then attack, and the last moments of light were perfect to cause confusion. It felt strange for Eeluk to be riding without Yesugei on his left, but Eeluk found he was enjoying the way the other men looked to him to lead them. He snapped orders and the arban formed around him with Eeluk on the point, racing after Bekter.

Another blast from a horn came from just ahead and Eeluk narrowed his eyes, straining to see. He was almost blind in the gloom and to gallop was to risk his mare and his life, but he kicked his horse on recklessly, knowing Bekter would not have blown again unless the attack was real. Eeluk snatched at his bow and placed an arrow on the string by feel, as he had done a thousand times before. The men around him did the same. Whoever had dared to attack the Wolves would be met with a storm of whining shafts before they came much closer. They rode in grim silence, high on the stirrups, balancing perfectly against the rise and fall of their ponies. Eeluk pulled back his lips in the wind, feeling the thrill of the attack. Let them hear the hooves thundering towards them, he thought. Let them fear retribution.

In the dark, the riding warriors almost collided with two ponies standing alone on the open ground. Eeluk came close to loosing his arrow, but he heard Bekter shouting and, with an effort, he lowered himself into the saddle and eased his string. The battle blood was still strong in him and he felt a sudden fury that Yesugei’s son had brought them out for nothing. Dropping his bow over the saddle horn, Eeluk leapt lightly to the ground and drew his sword. The darkness was on them and he did not yet know what was happening.

‘Eeluk! Help me with him,’ Bekter said, his voice high and strained.

Eeluk found the boy holding the slumped figure of Yesugei on the ground. Eeluk felt his heart thump painfully as the last traces of battle rage slid away from him and he knelt by the pair of them.

‘Is he injured?’ Eeluk said, reaching out to his khan. He could hardly see anything, but he rubbed his fingers and thumb together and sniffed at them. Yesugei’s stomach was tightly bound, but blood had soaked through.

‘He fell, Eeluk. He fell into my arms,’ Bekter said, close to panic. ‘I could not hold him.’

Eeluk laid a hand on the boy’s to steady him, before standing and whistling for the other bondsmen to approach. He took a grip on the reins of one dark rider.

‘Basan, you ride to the Olkhun’ut, and find the truth of this.’

‘Is it war, then?’ the man answered.

‘Perhaps. Tell them that if you are not allowed to leave freely, we will be riding behind you and I will see their gers burnt to ashes.’

The warrior nodded and trotted away, the drumbeat of hooves fading quickly in the night.

Yesugei groaned and opened his eyes, feeling a sudden panic at the shadows moving around him.

‘Eeluk?’ he whispered.

Eeluk crouched at his side. ‘I am here, my Khan.’

They waited for another word, but Yesugei had passed back into unconsciousness. Eeluk grimaced.

‘We must get him back to have his wound tended. Step away, boy; there’s nothing you can do for him here.’

Bekter stood stunned, unable to comprehend that it was his father lying helpless at his feet.

‘He fell,’ he said again, as if dazed. ‘Is he dying?’

Eeluk looked down at the slumped man he had followed all his adult life. As gently as he could, he took Yesugei under the armpits and heaved him onto his shoulder. The khan was a powerful man, made even heavier in chain mail, but Eeluk was strong and he showed no sign of discomfort.

‘Help me to mount, Bekter. He’s not dead yet and we must get him to warmth. A night out here will finish it.’ A thought struck him as he draped Yesugei over his saddle, the long limp arms reaching almost to the ground. ‘Where is his sword?’ he asked. ‘Can you see it?’

‘No, it must have fallen when he did.’

Eeluk sighed as he mounted. He had not had a chance to think about what was happening. He could feel the blood warmth of Yesugei against his chest as he leaned forward to speak to the son.

‘Mark the spot somehow, so you can find it again in the light. He won’t thank you for losing his father’s blade.’

Bekter turned without thinking to another one of his father’s bondsmen, standing nearby in shock at what he was witnessing.

‘You will stay, Unegen. I must return to the gers with my father. Search in circles as soon as you can see, and bring the blade to me when you find it.’

‘I will do as you say,’ Unegen replied in the darkness.

Bekter moved to his pony to mount and did not see Eeluk’s expression as he considered the exchange. The world was changing in those moments and Eeluk did not know what the day would bring for any of them.

