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  “She was coming at me with a knife,” Kachiun replied, nettled. “If you’d seen her, you’d have taken the shot as well.”

  “Thank the spirits you weren’t hurt, then,” Temujin replied with a straight face.

  Kachiun rolled his eyes as some of the other men chuckled. Jelme was there with a fresh covering of snow on his shoulders, as well as three brothers who had come in only the month before. They were so green you could smell the moss on them, but Temujin had chosen them to stand by his side in the first chaotic moments of the fight in the snow. Kachiun exchanged glances with Temujin after looking in their direction. The small nod from his older brother was enough for him to embrace them all as his own blood. The acceptance wasn’t feigned, now that they had proved themselves, and the three beamed around at the others, thoroughly enjoying their first victory in this company. The airag was hot on the stove and each of them gulped as much as he could to keep the cold out before the stew gave strength back to tired limbs. They had all earned the meal and the mood was light.

  Temujin addressed the oldest of them, a small, quick man with very dark skin and unkempt hair. He had once been with the Quirai, but a dispute with the khan’s son had meant he had to ride away with his brothers before blood was shed. Temujin had welcomed them all.

  “Batu? It’s time to bring my brother Khasar in from the cold, I think. There will be no more surprises this night.”

  As Batu rose, Temujin turned to Jelme. “I imagine your father is out checking the camp?”

  Jelme nodded, reassured by Temujin’s smile.

  “I would expect no less,” Temujin said. “He is a thorough man. He may be the best of us all.” Jelme nodded slowly, pleased. Temujin signaled to the old Tartar woman to serve him the stew. She clearly considered refusing him, but thought better of it and gave him a large portion of the steaming mix.

  “Thank you, old mother,” Temujin said, ladling it into his mouth. “This is good. I do not think I have ever tasted anything better than another man’s food eaten in his own ger. If I had his beautiful wife and daughters to entertain me, I would have it all.”

  His companions chuckled as they received their own hot food and laid into it, eating like wild animals. Some of them had lost almost all traces of civilization in their years away from a tribe, but Temujin valued that ferocity. These were not men who would think to question his orders. If he told them to kill, they killed until they were red to the elbows, regardless of who stood in their way. As he took his family north, he had found them scattered on the land. The most brutal had been alone, and one or two of those were too much like mad dogs to be trusted. Those he had taken out away from the gers, killing them quickly with the first blade Arslan had forged for him.

  As he ate, Temujin thought of the months since coming back to his family. He could not have dreamed then of the hunger he saw in the men around him, the need to be accepted once again. Yet it had not always gone smoothly. There had been one family who joined him, only to steal away in the middle of the night with all they could carry. Temujin and Kachiun had tracked them down and carried the pieces back to his camp for the others to see before they left them for wild animals. There was no return to their previous lives, not after they had joined him. Given whom he had decided to take in, Temujin knew he could not show weakness, or they would have torn him apart.

  Khasar came in with Batu, blowing and rubbing his hands together. He shook himself deliberately close to Temujin and Kachiun, scattering snow over them. They cursed and ducked against the soft pats of snow that spattered in all directions.

  “You forgot about me again, didn’t you?” Khasar demanded.

  Temujin shook his head. “I did not! You were my secret, in case there was a last attack when we were all settled.”

  Khasar glared at his brothers, then turned away to get his bowl of stew.

  As he did so, Temujin leaned close to Kachiun and whispered, “I forgot he was out there,” loudly enough for them all to hear.

  “I knew it!” Khasar roared. “I was practically frozen to death, but all the time I kept telling myself, ‘Temujin won’t have abandoned you, Khasar. He will be back any moment to call you in to the warm.’”

  The others watched bemused as Khasar reached into his trousers and rummaged around.

  “I think a ball has actually frozen,” he said mournfully. “Is that possible? There’s nothing but a lump of ice down there.”

  Temujin laughed at the wounded tone until he was in danger of spilling the rest of his own stew.

