Eye of Flame (30 page)

Khokakhchin nodded; she had expected such a request. “Munglik will go with you.” Hoelun motioned at the boy, who was still seated on his horse. “He’ll help you look out for the boys.”

“No,” a child’s voice said. Temujin crawled out from under the cart. “I won’t go. I’ll fight with you, Mother.”

“You’ll go with your brothers,” Hoelun said.

“Why?”

“Because you and your brothers are Yesugei’s sons. You’re the first ones they’ll kill if we’re captured.” Hoelun put her hands on Temujin’s shoulders and drew the boy to her. “You are your father’s heir, Temujin. You may have to avenge him if—”

“He’ll win,” Temujin said.

Hoelun turned to Khokakhchin. “Take a little food with you. If—” Hoelun fell silent, clearly not wanting to say aloud that her husband might fall in battle. “If what I most fear happens, make your way to the camp of Charakha’s uncle, where the Kerulen River meets the Senggur. His Khongkhotats will give you refuge. From there, send a message to Toghril Khan, begging him to take the sons of his anda and sworn brother into his household.”

“I’m honored,” Khokakhchin said, “that you would trust me with your sons, Ujin.”

“Go, before it’s light.” Hoelun crawled under the cart to wake the other children.

They went up the slope on foot. The underbrush grew thicker as they climbed, and the tangled roots of the pines that covered the ridge’s southeastern face would have made passage on horseback difficult.

Hoelun had strapped Khachigun to a board and tied him to Khokakhchin’s back. Barely a year old, he was the least likely of the children to survive. She would do what she could to save him, but not at the risk of losing the others. She refused to think of how slight the chances of survival were for all of them.

A creek, barely more than a trickle, ran down one patch of the slope before disappearing under rocks. Khokakhchin told Temujin and Bekter to fill the empty skins Hoelun had given to them. They had some dried meat, dried curds, and their weapons—knives, bows, and arrows. She hoped that they would not have to use them; the smaller bows of the boys would not offer much of a defense against those of men.

It was dark under the trees. They came to stonier ground where the trees grew more sparsely and Khokakhchin saw that it was growing light. She continued to climb, ignoring the weight of Khachigun on her back. A great rock blocked their path, and they were forced to go around it.

They went on until Khokakhchin looked up to see a small rocky ledge jutting out from the slope. The mountainside had grown steeper. They had to move away from the ledge, making their way slowly up the slope, then double back to reach it.

Khokakhchin untied the straps binding Khachigun to her, then sat down under the trees bordering the ledge. The children settled around her, panting for breath. From here, she could see the plain and the barricades lining the bottom of the ridge.

“Listen to me,” she said to the boys. “Stay under these trees, not out on the ledge where you might be seen from below. Temujin and Bekter, you’ll look out for your younger brothers. Munglik, you’ll help me make a shelter. If all goes well, we’ll be able to come out of hiding before too long.” She wondered if the Tatars hated Yesugei enough to search the ridge for his sons.

Khokakhchin and Munglik made a makeshift shelter of branches and dead tree limbs, then sat down to rest. The younger three children were soon asleep under the shelter on a bed of pine needles. Temujin and Bekter were silent as they gazed out at the land below.

The sun was high when Khokakhchin saw three dust clouds on the horizon to the southeast. Soon she could make out the forms of the men and horses amid the dust. The army in the center was Yesugei’s; his tugh was in the middle of a forest of curved lances. On either side of his force, two wings of the Tatar light cavalry were firing on his men, the archers turning in their saddles to shoot at the Mongols. Gorge rose in Khokakhchin’s throat as arrows arched through the air and fell toward Yesugei’s men. The Tatars were driving the Mongols toward the mountain, the two wings closing around them as if they were game.

Khokakhchin trembled with fear. Temujin said, “I see Father.”

