Lords of the Bow (24 page)

Kachiun too had wailed at the door of their father’s ger, calling to be let back in. It was an old custom that many believed would make children strong. Kachiun wondered if Genghis had done the same with his own boys, and even as he formed he thought, he knew he had. His brother would not allow weakness, though he could break his sons in the process of making them strong.

Genghis finished his meal, sucking hardening grease from his fingers. “The scouts will find trails around the pass. When the Chin are shivering in their tents, we will come at them from all sides. Only then, Kachiun, will I ride down the Badger’s Mouth, driving their own people before me.”

“The prisoners?” Kachiun asked.

“We cannot feed them,” Genghis replied. “They can still be useful if they soak up the arrows and bolts of our enemies.” He shrugged. “It will be faster for them than starving to death.”

At that, Genghis rose to his feet, glancing up at the heavy clouds that would turn the Chin plain into a wilderness of snow and ice. Winter was always a time of death, when only the strongest survived. He sighed as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The watching men had seen him rise and they hurried closer before he could change his mind. Genghis stared sourly at them.

“Tell them to go and see Temuge,” he said, striding away.

CHAPTER 20

T
HE TWO SCOUTS WERE STARVING.
Even the porridge of cheese and water in their packs had frozen as they climbed high above the pass of Badger’s Mouth. To the north and south, the second Chin wall ran across the mountains. It was less massive than the wall the tribes had crossed to enter Chin lands, though this one had not been allowed to crumble over the centuries. Preserved in ice, it wound its way through distant valleys, a gray snake in the whiteness. It might once have been a marvel to the Mongol scouts, though now they merely shrugged. The Chin armies had not sought to build their wall right to the peaks. They thought no one could survive the rocks and slopes of solid ice, so cold at that height that the blood would surely freeze. They were wrong. The scouts climbed past the level of the wall into a world of snow and ice, looking for a way over the mountains.

Fresh snow had come to the plains, whirling from storm clouds on the peaks that blinded them. There were moments when the gales punched a hole in the whiteness, revealing the pass and the spider legs of the inner wall stretching away. From that height, both men could see the dark smudge of the Chin army on the far side. Their own people were lost to sight on the plain, but they too were there, waiting for the scouts to return.

“There is no way through,” Taran shouted over the wind. “Perhaps Beriakh and the others had better luck. We should go back.” Taran could feel the ice in his bones, the crystals in every joint. He was certain he was close to dying, and it was hard not to show his fear. His companion, Vesak, merely grunted without looking at him. Both were part of a group of ten, one of many who had gone into the mountains to find a way to attack the rear of the Chin army. Though they had become separated from their companions in the night, Taran still trusted Vesak to smell out a route, but the cold was crippling him, too vicious to resist.

Vesak was an old man of more than thirty, while Taran had yet to see his fifteenth year. The other men in his group said Vesak knew the general of the Young Wolves, that he greeted Tsubodai like an old friend whenever they met. It could have been true. Like Tsubodai, Vesak was of the Uriankhai tribe far in the north and he did not seem to feel the cold. Taran clambered down an icy slope, almost falling. He caught himself by hammering his knife into a fissure, his hand nearly slipping from the hilt as he jerked to a stop. He felt Vesak’s hand on his shoulder, then the older man was trotting again and Taran staggered on, trying to match his pace.

The Mongol boy was lost in his own world of misery and endurance when he saw Vesak stop ahead of him. They had been following an eastern ridge, so slippery and dangerous that Vesak had roped them together so one could save the other. Only the tugging at his waist kept Taran from falling asleep as he went on, and he walked five paces before he even realized Vesak had fallen into a crouch. Taran lowered himself to the ground with a barely stifled groan, the ice on his deel falling away in sharp chips. He wore sheepskin gloves, but his fingers were still frozen as he packed his mouth with snow and sucked on it. Thirst was the one thing he remembered from previous attempts on the peaks. Once the water in his skin froze, there was nothing but snow to melt. It was never enough to satisfy his parched throat.

As he crouched he wondered how the ponies managed to survive at home, when the rivers turned to ice. He had seen them cropping at snow and it seemed enough for them. Dazed and exhausted, he opened his mouth to ask Vesak. The older scout glanced at him and gestured for silence.

