The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle Page 29

  Temujin understood and his appreciation of Jelme went up a degree. Some of the wanderer families would have known Jelme as the closest thing to a khan for the months Temujin had been away. It was important to show them the true leader had returned. He did not argue again, and allowed Jelme to place his hand on his head before lifting him up and embracing him.

  “Did you find a shaman amongst these new arrivals?” Temujin asked.

  Jelme winced at the question as he rose. “There is one, though he stole the supply of airag and bargains his ration for more whenever he can.”

  “Keep him sober for a few days, then,” Temujin said. “As long as he can dedicate my marriage to the sky father and earth mother, I’ll keep him drunk for a month afterwards.”

  He looked around him once more, seeing how many faces had stopped in the snow and wind to watch the scene. As he caught the eyes of those he knew, they bowed their heads in acknowledgment. Jelme’s gaze fell on Borte and Eluin and he bowed low at the waist.

  “We are honored to have you with us, daughters of the Olkhun’ut,” he said.

  Borte did not know what to make of the confident stranger. She dipped her head jerkily in return, flushing as she looked away. Nothing in her life had prepared her to be treated with respect, and for a moment, she had to blink back tears.

  Released from the formalities of his welcome, Jelme was finally free to take his father’s arm and embrace him.

  “I have bled the Tartars,” he told Arslan, struggling not to seem too proud. His father chuckled and slapped his son on the back. Perhaps in time, he too would become comfortable with the easy manner Temujin encouraged amongst his men.

  “I am home,” Temujin said, under his breath and unheard by the others. It was little more than a raiding camp on frozen ground, with barely enough food or shelter for any of them, but there was no question. He had brought Borte home.

  “Take me to my mother, Jelme,” he said, shivering in the wind. “She will be hungry for news of the Olkhun’ut.” He caught a glimpse of Borte’s nervousness at his words and sought to reassure her.

  “She will welcome you, Borte, as if you were her own daughter.”

  As Jelme began to lead the way, Temujin saw the raider he had taken under his wing standing uncomfortably on the outskirts of their little group. His mind swam with a hundred things to remember, but he could not leave the man standing amongst strangers.

  “Kachiun? This is Barakh, a fine warrior. He needs work with the bow and he has never used a sword. He is brave and strong, however. See what you can make of him.” He frowned to himself as he spoke, remembering yet another debt.

  “Make sure that Arslan is given everything he needs to forge new swords. Have men sent out to dig for ore.”

  Kachiun nodded. “There is a seam in this hill. We have the gray stones piled ready for him. Jelme wouldn’t let anyone touch it until his father returned.”

  Temujin saw that Arslan and his son were both listening.

  “That was right,” he said immediately. “Arslan will make two swords as great as any we have ever seen, is that not so?”

  Arslan was still reeling from the pleasure of seeing his son alive and strong, a leader of men. He bowed his head.

  “I will make them,” he said.

  “Now, by the sky father, let us get out of this wind,” Temujin said. “I thought it would be spring by now.”

  Khasar shrugged. “We think this is the spring, as far north as we are. I am enjoying the milder weather, myself.”

  Temujin looked around at Khasar, Kachiun, Jelme, and Arslan. They were fine warriors and his heart soared at the thought of what they might accomplish together. He was home.

  Hoelun had a ger to herself, with a young girl from the wanderer families to help her. She was in the process of rubbing clean mutton fat into her skin when she heard the commotion. Her servant went out into the snow for news, returning red-faced and gasping from the cold.

  “Your son is in the camp, mistress,” she said.

  Hoelun let the pot of grease fall from her hands and wiped them on an old cloth. She made a clicking sound in her throat to hurry the girl along as she held out her arms and shrugged herself into the deel. The strength of her emotions surprised her, but her heart had leapt at the news. Temujin had survived again. Though she could not forget what he had done in the darkest times, he was still her son. Love was a strange and twisted thing for any mother, beyond all reason.