Hoelun wiped tears from her eyes as she faced her husband’s bondsmen. The men and women of the Wolves had come, hungry for news, as soon as word spread of the khan’s injury. She wished she had something more to tell them, but Yesugei had not woken again and he lay inside the ger in the cool shadows, his skin burning. Not one of them had stirred from their watch as the day wore on and the sun rose high above their heads.

‘He still lives,’ she said. ‘I have cleaned his wound, but he has not yet woken.’

Eeluk nodded and she could not miss how the other warriors looked to him. Kachiun and Temuge were there with Khasar, standing shocked and pale after seeing their father helpless. Yesugei seemed smaller under the blankets, his weakness frightening his sons more than anything they had ever known. He had been such a force in their lives, it did not seem possible that he might never wake. She feared for them all, though she did not mention it aloud. Without Yesugei to protect them, she saw the glint of greed in the eyes of the other men. Eeluk in particular seemed to be hiding a smile when he spoke to her, though his words were deliberately courteous.

‘I will tell you if he wakes,’ she told the warriors, ducking back into the ger, away from their cold interest. Her daughter, Temulun, was in the cradle there, crying to be changed. The sound seemed to match the screaming voice inside her that she barely held in check. She could not give way to it, not while her sons needed her.

Temuge had come with her into the ger, his small mouth quivering in grief. Hoelun gathered him into her arms and shushed his tears, though her own started just as strongly. They wept together at Yesugei’s side and she knew the khan could not hear them.

‘What will happen if he does not live?’ Temuge asked.

She might have answered, but the door creaked open and Eeluk entered. Hoelun felt a grip of hot anger to have been seen at such a moment and she wiped fiercely at her eyes.

‘I have sent your other sons to the herds for the day, to keep their minds off their father,’ Eeluk said.

It may have been her imagination, but again she thought she saw a gleam of satisfaction as he looked at Yesugei’s still form, quickly masked.

‘You have been strong when the tribe needed it, Eeluk,’ she said. ‘My husband will thank you himself when he wakes.’

Eeluk nodded as if he had barely heard, crossing the ger to where Yesugei lay. He reached down to press his hand against the khan’s forehead, whistling softly at the heat there. He sniffed at the wound and she knew he could smell the corruption that tainted the flesh.

‘I poured boiling spirits into the wound,’ Hoelun said. ‘I have herbs to ease the fever.’ She felt she had to speak, just to break the silence. Eeluk seemed to have changed in subtle ways since Yesugei had come back. He walked with a little more of a swagger with the men and his eyes challenged her whenever she spoke. She felt the need to mention Yesugei every time they talked, as if his name would keep him in the world. The alternative was too frightening to consider and she did not dare look to the future. Yesugei had to live.

‘My family has been bound to his from birth,’ Eeluk said softly. ‘I have always been loyal.’

‘He knows it, Eeluk. I’m sure he can hear you now and he knows you are first among his men.’

‘Unless he dies,’ Eeluk said softly, turning to her. ‘If he dies, my vows are ended.’

Hoelun looked at him in sick horror. While the words remained unsaid, the world could go on and she could hold back the fear. She dreaded him speaking again for what he might dare to say.

‘He will survive this, Eeluk,’ she said. Her voice quavered, betraying her. ‘The fever will pass and he will know you remained loyal to him when it mattered most.’

Something seemed to break through to her husband’s bondsman and he shook himself, the guarded look in his eyes disappearing.

‘Yes. It is too early still,’ he said, looking down at Yesugei’s pale face and chest. The bandages were stained with dark blood and he touched them, coming away with a red smear on his fingers. ‘Still, I have a loyalty to the families. They must be kept strong. I must think of the Wolves, and the days to come,’ he said, as if to himself.

Hoelun could hardly draw breath as the certainties of her life came crashing down. She thought of her sons and couldn’t bear the calculating expression on Eeluk’s face. They were innocent and they would suffer.

Eeluk left without another word, as if the courtesies no longer mattered to him. Perhaps they did not. She had seen the naked desire for power in his face and there was no taking it back. Even if Yesugei sprang healed from the bed, she did not think things would be the same again, now that Eeluk had woken his heart.

She heard Temuge sob and opened her arms to him once more, taking comfort from his desperate clasp. Her daughter cried in the cot, untended.

‘What will happen to us?’ the little boy sobbed.