Taran felt his senses sharpen, his heart beginning to lose its sluggishness. They had come close to Chin scouts before. Whoever commanded the army in the pass had sent them out in force to observe and report. With the storm making it hard to see more than a few paces ahead, the high climbs had become a deadly contest between the two forces. Taran’s older brother had stumbled right into one of them, almost falling over the man. Taran remembered the ear his brother had brought back as proof and envied him. He wondered if he would get the chance to take his own trophy and stand tall with the other warriors. Fewer than a third had been blooded and it was known that Tsubodai chose his officers from among that number rather than those whose courage was unknown. Taran had no sword or bow, but his knife was sharp and he rolled his numb wrists to make them supple.

With his knees aching, he crept closer to Vesak, the howling wind hiding any sound of movement. He peered into the whiteness, looking for whatever the older man had spotted. Vesak was like a statue and Taran tried to copy his stillness, though the cold seeped into him from the ground and he shivered constantly.

There. Something had moved in the white. The Chin scouts wore pale clothing that blended with the snow, making them almost invisible. Taran recalled the stories told by the older tribesmen, that the mountains hid more than just men when the snow was whirling. He hoped they were just spinning tales to scare him, but he gripped his knife tightly. At his side, Vesak raised his arm, pointing. He too had seen the shape.

Whatever it was, it had not moved again. Vesak leaned closer to whisper, and as he did so, Taran saw the figure of a man rise jerkily from a bank of snow, a crossbow in his hands.

Vesak’s instincts were good. He saw Taran’s eyes widen and threw himself down, somehow spinning away as he did. Taran heard the snap of the bolt without seeing it and suddenly there was blood on the snow and Vesak was crying out in rage and pain. The cold fell away and Taran stood, ignoring the writhing figure of his friend. He had been told how to act against a crossbow, and his mind went blank as he rushed forward. He had only a few heartbeats before the man heaved back the cord for another shot.

Taran slipped on the treacherous ground, the rope that held him to Vesak snaking across the snow in his wake. He had no time to cut it. He saw the Chin scout wrestling with his weapon and crashed into him, sending him sprawling. The crossbow spun away and Taran found himself locked in an embrace with a man stronger than he was.

They fought in gasping silence, alone and frozen. Taran had landed on top of the soldier and tried desperately to use the advantage. He struck out with knees and elbows, his knife hand held by both his enemy’s. Taran was staring into the man’s eyes when he brought his head down hard on the other’s nose, feeling it break and hearing him cry out. Still his knife hand was held and he struck again and again, thumping his forehead into the bloody face under him. He managed to get his free forearm under the man’s chin, heaving down at the exposed throat. The grip on his wrist fell away then and fingers clawed at his eyes, trying to blind him. Taran screwed up his face, smashing his head down without looking.

It ended as quickly as it had begun. Taran opened his eyes to see the Chin soldier staring blindly upwards. His knife had gone in without him even feeling it and still stuck out from the man’s fur-lined robe. Taran lay gasping in the thin air, unable to take a proper breath. He heard Vesak call and realized the sound had been going on for some time. He struggled then for the cold face, summoning his discipline. He would not be shamed in front of the older warrior.

With a jerk, Taran freed his knife and heaved himself off the body. The rope had tangled itself around his feet in the struggle, and he stepped out of the coils, kicking them away. Vesak called again, the sound weaker than before. Taran could not tear his eyes from the man he had killed, but he did not stop to think. It was the work of moments to yank the heavy robe from the soldier, wrapping it around himself. The body seemed smaller without it and Taran stood staring down at the spattered blood on the snow, a ring of droplets forming the shape where the head had been. He could feel blood stiffening on his skin and he rubbed his face roughly, suddenly sickened. When he looked again at Vesak, his companion had dragged himself to a sitting position and was watching him. Taran nodded at the older man, then reached down to saw off an ear from his first kill.

Tucking the grisly scrap into a pouch, he staggered back to Vesak, still dazed. The cold had vanished in the struggle, but it returned in force and he found himself shivering, his teeth clicking whenever he unclenched his jaw.

Vesak was panting, his face tight with pain. The bolt had struck him in the side below the ribs. Taran could see the black end of the shaft protruding, the blood already beginning to freeze like red wax. He reached out an arm to help Vesak to his feet, but the older man shook his head wearily.

“I cannot stand,” Vesak murmured. “Let me sit here while you go further on.”

Taran shook his head, refusing to accept it. He heaved Vesak up, though the weight was too much for him. Vesak groaned and Taran fell with him, ending up on his knees in the snow.

“I cannot go with you,” Vesak said, gasping. “Let me die. Scout the man’s back trail as best you can. He came from further up. Do you understand? There must be a way through.”

