The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror (157 page)

A hot wind blew across the hill as the sun set, and he closed his eyes and faced it, enjoying the breeze as it tugged at his long black hair. He would build a palace on the river. He would hunt with arrows and falcons along the hills. He would make a home in his new lands, but he would not sleep or dream. He had spies and informants with Ogedai, Tsubodai, all the men of power in the nation. There would come a time when he would put aside the khanate of milk and honey and reach once again for what he had been promised. It was in his blood to be khan, but he was no longer a foolish young man. With such a dominion, he could wait for the call.

He thought of the women such cities produced, soft of flesh and fragrant. Their beauty and youth was not worked out of them in the life of the plains. Perhaps that was the purpose of cities, to keep women soft and fat instead of hard. It was a good enough reason to let them exist. As he prepared to ride on, he chuckled at the thought of the wolf entering the sheepfold. He would not ride with fire and destruction. The shepherd did not frighten his own pretty lambs.

T
he ger stank of something unpleasant, the air thick. Tolui and Khasar sat on low beds in the corner, watching uncomfortably as Ogedai’s shaman manipulated the khan’s limbs. Mohrol was a man of powerful build, short and stocky with a thick gray tuft of beard at the point of his chin. Khasar had tried not to stare at his right hand, which had marked him from birth as one who would never hunt or fish. A sixth finger, brown and twisted against the others, had made Mohrol a shaman.

The status of his craft had suffered hugely since the betrayal of Genghis years before by one whose name was no longer spoken. Yet Mohrol had conferred only briefly with robed healers and other shamans before sending them away. The khan’s own shaman still had some power to command, at least among those of his own craft.

Mohrol seemed unaware of the two men watching him. He straightened and bent each of Ogedai’s limbs, letting them fall limp while he worked his thumbs into the joints and murmured to himself. He took particular care with the head and neck. As the generals waited, Mohrol sat on the bed with his legs crossed and pulled Ogedai’s head and shoulders into his lap, so that the khan stared sightlessly upward. The shaman’s thin fingers tested and pressed the bones of his skull, clasping the dome of Ogedai’s head while Mohrol looked into the middle distance. Khasar and Tolui could make nothing of it as Mohrol nodded and tutted to himself.

The khan’s body was slick with sweat. Ogedai had not said a word since his collapse at the Sung border two days before. He had no wound, but his breath was as sweet as rotting fruit and it was that smell that filled the ger and made Khasar want to gag. The Chin healers had lit tapers of soothing incense, saying the smoke would help him to heal. Mohrol had allowed such things, though his disdain was poorly hidden.

The shaman had already worked on Ogedai for a full day, dipping his flesh into icy water, then pummeling his body with coarse cloth so that the blood bloomed under the surface. The khan’s eyes stared throughout and sometimes they moved, but he did not wake. When he was turned to the side, he drooled long tendrils of spit, his lips slack.

Ogedai would not survive if he stayed like that, Khasar realized miserably. Water, even warm blood and milk, could be forced into his stomach with a thin bamboo tube, though he choked and bled from the mouth as it scored his throat. Cared for like a helpless baby, he could be kept alive almost indefinitely. Yet the nation was without a khan, and there were other things that could kill a man.

Khasar had refused all permission to leave the camp. As messengers came in, they were unhorsed and put under guard. For a short time, the news could be contained. Chagatai would not yet be readying his forces for a triumphant return to Karakorum. Even so, there were ambitious men in the tumans who knew only too well how they would be received if they brought that news. Chagatai would reward them with gold, promotion and horses, whatever they wanted. Sooner or later, one or more would be tempted to slip away in the night. If nothing changed before that moment, even if Ogedai still lived, he was finished. Khasar winced at the thought, wondering how long he had to stay in the khan’s ger. He did no good sitting there, shifting about like an old man with piles.