Khokakhchin narrowed her eyes and spotted the Bahadur’s leather helmet with its metal ornaments and white horsetail. Yesugei’s men were massed around him. The Tatar forces were allowing them a retreat, but in the distance, another dust cloud had appeared against the sky. That would be the enemy’s heavy cavalry. When Yesugei’s men reached the foothills and the people barricaded there, they would have to turn and fight.

“We’re outnumbered,” Munglik muttered.

“Father’s worth ten of their men,” Temujin said.

More arrows flew toward Yesugei’s men. The Mongols fired back. An enemy archer rode closer to the Mongols; Dobon’s curved lance swept out and unhorsed him.

“If the Bahadur can hold them off until dark,” Munglik said, “he and his commanders might be able to escape. Maybe we should try to get away then. I could sneak down to steal us some horses, and—”

Temujin glared at the older boy. “Father won’t leave his men, and I won’t run away until I have to.”

“We’re staying here for now,” Khokakhchin said. “The Bahadur isn’t beaten yet.” She tried to sound confident. “Pray for him, young ones. Perhaps the spirits will listen.”

Yesugei’s forces reached the foothills before dusk. Arrows flew toward the enemy from the wagons lining the ridge. The Tatar forces fell back, out of range of the people behind the barricades, but were soon massing in the distance. Khokakhchin had been watching the fighting all day. Yesugei had held off the enemy for now, but the Tatars would attack again in the morning.

Khasar crawled out from under the shelter. “I’m hungry,” he said.

“Munglik will be back with food soon,” Khokakhchin replied, wondering why the boy was taking so long. She had sent him to gather ripening berries from some bushes she had spied farther up the slope. The little food they had might have to last for some time.

On the plain, the Tatars were lighting their fires, getting ready for the night. She shivered, longing for a fire; the air was turning sharply colder and the wind moving the trees overhead was now blowing from the north.

She heard footsteps behind her and turned to see Munglik descending the slope. He had found enough berries to fill his fur hat. He knelt by the shelter and divided them among the boys, then gave Khokakhchin a small handful.

“You eat them,” she said. “I can do without food for one night.”

“Take them. I ate some off the bushes.” He got up and tugged at her arm. “There’s something I must tell you.” He drew her aside. “By the bushes, I found broken branches and trampled underbrush and the droppings of a horse,” he said softly. “I followed the trail and it led me to a small spring. A horse was there, still with its saddle and reins, drinking from the spring. It looked almost as thin as a horse in spring, as if it hadn’t grazed well in some time.” He lowered his voice still more. “It was Jali-gulug’s horse.”

Khokakhchin caught her breath. “Are you certain?”

He nodded. “It was his saddle, and I’ve seen him on that bay gelding of his father’s many times.”

“Then he must be on this mountain, too.” Jali-gulug had spoken of spirits tearing at him on the night he left Yesugei’s camp; perhaps they had driven him to this ridge. That he was here proved he was no traitor, that he had not gone to the Tatars with Yesugei’s battle plan.

“Yesugei will kill him,” Munglik said.

“The Bahadur would first have to admit that Jali-gulug’s prophecy was truer than Bughu’s,” Khokakhchin said angrily. “You’ll say nothing of this to the boys. In the morning, you will take me to where you found the horse. If Jali-gulug still lives—”

“What are you going to do?”

“Ask no more questions, Munglik. You’re not to speak of this—do you understand?”

He nodded. They walked back to the shelter. Jali-gulug had asked her to lend him her power if he ever needed it. She hoped that she had not waited too long to offer it to him.

The plain below was as dotted with tiny fires as the night sky overhead. From the number of fires, she guessed that the Tatars outnumbered the Mongol forces four times over. Khokakhchin kept watch for a while, then woke Munglik to take his turn on guard.

She dreamed as she lay under the shelter, and fire burned in her dream. She was holding a small transparent disk, an eye of flame like the one a trader had shown her so long ago. As she lifted it to the sky, a bolt of lightning flashed toward her, passed through the disk, and struck near her. Flames leaped from the ground; she had called down the lightning, yet felt no fear.