Hoelun shook her head as she cradled him. She did not know.

Bekter saw the warrior he had left to look for his father’s sword. The man was walking quickly through the gers with his head down in thought. Bekter hailed him, but he did not seem to hear and hurried on. Frowning, Bekter ran after him and took him by the elbow.

‘Why have you not come to me, Unegen?’ he demanded. ‘Did you find my father’s sword?’ He saw Unegen’s eyes flicker over his shoulder, and when he turned, Eeluk was there, watching them.

Unegen could not meet his gaze as he looked back.

‘No, no, I did not find it. I am sorry,’ Unegen said, pulling his sleeve away and walking on.

CHAPTER NINE

Under white starlight, Temujin peered through the long grass. It had been simple enough to walk away from Sholoi’s ger, his urine still steaming behind him. Sholoi’s wife and daughter slept soundly and the old man had staggered out to relieve his bladder only a short while before. Temujin knew he had only a little time before they noticed his absence, but he had not dared go near the horse pens. The Olkhun’ut guarded their mounts, and even if they hadn’t, finding his own white-footed pony in the dark amongst all the others would have been almost impossible. It did not matter. His prey was afoot.

The plains were silver as Temujin moved gently through the grass, careful not to kick a stone that might alert the older boy ahead. He did not know where Koke was going. He did not care. When he had seen a figure moving through the gers, he had watched closely, standing completely still. After seven days among the Olkhun’ut, he knew Koke’s swagger well. At the moment of recognition, Temujin had slipped silently after him, his senses heightening for the hunt. He had not planned his revenge for that night, but he knew better than to lose a perfect chance. The world was asleep and, in the pale gloom, only two figures moved on the sea of grass.

Temujin watched the older boy with intense concentration. He loped along on light feet, ready to fall into a crouch if Koke sensed him. In the moonlight, he fancied for a while that he was following a ghost, lured out to where the darker spirits would steal the life from him. His father had told stories of tribesmen found frozen to death, their eyes fixed on some distant horror as the winter reached in and stopped their hearts. Temujin shivered at the memory. The night was cold, but he drew warmth from his anger. He had nursed it and sheltered it through the hard days with the tribe, through insults and blows. His hands ached to hold a knife, but he thought he was strong enough to beat Koke with his bare hands. Though his heart thudded, he felt exhilaration and fear together. This was being alive, he told himself as he followed. There was power in being the hunter.

Koke did not wander aimlessly. Temujin saw him make for a solid shadow at the foot of a hill. Whatever watchers the Olkhun’ut had posted would be looking outwards for enemies. They would not see either boy in that deeper dark, though Temujin worried he would lose his prey. He broke into a trot as Koke crossed the black line and seemed to vanish. Temujin’s breath came a little faster in his throat, but he moved with care as he had been taught, allowing no more sound than the pad of his soft boots. Just before he crossed the shadow boundary himself, he saw a pile of loose stones by the path, a cairn to the spirits. Without a thought, he stopped and picked up one the size of his fist, hefting it with grim pleasure.

Temujin blinked as he passed into complete darkness, squinting for some sign of Koke. It would not do to stumble across him, or worse, some group of Olkhun’ut boys out with a skin of stolen black airag. Even more disturbing was the thought that Koke was luring him deliberately to another beating. Temujin shook his head to clear it. His path was set and he would not turn from it now.

He heard low voices ahead and froze, straining to see the source. With the mountain blocking the moon, he was almost blind, and sweat broke out on his skin as each careful step brought him closer. He could hear Koke’s low laugh and then another voice responded, lighter in tone. Temujin smiled to himself. Koke had found himself a girl willing to risk the anger of her parents. Perhaps they would be rutting and he could catch them unawares. He mastered the desire to stride in and attack, deciding to wait until Koke took the path back to the encampment. Battles could be won with stealth as well as speed and strength, he knew. He could not tell exactly where the couple lay, but they were close enough for him to hear Koke begin to grunt rhythmically. Temujin grinned at the sound, leaning back against a rock and waiting patiently to strike.