“I could drag you on the soldier’s robe, like a sled,” Taran said. He could not believe his friend was giving up, and he started laying out the fur on the snow. His legs almost buckled as he did so and he steadied himself on a rock, waiting for his strength to return.

“You must find the back trail, boy,” Vesak whispered. “He did not come from our side of the mountain.” His breath was coming at longer intervals and he sat with his eyes closed. Taran looked past him to where the soldier lay in blood. The sudden memory of it made his stomach clench and he leaned over and heaved. There was nothing solid to come out, though a spool of thick yellow liquid spilled from his lips and drew lines in the snow. He wiped his mouth, furious with himself. Vesak had not seen. He glanced at his companion, at the flakes settling on his face. Taran shook him, but there was no response. He was alone and the wind howled for him.

After a time, Taran staggered up and returned to where the Chin soldier had lain in wait. For the first time, Taran looked beyond the body, and his strength returned in a rush. He cut the rope with his knife, then staggered on, climbing recklessly and slipping more than once. There was no trail, but the ground seemed solid as he punched grips into the snow and clambered up a slope. He was sobbing each breath in the thin air when the wind died and he found himself in the lee of a great rock of granite. The peak was still far above, but he did not need to reach it. Ahead, he saw a single rope where the soldier had climbed to that point. Vesak had been right. There was a route to the other side and the precious inner wall of the Chin had proved no better a defense than the other.

Taran stood numbly in the cold, his thoughts sluggish. At last he nodded to himself, then began to walk back past the two dead men. He would not fail. Tsubodai was waiting for news.

Behind him the snow fell thickly, covering the dead and erasing all the signs of the bloody struggle until it was frozen and perfect once more.

The encampment was not silent in the snow. The generals of Genghis had their men riding across it, practicing maneuvers and archery, hardening themselves. The warriors covered their hands and faces in thick mutton grease, and they worked for hours firing arrows at full gallop into straw dummies, ten paces apart. The straw men jerked again and again and boys ran to yank the arrows out, judging their chance before the next rider came down the line.

The prisoners they had taken from the cities still numbered in their thousands, despite the war games Khasar had made them play. They sat or stood in a mass outside the gers. Only a few herdsmen watched over the starved men, but they did not run. In the early days, some had escaped, but every warrior of the tribes could track a lost sheep and they brought back only heads, casting them high into the crowd of prisoners as a warning to the others.

Smoke hung over every ger as the stoves worked, the women cooking the slaughtered animals and distilling black airag to warm their men. When the warriors were training, they ate and drank more than usual, trying to add a layer of fat against the cold. It was hard to build it with twelve hours in the saddle each day, but Genghis had given the order and almost a third of the flocks had been killed to satisfy their hunger.

Tsubodai brought Taran to the great ger as soon as the young scout reported. Genghis was there with his brothers Khasar and Kachiun, and he came out as he heard Tsubodai approach. The khan saw that the boy with Tsubodai was exhausted, swaying slightly in the cold. Black circles lay under his eyes and he looked as if he had not eaten for days.

“Come with me to my wife’s ger,” Genghis said. “She will put hot meat in your stomach and we can talk.” Tsubodai bowed his head and Taran tried to do the same, awed at speaking to the khan himself. He trotted behind the two men as Tsubodai told of the pass he and Vesak had found. As they spoke the boy glanced at the mountains, knowing that Vesak’s frozen body was up there somewhere. Perhaps the spring thaw would reveal him once again. Taran was too cold and tired to think, and when he was out of the wind, he took a bowl of greasy stew in numb hands, shoveling it into his mouth without expression.

Genghis watched the young boy, amused at his ravenous appetite and the way he cast envious glances at the khan’s eagle on its perch. The red bird was hooded, but it turned toward the young newcomer and seemed to watch him.

Borte fussed around the scout, refilling his bowl as soon as it was empty. She gave him a skin of black airag as well, making him cough and splutter, then nodded as a bloom appeared once more on his frozen cheeks.

“You found a way through?” Genghis asked him, when Taran’s eyes had lost their glassy look.

“Vesak did, lord.” A thought seemed to strike him and he fumbled with stiff fingers in his pouch, producing something that was clearly an ear. He held it up with pride.

“I killed a soldier there, waiting for us.”

Genghis took the ear from him, examining it before handing it back.

“You have done well,” he said patiently. “Can you find the way again?”

Taran nodded, gripping the ear like a talisman. Too much had happened in a short time and he was overwhelmed, once again aware that he was speaking to the man who had formed a nation from the tribes. His friends would never believe he had met the khan himself, with Tsubodai watching like a proud father.