  “You did well, my brother. I would not have sent a man I couldn’t trust to that spot. And wasn’t it a good thing you were there?”

  He told the others about the rush of Tartar warriors that Khasar and Jelme had put down. As the airag warmed their blood, they responded with stories of their own, though some told them humorously and others were dark and bleak in tone, bringing a touch of winter into the warm ger. Little by little, they shared each other’s experiences. Little Batu had not had the sort of archery training that had marked the childhood of Yesugei’s sons, but he was lightning fast with a knife and claimed no arrow could hit him if he saw it fired. Jelme was the equal of his father with a sword or bow, and so coldly competent that Temujin was in the habit of making him second in command. Jelme could be depended upon, and Temujin thanked the spirits for the father and son and everyone who had come after them.

  There were times when he dreamed of being back in that stinking pit, waiting to be killed. Sometimes, he was whole, his body perfect. Other times, it was roped with scars or still raw and bleeding. It was there that he had found the strange thought that still burned inside him. There was only one tribe on the plains. Whether they called themselves Wolves or Olkhun’ut or even tribeless wanderers, they spoke the same language and they were bound in blood. Still, he knew it would be easier to sling a rope around a winter mist than to bring the tribes together after a thousand years of warfare. He had made a beginning, but it was no more than that.

  “So what next when we’ve finished counting our new horses and gers here?” Kachiun asked his brother, interrupting his thoughts. The rest of them paused in their eating to hear the answer.

  “I think Jelme can handle the next raid,” Temujin said. Arslan’s son looked up from his meal with his mouth open. “I want you to be a hammer,” Temujin told him. “Do not risk my people, but if you can find a small group, I want it crushed in my father’s memory. They are not our people. They are not Mongols, as we are. Let the Tartars fear us as we grow.”

  “You have something else in mind?” Kachiun asked with a smile. He knew his brother.

  Temujin nodded. “It is time to return to the Olkhun’ut and claim my wife. You need a good woman. Khasar says he needs a bad one. We all need children to carry on the line. They will not scorn us when we ride amongst them now.

  “I will be gone for some months, Jelme,” Temujin said, staring at Arslan’s son. His yellow eyes were unblinking and Jelme could not meet them for long. “I will bring back more men to help us here, now that I know where to find them. While I am gone, it will be your task to make the Tartars bleed and fear the spring.”

  Jelme reached out and they gripped each other’s forearms to seal the agreement.

  “I will be a terror to them,” Jelme said.

  In the darkness, Temujin stood swaying outside the ger Arslan had chosen and listened to the sounds within, amused that the swordsmith had finally found someone to take the edge off his tension. Temujin had never known a man as tightly bound as the swordsmith, nor one he would rather have stood with in battle, unless it was his own father. Perhaps because Arslan was from that generation, Temujin found he could respect him without bristling or proving himself with every word and gesture. He hesitated before interrupting the man at his coupling, but now that the decision was made, he intended to ride south in the morning and he wanted to know Arslan would be with him.

  It was no small thing to ask. Anyone could see how Arslan watched
his son whenever the arrows were flying. Forcing him to leave Jelme alone in the cold north would be a test of his loyalty, but Temujin did not think Arslan would fail it. His word was iron, after all. He raised a hand to knock on the small door, then thought better of it. Let the swordsmith have his moment of peace and pleasure. In the morning they would ride back into the south. Temujin could feel bitterness stir in him at the thought of the plains of his childhood, swirling like oil on water. The land remembered.

  CHAPTER 21

  TEMUJIN AND ARSLAN TROTTED across the sea of grass. To Arslan’s surprise, he had found he was comfortable with the silence between them. They talked at night around the fire, and practiced with swords until they had built a fine sweat. The blade Temujin carried was beautifully balanced and cut with a blood channel that allowed it to slide free from a wound without snagging. Arslan had made it for him and instructed him in maintaining its edge and oiling the steel against rust. The muscles of Temujin’s right arm stood out in ridges as he became completely familiar with the weight, and with Arslan as his tutor, his skill improved daily.