It did not take long. The moon shadow had moved a hand’s breadth, lengthening the dark bar at the foot of the hill as Temujin heard the sounds of talking once more, followed by the girl’s low laugh. He wondered which of the young women had come out into the darkness, and found himself imagining the faces of those he had come to know during the felting. One or two were agile and brown from the sun. He had found them strangely unsettling when they looked at him, though he supposed it was only what all men felt for a pretty woman. It was a shame he couldn’t feel it for Borte, who seemed only irritated in his presence. If she had been long-limbed and supple, he might have found some small pleasure in his father’s choice.

Temujin heard footsteps and held his breath. Someone was coming along the path and he pressed himself against the rock, willing them not to sense him. He knew too late that he should have hidden himself in the long grass. If they came together, he would have to attack them both or let them pass. His lungs began to pound and he could feel his pulse like a great drum in his ears. The breath seemed to expand inside him as his body cried out for air and the unseen figure came closer.

Temujin watched in excruciating discomfort as the walker passed within a few feet of him. He was almost certain it could not be Koke. The steps were too light and he sensed that the shadow was not large enough to be his enemy. His heart hammered as the girl passed and he was able to release his breath slowly. For a moment, he felt dizzy with the exertion and then he turned to where he knew Koke would come, stepping out into the path to wait for him.

He heard more steps and let the older boy come close before he spoke, relishing the shock his voice would cause.

‘Koke!’ Temujin whispered.

The moving shadow jumped in terror.

‘Who is it?’ Koke hissed, his voice breaking in fear and guilt.

Temujin did not let him recover and swung the fist with the stone. It was a poor blow in the dark, but it made Koke stagger. Temujin felt an impact, perhaps an elbow into his stomach, and then he was punching in a wild fury, released at last. He could not see his enemy, but the blindness gave him power as his fists and feet connected again and again in a flurry until Koke fell and Temujin knelt on his chest.

He had lost the stone in the silent struggle and scrabbled for it while he held the dark figure down. Koke tried to call for help, but Temujin hit him twice in the face, then resumed his search for the stone. His fingers found it and curled around. He felt his anger surge as he lifted it, ready to smash the life out of his tormentor.

‘Temujin!’ a voice said out of the darkness.

Both boys froze, though Koke moaned at the name. Temujin reacted instinctively, rolling off his enemy and launching himself at the new threat. He thumped into a small body and sent it sprawling with a yelp he recognised. Behind him, he heard Koke come to his feet and sprint away, his steps rattling loose stones on the path.

Temujin held the arms of the new figure, feeling their wiry thinness. He cursed under his breath.

‘Borte?’ he whispered, knowing the answer. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I followed you,’ she said.

He thought he could see her eyes shining, catching some dim ray the mountain could not smother. She was panting with fear or exertion and he wondered how she had been able to remain on his trail without him seeing her.

‘You let him get away,’ Temujin said. For a moment, he continued to press her down, furious with what she had taken from him. When Koke told the rest of the Olkhun’ut what had happened, he would be beaten or even sent home in shame. His future had been changed with a single word. With a curse, he let her go and heard her sit up and rub her arms. He could feel her accusing gaze on him, and in response, he threw the stone as far as he could, listening as it clicked somewhere in the distance.

‘Why did you follow me?’ he said in a more normal voice. He wanted to hear her speak again. In the darkness, he had noticed her voice was warm and low, sweeter without the distracting scrawniness and glaring eyes.

‘I thought you were escaping,’ she replied.

She stood and he rose with her, unwilling to lose the closeness, though he could not have explained why.

‘I would have thought you’d be pleased to see me run,’ he said.

‘I … I don’t know. You haven’t said a kind word to me since you came to the families. Why should I want you to stay?’

Temujin blinked. In just a few heartbeats they had said more to each other than in the days before. He did not want it to end.

‘Why did you stop me? Koke will run back to Enq and your father. When they find we’re gone, they’ll spread out to find us. It will be hard when they do.’

‘He is a fool, that one. But killing him would have been an evil thing.’

In the darkness, he reached out blindly and found her arm. The touch comforted both of them and she spoke again to cover her confusion.

‘Your brother beat him almost to death, Temujin. He held him and kicked him until he cried like a child. He is afraid of you, so he hates you. It would be wrong to hurt him again. It would be like beating a dog after it has loosed its bladder. The spirit is already broken in him.’

Temujin took a slow breath, letting it shudder out of him.

‘I did not know,’ he said, though many things had fallen into place at her words, like bones clicking in his memory. Koke had been vicious, but when Temujin thought about it, the older boy had a look in his eyes that was always close to fear. For an instant, he did not care and wished he had brought the stone down, but then Borte reached up and placed her hand against his cheek.