  By the time she heard his voice outside, Hoelun had composed herself, taking little Temulun on her lap and combing her hair to calm her shaking hands. The girl seemed to sense her mother’s strange mood and looked around wide-eyed when the door opened. Temujin brought the winter in with him in a gust of snow and bitter air that made Hoelun shiver and Temulun cry out with happiness at the older brother she had not seen for such a long time.

  Hoelun watched as Temujin embraced his sister, complimenting her on her beautiful hair, as he always did. The girl chattered while Hoelun drank in every detail of the young man who inspired such mixed feelings in her. Whether he knew it or not, he was very much the son Yesugei would have wanted. In her darkest moments, she knew Yesugei would have approved the death of Bekter when they were close to starving. Her sons had inherited their father’s ruthlessness, or perhaps had it hammered into them by the lives they had led.

  “It is good to see you, my son,” Hoelun said formally. Temujin only smiled, turning aside to bring in a tall young woman and another behind her. Hoelun’s eyes widened as she took in the delicate features of her own people. It brought a pang of homesickness, surprising after so many years. She rose and took the two younger women by their hands, bringing them into the warmth. Temulun came to join them, snuggling in between and demanding to know who they were.

  “More wood on the fire there,” Hoelun told her girl. “You must both be freezing. Which of you is Borte?”

  “I am, Mother,” Borte responded shyly. “Of the Olkhun’ut.”

  “I knew that from your face and the markings on your deel,” Hoelun said as she turned to the other. “And you, daughter, what is your name?”

  Eluin was still stunned with grief, but she did her best to reply. Hoelun sensed her misery and embraced her on an impulse. She brought them both to where they could sit, calling for bowls of hot tea to warm them. Temulun was kept quiet with a bag of sweet yoghurt curds and sat in the corner, digging deeply into it. Temujin watched as the women of the Olkhun’ut talked together and was pleased to see Borte begin to smile at his mother’s recollections. Hoelun understood their fears amongst the strangeness. She had felt the same way herself, once. While they thawed, she questioned them endlessly, her voice slipping into an old accent Temujin recognized from the Olkhun’ut. It was strange to hear it from his mother, and he was reminded again of the life she had led before Yesugei or her children.

  “Is Sansar still the khan? What of my nephew, Koke, and his father, Enq?”

  Borte answered Hoelun easily, responding to her motherly ways without embarrassment. Temujin looked on with pride, as if he were responsible. His mother seemed to have forgotten him, so he seated himself and nodded to the servant girl for a bowl of tea, accepting it gratefully and closing his eyes in pleasure as its warmth worked through him. Eluin too began to join the conversation and he allowed himself to relax at last and close his eyes

  “…this cannot go on much longer, this storm,” he heard his mother saying. “The thaw has already begun and the hill passes have begun to clear.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold,” Borte replied, rubbing her hands together. The women seemed to like each other and Temujin settled back gratefully.

  “I brought Eluin to be a wife to Khasar or Kachiun. Her sister died on the trip,” he said, opening his eyes a fraction. Both women looked at him, then the conversation began again as if he had not spoken. He snorted softly to himself. No man could be a khan to his mother. The warmth made him drowsy and, with their soft voices in his ears
, he dropped off to sleep.

  Kachiun and Khasar sat in a neighboring ger, chewing on hot mutton that had been simmering in broth for the best part of a day. With the cold, it was necessary to keep a stew on the fire the whole time so that there was always a bowl to warm them before they went out again. There had been little chance to relax while Temujin was away. The brothers tolerated Jelme’s orders with good nature, knowing it was what Temujin would have wanted. In private, though, they dropped all masks and pretenses, talking long into the night.

  “I liked the look of that Eluin,” Khasar said.

  Kachiun rose to the bait immediately, as his brother had known he would. “Your girl died, Khasar. Eluin was promised to me and you know it.”

  “I don’t know anything like it, little brother. The eldest gets his tea and stew first, have you noticed? It is the same with wives.”

