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 (159 page)

Ogedai stiffened. “I cannot go through that again, do you understand, shaman? I could not breathe …” He felt his eyes prickle and rubbed furiously at them. His own body was a weak vessel, it always had been. “Bring me wine, shaman.”

“Not yet, my lord. We have just a little time and you need to think clearly.”

“Do what you must, Mohrol. I will pay any price.” Ogedai had seen the dead mares and he shook his head wearily, looking through the walls of the ger to where he knew they still lay. “You have my own herds, my slaughtermen, whatever you need.”

“Horses are not enough, my lord, I’m sorry. You came back to us …”

Ogedai looked up sharply. “Speak! Who knows how much time I have!”

For once, the shaman stammered, hating what he had to say.

“Another sacrifice, lord. It must be someone of your own blood. That was the offer that pulled you back from death. That was the reason you returned.”

Mohrol was so intent on watching Ogedai’s response that he did not sense Khasar coming toward him until he was heaved into the air to face the older man.

“You little …” Khasar’s mouth worked in rage, sending flecks of spit onto Mohrol’s face as he held the shaman and shook him like a dog with a rat. “I have heard these games before from men like you. We broke the back of the last one and left him for the wolves. You think you can scare my family?
My
family? You think you can demand a blood debt for your shabby spells and incantations? Well, after
you
, shaman. You die first and then we’ll see.”

As he spoke, Khasar had drawn a short skinning knife from his belt, keeping his hand low. Before anyone could speak, he flicked his wrist, cutting into Mohrol’s groin. The shaman gasped and Khasar let him fall onto his back. He wiped blood from the knife, but kept it ready in his hand as Mohrol writhed, his hands cupped.

Ogedai rose slowly from his pallet. He was thin and weak, but
his eyes were furious. Khasar looked coldly at him, refusing to be cowed.

“In my camp, you cut my own shaman, Uncle?” Ogedai growled. “You have forgotten where you are. You have forgotten who
I
am.”

Khasar stuck his chin out defiantly, but he put away the blade.

“See him clearly, Ogedai … my lord khan,” Khasar replied. “This one wants my death, so he whispers that it has to be one of your blood. They are all hip-deep in games of power, and they have caused my family—your family—enough pain. You should not listen to a word from him. Let us wait a few days and see how you recover. You will be strong again, I’d bet my own mares on it.”

Mohrol rolled to his knees. The hand he pressed to his groin was red with fresh blood, and he felt sick and shaky with the pain. He glared at Khasar.

“I do not know the name yet. It is not my choice. I wish it were.”

“Shaman,” Ogedai said softly. “You will not have my son, even if my own life depends on it. Nor my wife.”

“Your wife is not your blood, lord. Let me cast another divination and find the name.”

Ogedai nodded, easing himself back down to the pallet. Even that small exertion had brought him to the edge of fainting.

Mohrol got to his feet like an old man, hunched over against the pain. Khasar smiled coldly at him. Spots of blood fell from between the shaman’s legs, vanishing instantly into the felt.

“Do it quickly then,” Khasar said. “I do not have patience for your kind, not today.”

Mohrol looked away from him, frightened by a man who used violence as easily as breathing. He could not untie his robe and examine the wound with Khasar leering at him. He felt ill and the gash throbbed and burned. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He was the khan’s shaman and the divination had to be correct. Mohrol wondered what would happen if the spirits gave him Khasar’s name. He did not think he would live long after that.

As Khasar watched with contempt, Mohrol sent his servants running for tapers of incense. Soon the air of the ger was thick, and Mohrol added other herbs to his burning bowl, breathing in a coolness
that made the ache in his groin just a distant irritation. After a time, even that faded and was gone.

At first Ogedai coughed as the harsh smoke entered his lungs. One of the servants dared Mohrol’s disapproval at last, and a skin of wine appeared at the khan’s feet. He drank it like a man dying of thirst, and a bloom of color came back to his cheeks. His eyes were bright with fascination and dread as Mohrol clutched the bones for divination, holding them to the four winds and calling for the spirits to guide his hand.

At the same time, the shaman took a pot of gritty black paste and rubbed a stripe of it along his tongue. It was dangerous to release his spirit again so soon, but he steeled himself, ignoring the way his heart fluttered in his chest. The bitterness brought tears to his eyes, so that they shone in the gloom. When Mohrol closed his mouth, his pupils grew enormous, like the eyes of dying horses.

The blood was slowly seeping into the layers of felt, and the smell of it was pungent. With the narcotic incense, the exhausted men could hardly stand it, but Mohrol seemed to thrive in the thick air, the paste giving strength to his flesh. His voice rolled out a chant as he moved the bag of bones to the north, east, south, and west, over and over, calling for the spirits of home to guide him.

At last he threw the bones; too hard, so that the yellow pieces scattered across the felt. Was it an omen to see them leap and jump away from him? Mohrol cursed aloud and Khasar laughed as the shaman tried to read the way they fell.

“Ten … eleven … where is the last one?” Mohrol said, speaking to no one.

None of them noticed that Tolui had grown almost as pale as the khan himself. The shaman had not seen the yellow anklebone resting against Tolui’s boot, touching the soft leather.

Tolui had seen. He had kept to himself the sick fear he had felt on hearing that it had to be one of Ogedai’s blood. From that moment, he had been gripped by a numb helplessness, a resignation to a fate he could not avoid. The bolting mare had knocked him from his feet, no other. He thought he had known then. Part of him wanted to tread the bone deep into the felt, to hide it with his foot,
but with an effort of will, he did not. Ogedai was the khan of the nation, the man his father had chosen to rule after him. No life was worth as much as his.

“It is here,” Tolui whispered, then repeated himself, as no one heard him.

Mohrol looked up at him and his eyes flashed with sudden understanding.