‘You are … strange, Temujin,’ she said. Before he could respond, she stepped away from him into the darkness.

‘Wait!’ he called after her. ‘We may as well walk back together.’

‘They will beat us both,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I will run away instead. Perhaps I will not go back at all.’

He found he could not bear the thought of Sholoi hitting her and wondered what his father would say if he brought her back early to the gers of the Wolves.

‘Then come with me. We’ll take my horse and ride home.’

He listened for her answer but it did not come.

‘Borte?’ he called.

He broke into a run and passed back into the starlight with a pounding heart. He saw her darting figure already far ahead and increased his pace until he was flying across the grass. A memory came to him of being forced to run up and down hills with a mouthful of water, spitting it out at the end to show he had breathed through his nose in the proper way. He ran easily and without effort, his mind dwelling on the day ahead. He did not know what he could do, but he had found something valuable that night. Whatever happened, he knew he could not let her be hurt again. As he ran, he heard the lookouts sound their horns on the hills all around, calling an alarm to the warriors in the gers.

The encampment was in chaos as Temujin reached it. Dawn was coming, but torches had been lit, spreading a greasy yellow light that revealed running figures. On the outskirts, he was challenged twice by nervous men carrying drawn bows. The warriors were already mounted and milled around, raising dust and confusion. To Temujin’s eye, there seemed no focus to it, no centre of authority. If it had been the Wolves, he knew his father would be dominating the scene, sending the warriors out to protect the herds from raiders. He saw for the first time what Yesugei had seen. The Olkhun’ut had many fine bowmen and hunters, but they were not organised for war.

He saw Enq hobbling through the gers and Temujin took him by the arm. With an angry sound, Enq shook himself free, then started, reaching out to hold Temujin in turn.

‘He’s here!’ Enq shouted.

Temujin struck out from instinct, shoving his uncle onto his back to break his grip. He had a glimpse of warriors moving towards him, and before he could run, he was held in strong hands and practically carried across the bare ground. He fell limp then, as if he had fainted, hoping that they would relax their hold for a heartbeat and let him struggle free. It was a vain hope, but he could not understand what was happening and the men who held him were strangers. If he could reach a horse, he had a chance to get away from whatever punishment awaited him. They passed through a pool of torchlight and Temujin swallowed drily as he saw that his captors were bondsmen of the khan, grim and dark in boiled leather armour.

Their master, Sansar, was a man Temujin had seen only from a distance in his days amongst the families. Despite himself, he struggled and one of the bondsmen cuffed him, making lights flash in his vision. They threw him down without ceremony at the door of the khan’s ger. Before he could enter, one of them searched him with rough efficiency, then propelled him through the opening to land flat on a floor of polished yellow wood, glowing gold in the light of torches.

Outside, the whinnying of horses and shouts of the warriors continued, but Temujin rose to his knees into a scene of quiet tension. As well as the khan himself, there were three of his bondsmen standing guard with drawn swords. Temujin looked around at the faces of strangers, seeing anger and, to his surprise, more than a little fear. He might have stayed silent, but his gaze fell on a man he knew and he cried out in astonishment.

‘Basan! What has happened?’ he said, rising fully. The presence of his father’s bondsman sent a clutch of fear into his stomach.

No one responded and Basan looked away in shame. Temujin remembered himself and flushed. He bowed his head to the khan of the Olkhun’ut.

‘My lord khan,’ he said, formally.

Sansar was a slight figure, compared with the bulk of Eeluk or Yesugei. He stood with his arms folded behind his back, a sword on his hip. His expression was calm and Temujin sweated under the scrutiny. At last Sansar spoke, his voice clipped and hard.

‘Your father would be ashamed if he could see you with your mouth hanging open,’ he said. ‘Control yourself, child.’

Temujin did as he was told, mastering his breathing and straightening his back. He counted to a dozen in his head, then raised his eyes once again.

‘I am ready, my lord.’

Sansar nodded, his eyes weighing him.

‘Your father has been grievously wounded, child. He may die.’

Temujin paled slightly, but his face remained impassive. He sensed a malice in the khan of the Olkhun’ut and was suddenly determined he would show no more weakness in front of him. Sansar said nothing, perhaps hoping for some reaction. When it did not come, he spoke again.