  The days riding were spent if not in thought then in the peaceful absence of it. To Arslan, it was just as he had traveled with his son, Jelme, and he found it restful. He watched as Temujin rode a little ahead or scouted up a hill to see the best route south. The young raider had a quiet assurance about him, a confidence that could be read in every movement. Arslan considered the twists of fate that had led him to rescue Temujin from the Wolves. They called him khan in their little camp, though there were barely twenty men to follow him and only a handful of women and children. Still, Temujin walked with pride amongst them and they fought and won raid after raid. There were times when Arslan wondered what he had unleashed.

  It was no easy task to find the Olkhun’ut. They had moved camp many times since Temujin had ridden away from them with Basan, the news of his father’s injury still fresh. It took two moons just to reach the lands around the red hill, and still Temujin did not know where to find them. It was even possible that they had begun another drift to the south as they had years before, putting them beyond reach. Arslan saw the tension grow in his young companion as they questioned each wanderer and herdsman they met, searching for any word of them.

  It was no easy task for Temujin to approach strangers with Arslan at his side. Even when he strapped his bow to his saddle and rode up with his hands in the air, they were met with drawn arrows and the frightened eyes of children. Temujin dismounted to speak to the tribeless as he found them, though more than one galloped away as soon as he and Arslan were spotted. Some he directed north, promising them a welcome in his name. He did not know if they believed him. It was a frustrating business, but a fearless old woman finally nodded at the name and sent them east.

  Temujin found no peace for his spirit in riding lands he had known as a child. He also asked for news of the Wolves, to avoid them. Eeluk was still somewhere in the area and it would not do for Temujin to come across a hunting party unprepared. There would be a reckoning between them, he knew, but not until he had gathered enough warriors to tear through the gers of the Wolves like a summer storm.

  When they sighted the vast camp of the Olkhun’ut after another month of riding, Temujin reined in, overcome with memory. He could see the dust of outriders as they came out, buzzing like wasps around the edges of the tribe.

  “Keep your hand away from your sword when they come,” he murmured to Arslan.

  The swordsmith suppressed a grimace at the unnecessary advice, sitting like stone.

  Temujin’s pony tried to munch a patch of brown grass, and he slapped it on the neck, keeping the reins tight. He remembered his father as clearly as if he were there with him and he kept a tight hold on his emotion, showing a cold face of which Yesugei would have approved.

  Arslan felt the change in the younger man, seeing the tension in his shoulders and the way he sat his horse. A man’s past was always full of pain, he thought, deliberately relaxing as he waited for the yelling warriors to finish their display of bravery.

  “What if they refuse to give her up?” Arslan asked.

  Temujin turned his yellow eyes on the swordsmith, and Arslan felt a strange emotion under that cold stare. Who was the boy to disturb him in such a way?

  “I will not leave without her,” Temujin said. “I will not be turned away without a death.”

  Arslan nodded, troubled. He could still remember being eighteen, but the recklessness of those years was long behind him. He had grown in skill since his youth, and he had yet to meet a man who could beat him with a sword or a bow, though he assumed such a man existed. What he could not do was follow Temujin into his coldness, to the sheer indifference to death that was only possible for the very young. He had a son, after all.

  Arslan showed nothing of his internal struggle, but by the time the Olkhun’ut warriors were on them, he had emptied his mind and was perfectly still.

  The riders screamed and whooped as they galloped close with bows drawn and arrows fitted to the strings. The display was meant to impress, but neither Arslan nor Temujin paid it any heed. Arslan saw one of the riders check and yank on the reins as he caught sight of Temujin’s face. The sharp movement almost brought his pony to its knees, and the warrior’s face grew tight with astonishment.

  “It is you,” the rider said.

  Temujin nodded. “I have come for my wife, Koke. I told you I would.”

  Arslan watched as the Olkhun’ut warrior hawked his throat clear of phlegm and spat on the ground. Pressure from his heels brought his gelding close enough for him to reach out. Temujin looked on impassively as Koke raised his arm as if to strike him, his face working in pale rage.