  Kachiun snorted, half in amusement. He had seen Eluin first, when he rode out to answer the scout’s call. He had hardly noticed her then, bundled up against the cold, but he felt it gave him some sort of finder’s rights. It was certainly a stronger claim than Khasar’s, who had just stumbled out of a ger and met her.

  “Temujin will decide,” he said.

  Khasar nodded, beaming. “I am glad we will not argue. I am the eldest, after all.”

  “I said he will decide, not choose you,” Kachiun replied, sourly.

  “She was pretty, I thought. With long legs.”

  “What could you see of her legs? She looked like a yak in all those layers.”

  Khasar looked off into the distance. “She was tall, Kachiun, didn’t you notice? Unless you think her feet don’t reach to the ground, there must be long legs in there somewhere. Strong legs to wrap around a man, if you know what I mean.”

  “Temujin could marry her to Jelme,” Kachiun replied, more to sting his brother than because he believed it.

  Khasar shook his head. “Blood comes first,” he said. “Temujin knows that better than anyone.”

  “If you took a moment to listen to him, you’d hear he claims a blood tie to every man and woman in camp, regardless of tribe or family,” Kachiun said. “By the spirits, Khasar, you think more of your stomach and loins than of what he’s trying to do here.”

  The two brothers stared balefully at each other.

  “If you mean I don’t follow him around like a lost dog, then you’re right,” Khasar said. “Between you and Jelme, he has his own adoring little pack these days.”

  “You are an idiot,” Kachiun told him, slowly and deliberately.

  Khasar flushed. He knew he lacked the keen intelligence of Temujin and perhaps even Kachiun, but the world would freeze solid before he would admit it.

  “Perhaps you should go and lie at the door of our mother’s ger in the snow,” he said. “You could press your nose up against it, or something.”

  Both of them had killed men, with Temujin and with Jelme, yet when they came together, it was with the roaring energy of two boys, all elbows and red-faced struggle. Neither one reached for their knives and Khasar quickly had Kachiun’s head locked under his arm and was shaking him.

  “Say you are his dog,” Khasar said, breathing heavily with the exertion. “Quickly, I’m on watch next.”

  “I saw Eluin first and she’s mine,” Kachiun said as he choked.

  Khasar squeezed even tighter. “Say you would prefer her to bed your handsome older brother,” he demanded.

  Kachiun struggled violently and they fell together against a bed, breaking Khasar’s grip. Both of them lay panting, watching each other warily.

  “I don’t care if I am his dog,” Kachiun said. “Neither does Jelme.” He took a deep breath in case his brother launched himself at him again. “Neither do you.”

  Khasar shrugged.

  “I like killing Tartars, but if they keep sending old women out with their raiders, I don’t know what I’m going to do. Even Arslan managed to find himself a pretty young thing before he left.”

  “Is she still refusing you?” Kachiun asked.

  Khasar frowned. “She said Arslan would kill me if I touched her, and I think she could be right. There’s one I don’t want to cross.”

  Arslan stood in the ger he had constructed around his forge, letting the warmth seep into his bones. His precious tools had been oiled and wrapped against rust, and he found nothing to complain about as he faced Jelme.

  “You have done well here, my son. I saw how the other men looked to you. Perhaps it was the sky father who guided us to the Wolves.”

  Jelme shrugged. “That is in the past. I have found a purpose here, Father, a place. I am concerned with the future now, if this winter ever comes to an end. I’ve never seen one like it.”

  “In all your many years,” Arslan replied, smiling. Jelme seemed to have grown in confidence away from him, and he did not know quite how to take the strong young warrior who faced him so calmly. Perhaps he had needed the absence of his father to become a man. It was a sobering thought, and Arslan did not want to be sober.

  “Can you find me a skin or two of airag while we talk?” he said. “I want to hear about the raids.”

  Jelme reached inside his ger and produced a fat skin of the potent liquid.

  “I have arranged for hot stew to be brought to us,” he said. “It’s thin, but we still have a little meat dried and salted.”

  Both men stood against the forge, relaxing in the heat. Arslan untied his deel to let the warmth get through.

  “I saw your swords had gone,” Jelme said.