‘The Olkhun’ut share your distress. I will scour the plains for the wanderers who dared to attack a khan. They will suffer greatly.’

The brisk tone gave the lie to the sentiment. Temujin allowed himself a brief nod, though his mind reeled and he wanted to scream questions at the old snake who could barely hide his pleasure at his distress.

Sansar seemed to find Temujin’s silence irritating. He glanced at Basan, who sat like a statue on his right.

‘It seems you will not complete your year with our people, child. This is a dangerous time, when threats are spoken that are better left unsaid. Still, it is right that you return to mourn your father.’

Temujin clenched his jaw. He could not keep silence any longer.

‘Is he dying, then?’ he asked.

Sansar hissed in a breath, but Temujin ignored him, turning to look at his father’s bondsman.

‘You will answer me when I ask, Basan!’ he said.

The bondsman met his gaze then and raised his head a fraction, the tension showing. In the ger of another khan, Temujin was risking both their lives over a breach of custom, even after such news. Basan’s eyes showed he knew the danger, but he too was a Wolf.

‘He was badly wounded,’ Basan answered, his voice steady. ‘As strong as he is, he made it back to the families alive, but … it has been three days. I do not know.’

‘It is almost dawn,’ Temujin replied. He fixed his gaze on the khan of the Olkhun’ut and bowed his head once again. ‘It is as you say, my lord. I must return to lead my people.’

Sansar grew very still at that, his eyes gleaming.

‘You go with my blessing, Temujin. You leave only allies here.’

‘I understand,’ Temujin replied. ‘I honour the Olkhun’ut. With your permission, I will withdraw and see to my horse. I have a long ride ahead of me.’

The khan stood and drew Temujin into a formal embrace, startling him.

‘May the spirits guide your steps,’ he said.

Temujin bowed a last time and ducked out into the darkness, Basan following.

When they had gone, the khan of the Olkhun’ut turned to his most trusted bondsmen, cracking the knuckles of one hand inside the other.

‘It should have been clean!’ he snapped. ‘Instead, the bones are flying and we don’t know where they will fall.’ He took a skin of airag from a peg and poured a thin line of the raw fluid into the back of his throat, wiping angrily at his mouth.

‘I should have known the Tartars could not even murder a man without causing chaos. I gave him to them. How could they have let him live? If he had simply disappeared, there would have been no hint of our involvement. If he lives, he will wonder how the Tartars knew to find him. There will be blood before winter. Tell me what I should do!’

The faces of the men with him were blank and worried as he looked around at them. Sansar sneered.

‘Get out and quiet the camp. There are no enemies here except the ones we have invited. Pray that the khan of Wolves is already dead.’

* * *

Temujin strode blindly through the gers, fighting for calm. What he had been told was impossible. His father was a warrior born and no two men amongst the Wolves could take him with a sword. He knew he should ask Basan for details, but he dreaded hearing them. As long as he did not speak, it might still be a lie or a mistake. He thought of his mother and his brothers and then suddenly came to a halt, making Basan stumble. He was not ready to challenge Bekter, if the news was true.

‘Where is your horse?’ he asked his father’s man.

‘Tethered on the north side of the camp,’ Basan replied. ‘I am sorry to bring such news …’

‘Come with me first. I have something to do before I leave here. Follow my orders.’ He did not look to see how Basan responded and perhaps that was why the man nodded and obeyed the young son of Yesugei.

Temujin strode through the Olkhun’ut as they scurried and recovered from the excitement. The alarms had sounded on Basan’s approach, but they had reacted in panic. Temujin sneered to himself, wondering if he would one day lead a war party to these same gers. Dawn had come at last, and as he reached the outskirts, he saw the gnarled figure of Sholoi standing at his door with a wood axe in his hands. Temujin did not hesitate, walking up to within reach of the weapon.

‘Is Borte here?’ he said.

Sholoi narrowed his eyes at the change in manner in the boy, no doubt because of the warrior who stood so grimly at his side. Sholoi raised his head stubbornly.

‘Not yet, boy. I thought she might be with you. Your brother tried the same with the girl they’d given him.’

Temujin hesitated, losing his momentum.

‘What?’