Ogedai’s face seemed even puffier than before, as if fluid were building up underneath the skin. Yet he was hot to the touch, his body burning its reserves. Time crept slowly in the ger, while outside, the sun rose and passed noon. Tolui and Khasar watched as Mohrol took each of Ogedai’s arms and pierced them at the crook
of the elbow, letting the blood flow into a brass bowl. The shaman peered closely at the color of the liquid, pursing his lips in disapproval. Putting aside the bowls, he chanted over the khan, suddenly striking his chest with an open palm. Nothing changed. Ogedai stared on, blinking rarely. They did not know if he could even hear them.

At last the shaman fell silent, tugging irritably at his chin-beard as if he wanted to yank it out. He laid Ogedai’s head back on the coarse blankets and rose. His servant moved in to bandage the cuts his master had made, silent with awe at treating the khan of the nation.

With the unthinking authority of his calling, Mohrol gestured to the two watching men to follow him out into the clean air. They joined him, breathing deeply in the breeze to clear the foul sweetness from their lungs. Around them, warriors of the khan stood with hope on their faces, waiting for good news. Mohrol shook his head and many of them turned away.

“I have no medicines for this,” the shaman said. “His blood flows well enough, though it seems dark to me, without the life spirit. I do not think it is his heart, though I am told that is weak. He has been using Chin syrups.” He held up an empty blue bottle with distaste. “He took a terrible risk in trusting their potions and filth. They use anything, from unborn children to the penis of a tiger. I have seen it.”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Khasar snapped. “If you can do nothing for him, I will find others with more imagination.”

Mohrol seemed to swell with anger and Khasar responded by stepping in instantly, deliberately standing too close and using his height to advantage.

“Watch yourself, little man,” Khasar murmured. “If I were you, I’d try to remain useful.”

“You do Ogedai no service by arguing out here,” Tolui said. “It does not matter what has gone before, or what potions or powders he has taken. Can you help him now?”

Mohrol still glowered at Khasar as he replied. “Physically, there
is nothing wrong with him. His spirit is weak, or made weak. I do not know if he has been cursed, brought to this by some enemy, or whether it is something of his own doing.” He blew air out in a gust.

“Sometimes, men just die,” he said. “The sky father calls and they are snatched, even khans. There is not always an answer.”

Without warning, Khasar’s hand shot out and grabbed the shaman’s robe, twisting the cloth as he yanked him close. Mohrol struggled in reaction before his instinct for survival made him drop his hands. Khasar was a man of power and Mohrol’s life hung on the single thread of his goodwill. The shaman mastered his outrage.

“There is a dark magic,” Khasar snarled. “I have seen it. I have eaten a man’s heart and felt the light bursting in me. Do not tell me there is nothing to be done. If the spirits demand blood, I will spill lakes of it for the khan.”

Mohrol began to stammer a reply, but then his voice steadied. “It will be as you say, General. I will sacrifice a dozen mares this evening. Perhaps it will be enough.”

Khasar let go and Mohrol stumbled back.

“Your life rests with his, do you understand?” Khasar said. “I have heard too many of your kind with their promises and lies. If he dies, you will be sky-buried with him, staked out on the hills for the hawks and foxes.”

“I understand, General,” Mohrol replied stiffly. “Now I must prepare the animals for sacrifice. They must be killed in the right way, their blood for his.”

There had been a city on the site of Jiankang for almost two thousand years. Fed by the immense Yangtze River, which was the life-blood of all China, it had been the capital of ancient states and dynasties, made wealthy on the back of dyes and silk. The sound of looms was always present, clicking and thumping day and night to provide Sung nobles with clothing, shoes, and tapestries. The smell of frying grubs was heavy in the air as they fed the workers at every meal, tumbled golden brown with herbs, fish, and oils.

In comparison to the small city of Suzhou to the north, or the fishing villages that fed the workers, Jiankang was a true stronghold of power and wealth. It was visible in the colorful soldiers who stood on every corner, in the palaces and bustling streets of a million workers, their lives revolving around a moth larva that made a cocoon of thread so perfect it could be unwound and made into extraordinarily beautiful sheets of cloth.