  Arslan grunted irritably. “They were the price for the women Temujin brought back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Jelme said. “You will make others just as fine, or better.”

  Arslan frowned. “Each one is a month of solid work, and that doesn’t include the time digging ore or making the ingots of iron. How many more do I have left in me, do you think? I won’t live forever. How many times can I get just the right steel and work it without flaws?” He spat on the forge and watched it bubble gently, not yet hot enough to skitter away. “I thought you would inherit the blade I carried.”

  “Perhaps I will yet, if we grow strong enough to take it from the Olkhun’ut,” Jelme replied.

  His father turned away from the forge and stared at him.

  “Is that what you think? That this small group of raiders will sweep across the land in the spring?”

  Jelme met his gaze stubbornly, but did not reply. Arslan snorted.

  “I brought you up to have more sense than that. Think tactically, Jelme, as I taught you. We have, what, thirty warriors at most? How many have been trained from their earliest years as you were, as Temujin and his brothers were?”

  “None of them, but—” Jelme began.

  His father brought his hand down in a chopping gesture, his anger growing.

  “The smallest tribes can field sixty to eighty men of good quality, Jelme, men who can take a bird on the wing with their bows, men with good swords and knowledge enough to form horns in the attack, or to retreat in good order. I would not trust this camp to stage an attack on a fifth of the Olkhun’ut warriors. Do not be deceived! This frozen little place will need the sky father’s blessing to survive a single season after the thaw. The Tartars will come howling, looking for revenge for whatever petty damage they have suffered in the winter.”

  Jelme set his jaw tight at that and glared at his father.

  “We have taken horses, weapons, food, even swords—”

  Once again, his father silenced him.

  “Blades I could bend in my hands! I know the quality of Tartar weapons, boy.”

  “Stop it!” Jelme suddenly roared at his father. “You know nothing of what we have done. You haven’t even given me the chance to tell you before you are away with your warnings and prophecies of doom. Yes, we may be destroyed in the spring. I have done what I could to build them and train them while you were away. How many men have you taken on to work the forge and learn your skill? I hav
e not heard of a single one.”

  Arslan opened his mouth, but Jelme had worked himself into a fury and there was no stopping him.

  “Would you have me give up and lie in the snow? This is the path I have chosen. I have found a man to follow and I gave my oath. My word is iron, Father, as you told me it must be. Did you mean that it was strong only while the odds were on your side? No. You’ve taught me too well, if you expect me to give up on these people. I have a place, I told you, no matter how it comes out.” He paused, taking deep breaths from the force of his emotion. “I have made the Tartars fear us, just as I said I would. I hoped you would be proud of me and instead you blow like a windy old man with your fears.”

  Arslan did not mean to strike him. His son was standing too close and when he moved his hands, Arslan reacted from instinct, snapping out an iron-hard fist to crack against his son’s jaw. Jelme fell, dazed, his shoulder striking the edge of the forge.

  Arslan watched, appalled, as Jelme took a moment and rose with icy calm. His son rubbed at his jaw and his face was very pale.

  “Do not do that again,” Jelme said softly, his eyes hard.

  “It was a mistake, my son,” Arslan replied. “It was worry and weariness, nothing more.” He looked as if he felt the pain himself.

  Jelme nodded. He had suffered worse in their practice bouts together, but there was still anger running through him and it was hard to shake it off.

  “Train men to make swords,” Jelme said, making it an order. “We will need every last one of them, and as you say, you will not live forever. None of us do.” He rubbed his jaw again, wincing as it clicked.

  “I have found something of worth here,” he said, trying hard to make his father understand. “The tribes fight amongst themselves and waste their strength. Here, we have shown a man can begin again and it does not matter whether he was once a Naiman or a Wolf.”

  Arslan saw a strange light in his son’s eyes and was worried by it. “He gives them food in their bellies and, for a little while, they forget old feuds and hatreds. That is what I am seeing here!” he snapped at his son. “The tribes have fought for a thousand years. You think one man can cut through all that history, that hatred?”