‘He took his girl early, like a couple of goats rutting. Didn’t he say? If you’ve done the same, I’ll cut your hands off, boy, and don’t think I’m worried by your daddy’s man, either. I’ve killed better with my hands alone. An axe will do you both.’

Temujin heard the slide of steel as Basan drew his sword. Before a blow could be struck, Temujin laid a hand on the warrior’s arm, stopping him with a touch.

‘I have not harmed her. She stopped me fighting Koke. That is all.’

Sholoi frowned.

‘I told her not to leave the tent, boy. That’s what matters.’

Temujin stepped closer to the old man.

‘I’ve learned more tonight than I wanted to know. Whatever the truth of it, I am not my brother. I will return for your daughter when the moon’s blood is on her. I will take her for my wife. Until then, you will not lay a hand on her again. You will make an enemy of me if she takes a single bruise from you, old man. You do not want me as an enemy. If you give me cause, the Olkhun’ut will suffer.’

Sholoi listened with a sour expression on his face, his mouth working. Temujin waited patiently for him to think it through.

‘She needs a strong man, boy, to control her.’

‘Remember that,’ Temujin said.

Sholoi nodded, watching as the two Wolves walked away, the sight of the drawn sword scattering Olkhun’ut children before them. Sholoi hefted the axe onto his shoulder and hitched up his leggings, sniffing.

‘I know you’re here, girl, creeping around,’ he said to the empty air. There was no response, but the silence became strained and he grinned to himself, revealing black gums. ‘I think you’ve found yourself a good one, if he survives. Mind you, I wouldn’t take a wager on those odds.’

CHAPTER TEN

Temujin heard the horns of the Wolves sound as he and Basan rode into view with the setting sun behind them. A dozen warriors galloped in perfect formation to intercept him, a spearhead of seasoned warriors well able to deal with a raiding party. He could not help comparing the instant response with the panic of the Olkhun’ut he’d left behind. It was hard to draw his mount back to a walk, but only a fool would risk being killed before he had been recognised.

He glanced at Basan, seeing a new tension there, overlaying the exhaustion. Temujin had pushed him hard to cover the distance home in only two days. Both of them had gone without sleep, surviving on water and draughts of sour yoghurt. Their time together had not begun a friendship, and as they came back into familiar territory, Temujin had sensed a growing distance between them. The warrior had been reluctant to speak, and his manner worried Temujin more than he cared to admit. It occurred to him that the arban of galloping warriors could now be enemies. He had no way of telling, and all he could do was sit tall and straight in the saddle, as his father would have wanted, while they came on.

When the warriors were within hailing distance, Basan raised his right arm, showing he did not carry a blade. Temujin recognised Eeluk amongst them and saw instantly how the others deferred to his father’s bondsman. It was he who gave the signal to halt, and something about his confidence brought Temujin close to humiliating tears. He had come home, but everything had changed. He refused to weep in front of them all, but his eyes shone.

Eeluk laid a claiming hand on Temujin’s reins. The others fell in around them and they began to trot as one, Temujin’s mount matching the pace without a command from him. It was a small thing, but Temujin felt like yanking the reins away in childish anger. He did not want to be led back to his father’s tribe like a small boy, but his wits seemed to have deserted him.

‘Your father still lives,’ Eeluk said. ‘His wound was poisoned and he has been delirious for many days.’

‘He is awake, then?’ Temujin said, hardly daring to hope.

Eeluk shrugged. ‘At times, he cries out and struggles against enemies only he can see. He is a strong man, but he takes no food and the flesh has melted off him like wax. You should prepare yourself. I do not believe he will live much longer.’

Temujin bowed his head to his chest, overcome. Eeluk looked away rather than shame him at his moment of weakness. Without warning, Temujin reached out and tugged his reins away from Eeluk’s grip.

‘Who is responsible? Has he named them?’

‘Not yet, though your mother has asked him whenever he wakes. He does not know her.’

Eeluk sighed to himself and Temujin saw his own strain mirrored in the man. The Wolves would be stunned and fearful with Yesugei raving and close to death. They would be looking for a strong leader.

‘What about my brother Bekter?’ Temujin said.

Eeluk frowned, perhaps guessing the path of Temujin’s thoughts.

‘He has ridden out with the warriors to search the plains.’ He hesitated then, as if deciding how much he should share with the boy. ‘You should not hope to find your father’s enemies now. Those that survived will have scattered days ago. They will not wait for us to find them.’