At first Xuan had been treated reasonably well as he left the border miles to the north. His wives and children had been placed in palaces away from him. His soldiers had been moved farther south, where they could not be a danger. He had not been told the location of their barracks. Sung officials had shown the bare courtesy due his rank, and the emperor’s own son had deigned to receive him and use words of honeyed sweetness. Xuan controlled the spasm of anger that threatened to engulf him as he remembered the meeting. He had lost everything and they let him know his status by the most subtle insults. Only a man used to perfection could have detected the faint tinge of age in the tea they offered him, or the fact that the servants they sent to him were coarse of feature, even clumsy. Xuan did not know if the emperor intended to humiliate him, or whether the man’s soft and perfumed son was simply a fool. It did not matter. He was already aware that he was not among friends. He would never have come to Sung lands if his situation had not been desperate.

His weapons had caused some excited interest at first as Sung soldiers began to catalogue his baggage and supplies. That too brought a moment of irritation as Xuan recalled their sly grins. His most precious possessions had been laid out in a vast courtyard that dwarfed the remnant of his father’s wealth. Even so, Xuan was not certain he would see any of it again. Chests of gold and silver coins had vanished into some hidden treasury, perhaps not even in the city. In return Xuan had only a sheaf of ornate papers, stamped with the marks of a dozen officials. He was completely in the power of men who thought of him at best as a weak ally, at worst as an obstacle to lands they claimed as their own.

As he stared out across Jiankang, Xuan ground his teeth silently, the only sign of his tension. They had scorned his fire-pots and hand-cannon. The Sung had such things in the thousands and of more advanced designs. It was clear they thought themselves untouchable. Their armies were strong and well supplied, their cities wealthy. Some bitter part of him almost wanted the Mongols to reveal the folly of such arrogance. It made his stomach churn to see the way the Sung officers glanced at him and whispered, as if he had just
given
Chin lands away to herdsmen. It was a peculiar thing to take pleasure in the image of the Mongol khan riding his warriors into Jiankang, sending the Sung armies running in disarray.

Xuan smiled at the thought. The sun had risen and the silk looms could be heard tapping like insects deep in a beam of wood. He would spend the day with his senior advisers, talking endlessly and pretending they had some purpose while they waited for the Sung emperor to notice their existence.

As Xuan looked over the roofs of Jiankang, a bell sounded nearby, one of a hundred different tones that rang across the city at different times in the day. Some signaled the changing hours or announced the arrival of messengers; others called children to school. As the sun set, the words of a poem from Xuan’s youth came back to him, and he murmured the lines, taking pleasure in the memories.

“ ‘The sun grows dim and sinks in the dusk. People are coming home and the bright peaks darken. Wild geese fly to the white reeds. I think of a northern city gate and I hear a bell tolling between me and sleep.’ ”

Tears sprang into his eyes as he thought of his father’s kindness to the thin little boy he had been, but he blinked them away before someone could see and report his weakness.

The horses Mohrol had chosen were all young mares, capable of bearing foals. He had taken them from the herd of spare mounts that followed the tumans, spending half a day selecting each mare for perfection of color and unblemished skin. One of the owners
stood in mute misery as two of his best white mares were marked for sacrifice, the product of generations of careful selection and breeding. Neither had borne foals and their bloodlines would be lost. Ogedai’s name made all resistance vanish, despite the near-sacred relationship between herdsmen and their beloved mounts.

Such a thing had never been seen before on the plains. The tumans pressed so closely around the ger where Ogedai lay that Mohrol had to ask for them to be kept away. Even then, the warriors crept forward with their wives and children, desperate to see magic and great sacrifice. The life of no other could have been worth such a price, and they watched with fascination and dread as Mohrol sharpened his butcher’s knives and blessed them.