Empire of Silver c-4 Read online

  Servants laid sheets of rough felt on the bloody ground around him. The thick mats drew up the blood in an instant, becoming heavy and red. More were brought in and piled on top of the lower layers until the whole floor of the ger was covered. Mohrol knelt then at Ogedai's side and reached out to examine his eyes and gums.

  'You have done well, Mohrol,' Ogedai said. 'I did not expect to be coming back.'

  Mohrol frowned. 'It is not over, my lord. The sacrifice of mares was not enough.' He took a long breath and fell silent while he bit at a ragged nail on his hands, tasting the specks of blood there. 'The spirits of this land are full of bile and hatred. They released their grip on your soul only when I spoke of another in your place.'

  Ogedai looked blearily at the shaman, struggling not to show his fear.

  'What do you mean? My head is full of wasps, Mohrol. Speak clearly, as if to a child. I will understand you then.'

  'There is a price for your return, lord. I do not know how long you have before they snatch you back into the darkness. It could be a day, or even a few more breaths, I cannot tell.'

  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 towards 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 was.'

  '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 had appeared at the khan's feet. He drank it like a man dying of thirst and a bloom of colour 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 ankle bone 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 y
ou 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 realised. 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 realised 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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Tolui 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 armour 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 goosebumps. There was no lightness or laughter from them and Tolui was not aroused by the sight, whereas 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 honour. 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.

  Mongke's stare bored into the back of Khasar's head, but he did not notice.

  Tolui looked up in silence from the river and finally dipped his head in acceptance, striding out of the water. His slaves came with him and he stood patiently as they rubbed him down. The sun warmed him and some of his tension seeped away. He looked at the armour that lay waiting, a pile of iron and leather. He had worn something like it for all of his adult life, but suddenly it seemed an alien thing. Of Chin design, it did not suit his mood.

  'I will not wear the armour,' he said to Mongke, who was standing ready for orders. 'Have it bundled up. Perhaps in time you will wear it for me.'

  Mongke struggled with his grief as he bent and gathered the pieces into his arms. Khasar looked on with approval, pleased to see how Tolui's son kept his dignity. The father's pride was shining in his eyes, though Mongke turned away without seeing it.

  Tolui watched as his women yanked on clothes to cover their nakedness. He sent one barefoot over the grass with instructions to find a particular deel and leggings from his ger, as well as new boots. She ran well and more than one of the men turned to watch her legs flash in the sun.

  'I am trying to believe this is really happening,' Tolui said softly. Khasar looked at him and reached out to grip his bare shoulder in silent support as he went on. 'When I saw you coming, I hoped that something had changed. I think some part of me will expect a shout, a reprieve, up to the last moments. It is a strange thing, the way we torture ourselves.'

  'Your father would be proud of you, I know that,' Khasar replied. He felt useless, unable to find the right words.

  Strangely, it was Tolui who saw his uncle's distress and he spoke kindly. 'I think I will be better on my own for the moment, uncle. I have my son as a comfort to me. He will take my messages home. I will need you later on, at sunset.' He sighed. 'I will need you to stand by me then, without a doubt. Now though, I still have words to write and orders to give.'

  'Very well, Tolui. I will come back as the sun sets. I tell you one thing: when this is over, I am going to kill t
hat shaman.'

  Tolui chuckled. 'I would expect nothing else, uncle. I will need a servant in the next world. He would do very well.'

  The young slave returned bearing an armful of clean, woollen clothes. Bare-chested, Tolui pulled rough leggings up his thighs, concealing his manhood from view. The slave tied the thong at his waist while Tolui stood with his arms out, staring into the distance. His women had begun to weep and neither man rebuked them for it. Tolui was pleased to hear the crying of women for him. He dared not think of Sorhatani and how she would react. He watched as Khasar mounted his horse once more, the older man silent with misery as he held up his right hand and turned to ride away.

  Tolui sat on the grass and the slaves knelt before him. The boots were new, soft leather. The women bound his feet in untreated wool and then pulled the boots over them, tying them with quick, neat movements. Finally, he rose.

  The deel robe was the simplest he owned, a lightly padded cloth with almost no decoration beyond buttons shaped like tiny bells. It was an old piece that had once belonged to Genghis and it was marked with the stitching of the Wolf tribe. Tolui ran his hands over the coarse design and found he could take comfort from it. His father had worn it and perhaps there was a hint of his old strength left in the cloth.

  'Walk with me for a time, Mongke,' he called to his son. 'There are things I want you to remember for me.' The sun dipped on the last day, spreading a cool light that slowly lost its colours, so that the plains softened into grey. Sitting cross-legged on the grass, Tolui watched the sun touch the hills in the west. It had been a good day. He had spent some of it rutting with his slaves, losing himself for a time in the pleasures of the flesh. He had appointed his second in command to lead the tuman. Lakota was a good man and loyal. He would not shame Tolui's memory, and in time, when Mongke had more experience, he would step aside for the son.

  Ogedai had come to him in the afternoon, saying that he would appoint Sorhatani the head of Tolui's family, with all the rights her husband had known. She would retain his wealth and the authority over his sons. On his return home, Mongke would be given Tolui's other wives and slaves as his own, protecting them from those who would take advantage. The khan's shadow would keep his family safe. It was the least Ogedai could offer, but Tolui felt lighter after hearing it, less afraid. He only wished he could speak to Sorhatani and his other sons one last time. Dictating letters to his scribes was not the same and he wished that he could hold his wife, just once, that he could crush her to him and breathe in the scent of her hair.