His face was a mask, but Temujin sensed some hidden anger in him. Perhaps he did not like the thought of Bekter’s influence on the warriors. The search had to be at least attempted and Bekter was an obvious choice, but Eeluk would not want new loyalties being forged away from him. Temujin thought he could read his father’s bondsman well enough, despite his attempts to hide his private self. A man would have to be a fool not to think of the succession at such a time. Temujin was almost certainly too young and Bekter was on the edge of manhood. With Eeluk’s support, either could rule the Wolves, but the alternative was obvious and chilling. Temujin forced a smile as he faced a man who was more of a threat than any of the Olkhun’ut he had left behind.

‘You have loved my father, even as I have, Eeluk. What would he want for the Wolves if he dies? Would he want you to lead them?’

Eeluk stiffened as if he had been struck, turning a murderous expression on the boy who rode at his side. Temujin did not flinch. He felt almost light-headed, but in that moment, he did not care if Eeluk killed him. No matter what the future held, he found he could return the gaze without a trace of fear.

‘I have been loyal all my life,’ Eeluk said, ‘but your father’s day has come and gone. Our enemies will be watching us for weakness as word spreads. The Tartars will come in the winter to raid our herds, perhaps even the Olkhun’ut, or the Kerait, just to see if we can still defend what is ours.’ He took a white-knuckled grip on his reins and turned away from Temujin, unable to go on with the pale yellow eyes watching him.

‘You know what he would have wanted, Eeluk. You know what you must do.’

‘No. No, I do not know, boy. I do know what you are thinking, and I tell you now, you are too young to lead the families.’

Temujin swallowed bitterness and pride in a hard knot.

‘Bekter, then. Do not betray our father, Eeluk. He treated you like a brother all his life. Honour him now by helping his son.’

To Temujin’s astonishment, Eeluk kicked his heels in and rode ahead of the group, his face flushed and furious. Temujin did not dare look at the men around him. He did not want to see their expressions and know his world had crumbled. He did not see the questioning glances they shared, nor their sorrow.

* * *

The camp of the Wolves was still and quiet as Temujin dismounted by his father’s ger and took a deep breath. He felt as if he had been away for years. The last time he had stood on that spot, his father had been vital and strong, a certainty in all their lives. It was just not possible to think that world had gone and could not be recalled.

He stood stiffly in the open, looking out over the gers of the families. He could have named every man, woman and child with just a glance at the design of their door. They were his people and he had always known his place amongst them. Uncertainty was a new emotion for him, as if there was a great hole in his chest. He found he had to summon all his courage just to enter the ger. He might have stood there even longer if he had not seen the people beginning to gather as the sun’s rays faded. He could not bear their pity, and with a grimace, he ducked through the low door and closed it against their staring faces.

The night felt had not yet been placed over the smoke hole above his head, but the ger was stifling with heat and a smell that made him want to gag. He saw his mother’s paleness when she turned to him and his defences crumbled as he rushed to her and fell into her embrace. Tears came beyond his control and she rocked him in silence as he gazed on his father’s withered body.

Yesugei’s flesh shuddered like a horse twitching at flies. His stomach was bound in crusted bandages, stiff as reeds with old fluids. Temujin saw a line of pus and blood move like a worm across the skin and into the blankets. His father’s hair had been combed and oiled, but it seemed thin and there was more grey than he remembered in the wisps that reached down to his cheekbones. Temujin saw the ribs were starkly outlined. The face was sunken and dark in hollows, a death mask for the man he had known.

‘You should speak to him, Temujin,’ his mother said. As he raised his head to respond, he saw her eyes were as red as his own. ‘He has been calling your name and I did not know if you would come in time.’

He nodded, wiping a silvery trail of mucus from his nose onto his sleeve as he looked at the one man he had thought would live for ever. The fevers had burnt the muscle off his bones and Temujin could hardly believe it was the same powerful warrior who had ridden so confidently into the camp of the Olkhun’ut. He stared for a long time, unable to speak. He hardly noticed his mother wet a cloth in a bucket of cold water and press it into his hand. She guided his fingers to his father’s face and, together, they wiped the eyes and lips. Temujin breathed shallowly, struggling against revulsion. The smell of sick flesh was appalling, but his mother showed no distaste and he tried to be strong for her.

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