“The mare that struck you,” the shaman said in a whisper. His eyes were dark, but there was something like compassion in his face.

Tolui nodded, mute.

“What?” Ogedai broke in, looking up sharply. “Do not even think of that, shaman. Tolui is not part of this.” He spoke firmly, but the terror of the grave was still on him and his hands trembled on the wine cup. Tolui saw.

“You are my older brother, Ogedai,” Tolui said. “More, you are the khan, the man our father chose.” He smiled and rubbed his hand across his face, looking almost boyish for a moment. “He told me once that I would be the one to remind you of things you have forgotten. That I would guide you as khan and be your right arm.”

“This is madness,” Khasar said, his voice tight with suppressed rage. “Let me spill this shaman’s blood first.”

“Very
well
, General!” Mohrol snapped suddenly. He stepped forward to face Khasar with his arms open. “I will pay that price. You have spilled my blood already this morning. Have the rest if you wish. It will not change the omens. It will not change what must be done.”

Khasar touched his hand to where his knife lay under his belt, tucked into the grubby folds of cloth, but Mohrol did not look away from him. The paste he had consumed had stolen away any fear, and instead he saw Khasar’s love for Ogedai and Tolui, coupled with his frustration. The old general could face any enemy, but he was lost and confused by such a decision. After a time, Mohrol dropped his arms and stood patiently, waiting for Khasar to see the inevitable.

In the end, it was Tolui’s voice that broke the silence.

“I have much to do, Uncle. You should leave me now. I have to
see my son and have letters written to my wife.” His face was stiff with pain, but his voice remained steady as Khasar glanced at him.

“Your father would not have given up,” Khasar said gruffly. “Believe me, as one who knew him better than any man.”

He was not as certain as he seemed. In some moods, Genghis would have thrown his life away without a thought, enjoying the grand gesture. In others, he would have fought to the last furious breath, doomed or not. Khasar wished with all his heart that his brother Kachiun were there. Kachiun would have found an answer, a way through the thorns. It was just ill luck that Kachiun was riding with Tsubodai and Batu into the north. For once, Khasar was alone.

He felt the pressure from the younger men as they looked to him in hope for some stroke that would cut through the decision. All he could think of was to kill the shaman. That too was a useless act, he realized. Mohrol believed his own words, and for all Khasar knew, the man spoke the perfect truth. He closed his eyes and strained to hear Kachiun’s voice. What would he say? Someone had to die for Ogedai. Khasar raised his head, his eyes opening.

“I will be your sacrifice, shaman. Take my life for the khan’s. I can do that much, for my brother’s memory, for my brother’s son.”

“No,” Mohrol said, turning away from him. “You are not the one, not today. The omens are clear. The choice is as simple as it is hard.”

Tolui smiled wearily as the shaman spoke. He came close to Khasar and the two men embraced for a moment while Ogedai and the shaman looked on.

“Sunset, Mohrol,” Tolui said, looking back at the shaman. “Give me a day to prepare myself.”

“My lord, the omens are set. We do not know how long the khan has left before his spirit is taken.”

Ogedai said nothing as Tolui looked at him. His younger brother’s jaw tensed as he struggled with himself.

“I will not run, brother,” he whispered. “But I am not ready for the knife, not yet. Give me the day and I will bless you from the other side.”

Ogedai nodded weakly, his expression tortured. He wanted to speak out, to send Mohrol away and dare the malevolent spirits to come back for him. He could not. A wisp of memory of his helplessness came to him. He could not suffer it again.

“Sunset, brother,” Ogedai said at last.

Without another word, Tolui strode out of the ger, ducking to pass through the small door into the clean air and sun.

Around him, the vast camp was arrayed in all directions, busy and alive with the noise of horses and women, children and warriors. Tolui’s heart thumped with pain at such a pleasant, normal scene. He realized with a stab of despair that it was his last morning. He would not see the sun rise again. For a time, he simply stood and watched it, holding one hand above his eyes to shade them from its brilliant glare.

T
olui led a small group of ten riders to the river that ran by the camp. His son Mongke rode at his right shoulder, the young man’s face pale with strain. Two slave women ran at Tolui’s stirrups. He dismounted on the banks and the slaves removed his armor and underclothes. Naked, he walked into the cold water, feeling his feet sink into the cool mud. Slowly he washed himself, using silt to work the grease from his skin, then dipping under the surface to sluice himself down.

His female slaves both stripped to enter the water with him. They shivered as they worked bone tools under his fingernails to clean them. Both women stood up to their waists in the water, their breasts firm with goose bumps. There was no lightness or laughter from them, and Tolui was not aroused by the sight, where any other day might have had him playing in the shallows and splashing to make them squeal.

With care and concentration, Tolui accepted a flask of clear oil and rubbed it into his hair. The prettier of his slaves tied it into a black tail that hung down his back. His skin was very white at the nape of his neck, where the hair protected it from the sun.

Mongke stood and watched his father. The other minghaans were senior men who had seen battle a thousand times. Next to them, he felt young and inexperienced, but they could not look at him. They were quiet with respect for Tolui, and Mongke knew he
had to maintain the cold face for his father’s honor. It would have shamed the general to have his son weeping, so Mongke stood like a stone, his face hard. Yet he could not take his eyes off his father. Tolui had told them his decision and they were all bruised by it, helpless in the face of his will and the khan’s need.

One of them gave a low whistle when they saw Khasar ride out from another part of the camp. The general had earned their respect, but they were still willing to block him from the river as he came close. On that day, they did not care that he was the brother of Genghis.

Tolui had been standing with blank eyes as his hair was tied. The whistle brought him out of himself, and he nodded to Mongke to let Khasar through, watching as his uncle dismounted and came to the bank.

“You will need a friend to help you in this,” Khasar said.