  Arslan moved, kicking his pony into range. His sword licked out so that its razor tip sat snugly under Koke’s throat, resting there. The other warriors roared in anger, milling around them. They bent their bows ready to fire and Arslan ignored them as if they were not there. He waited until Koke’s eyes flickered toward him, seeing the sick fear there.

  “You do not touch the khan,” Arslan said softly. He used his peripheral vision to watch the other men, seeing how one bow bent farther than the others. Death was close enough to feel on the breeze, and the day seemed to grow still.

  “Speak carefully, Koke,” Temujin said, smiling. “If your men shoot, you will be dead before we are.”

  Arslan saw that Temujin had noted the bending bow, and wondered again at his calm.

  Koke was like a statue, though his gelding shifted nervously. He took a tighter grip on the reins rather than have his throat cut by a sudden jerk of his mount.

  “If you kill me, you will be cut to pieces,” he said in a whisper.

  Temujin grinned at him. “That is true,” he replied, offering no further help. Though he smiled, he felt a cold lump of anger surface deep inside. He had no patience for the ritual humiliation of strangers, not from these people.

  “Remove the sword,” Koke said.

  To his credit, his voice was calm, but Temujin could see sweat appear on his forehead, despite the wind. Coming close to death would do that for a man, he thought. He wondered why he felt no fear himself, but there was not a trace of it in him. A vague memory of wings beating his face came back to him, and he had a sense of being detached from the moment, untouched by danger. Perhaps his father’s spirit watched him still, he thought.

  “Welcome me to your camp,” Temujin said.

  Koke’s gaze jumped back from Arslan to the young man he had known from so long before. He was in an impossible position, Temujin knew. Either he had to back down and be humiliated, or he would die.

  Temujin waited, uncaring. He glanced around him at the other men, spending a long moment looking at the warrior who had drawn an arrow back to his ear. The man was ready to loose and Temujin raised his chin in a small jerk, showing he knew.

  “You are welcome in the camp,” Koke whispered.

  “Louder,” Temujin said.

  “You
are welcome,” Koke said again, through gritted teeth.

  “Excellent,” Temujin replied. He turned in the saddle to the man who still waited with a drawn bow.

  “If you loose that arrow, I will pull it out and shove it down your throat,” he told him. The man blinked and Temujin stared until the needle-sharp point was lowered almost sheepishly. He heard Koke’s gasp behind him as Arslan removed the blade, and he took a deep breath, finding to his surprise that he was enjoying himself.

  “Ride in with us then, Koke,” he said, clapping his cousin on the back. “I have come for my wife.”

  There was no question of entering the camp without visiting the khan of the Olkhun’ut. With a pang of memory, Temujin remembered Yesugei’s games of status with Sansar, as one khan to another. He kept his head high, but he felt no shame as Koke led him to Sansar’s ger in the center of the camp. Despite his successes against the Tartars, he was not Sansar’s equal, as his father had been. At best, he was a war leader, a raider barely approaching the level where he could be received. If he had lacked even that status, Temujin knew that only his father’s memory would have granted him an audience and perhaps not even then.

  He and Arslan dismounted and allowed their ponies to be taken away, their bows with them. Koke had grown into a man in the years since they had last met, and Temujin was interested to see how the khan’s bondsmen accepted his cousin’s right to enter the ger after just a few murmured words. Koke had come up in the world, Temujin realized. He wondered what service he had performed for the khan of the Olkhun’ut.

  When Koke did not return, Temujin was struck by a memory and chuckled suddenly, startling Arslan from his silent tension.

  “They always make me wait, these people,” Temujin said. “But I have patience, do I not, Arslan? I bear their insults with great humility.” His eyes glittered with something other than amusement, and Arslan only bowed his head. The cool control he had seen in Temujin was under strain in that camp. Though he showed no sign if it, Arslan considered there was a chance of them both being killed through a rash word.