She woke, knowing what she would have to do. Temujin stirred next to her; she gently nudged him awake. They crawled out from under the twigs and branches toward Munglik and the ledge.

The sky was gray. A strong wind was blowing across the plain from the north, making waves in the grass and whipping at the yak tails of the Tatar standards. “Munglik,” Khokakhchin said, “you and I will gather more berries. Temujin, you keep watch.”

Munglik went ahead of her, leading her up the slope. When they came to the berry bushes, he pointed out the flattened underbrush of the trail he had found.

“Gather some berries and go back,” Khokakhchin said. “I’ll follow this trail.”

“By yourself? But—”

“I remind you that Jali-gulug took me with him when he hunted the ghost-tiger,” she said. “I’m not afraid to meet him now.”

Munglik shook back his long black hair. “He may be dead, after so many days alone.”

“Then I will say a prayer for him.” She made a sign. “Keep the Bahadur’s children safe. Don’t let them wander from the shelter. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

She left him and followed the trail to the clearing. Jali-gulug’s horse, the same one he had been riding when she had last seen him, was drinking from the spring. The gelding’s bay coat was dull and marked by scratches; it lifted its head and whinnied as she approached. She circled the clearing and soon found more underbrush with broken branches; Jali-gulug had not troubled to hide his tracks.

The trail led her higher, to another clearing. Above her, Jali-gulug sat on an outcropping, eyes closed, back against the fallen trunk of a tree. She climbed up to him, clinging to the bushes and branches as she ascended the steep hillside.

Jali-gulug’s face had the tight dry skin of a corpse; the hands resting on his folded legs were claws. His shaven head was uncovered, his braids hanging over his chest. At first she was sure that he was dead, and then he opened his eyes.

“Khokakhchin.”

She sat down next to him on the rocky outcropping. Over the tops of the pines below them, she saw the battlefield. The Tatars had put out their fires; the men of their heavy cavalry were mounting their horses. Near the man bearing Ghunan’s tugh, the Tatar war drummer was astride his horse, his drums hanging at his mount’s sides. The warriors looked so small from here, waiting for Yesugei to ride across the empty expanse to meet them. This had to be how Tengri saw men, as tiny creatures that could be swept away in an instant.

“Do you have water?” he asked.

“Yes.” She slipped her waterskin from her belt and lifted it to his lips. He drank only a few drops, then feebly pushed the skin from himself.

“You found me,” he said. “The spirits sent you to me.”

“My mistress sent me up the mountain with her children. Your trail led me here.” But he had spoken the truth. Her dream that night had sent her to his side.

“I know now why the spirits led me here,” he said. “I can save our people, but I must draw on what’s inside you to do it.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“You must help me, Khokakhchin. I need a basin, a cup, anything that can hold water.”

“I didn’t bring such things with me.”

“Then give me your waterskin.”

She handed it to him. He leaned forward; seeing how weak he was, she slipped an arm around him to support him. He poured some water into a small cavity in the rocky ground, then fumbled at his waist.

He drew out one of his pouches and opened it, his fingers fumbling at the leather ties, and shook several large round white stones as smooth as jade into his hand. Khokakhchin tensed, realizing what he intended to do.

“Your jada stones,” she whispered. “You mean to call down rain.”

“I mean to call down a storm.”

“You mustn’t,” she cried, drawing away from him. “A storm might turn on us.”

“Khokakhchin.” His voice had changed. “You still deny me my vengeance against the Tatars. You deny rest to the ghosts of your people.” Her husband was speaking through Jali-gulug once more. “You must consent to this,” the young man continued in his own voice, “or I cannot call down the storm.”

“Do what you must,” she said, bowing her head, knowing she was now no more than an eye of fire in Jali-gulug’s hand.

He put his jada stones in the small cavity of water, then poured more water over them as he chanted. She did not know the words he spoke, and wondered where he had learned the spell. Bughu might have taught him the words, or perhaps a spirit had whispered the spell to him.