CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The nation travelled east together, burning a trail of fire and blood through the Arab cities and towns. The tumans went ahead of the families, riding against cities that were still little more than ruins from their first experience of the Mongol khan. As survivors began to rebuild their lives and homes, the tumans came sweeping in again to slaughter and burn.
For those who travelled on the carts of the nation, the landscape was marked in plumes of dark smoke, growing as they came closer and finally left behind while fresh black threads appeared in the distance. They moved through desolation and Genghis was well pleased at the sight. He had no more use for Arab cities, nor those who lived in them. The destruction he brought would make the land a desert for a generation or more and they would not rise again in challenge. Only Samarkand and Merv were left intact, for others to rule in his name. Even then, Temuge had been forced to beg for a garrison to keep Samarkand safe, with its libraries and palace. Genghis was leaving Arab lands and it was not long before the least of those in the gers knew they were heading back to war with the Chin. Twelve years had passed since the fall of Yenking and Genghis longed to see his ancestral enemies once more. The nation had grown in strength and this time nothing in the world would stop him placing his foot on the Chin throat.
Six moons grew from crescents to full by the time they skirted a great desert to the south. The Mongol homeland lay north over mountains and Genghis hungered to see his own land, but pressed on. The nation travelled more than two thousand miles into a cold winter that only refreshed families who had grown sick of the endless heat. Xi Xia lay further into the east, but Genghis revelled in the changing landscape, taking delight in the waterlogged fields of green rice almost as if he were coming home. The hunting improved and they swept the land clean of anything that moved, taking herds of yaks and goats as easily as they fired villages on the edges of Chin land.
On a warm evening, with the sun setting in a cloudless sky, Chakahai came once again to the khan’s ger. He looked up in pleasure to see her and she felt the strength of the new vitality that infused him. He wore a tunic and trousers that left his arms bare and she could see the web of scars on them, right to the fingers.
He smiled as he saw the platter of food she had brought and took it from her, breathing in the aroma of fresh meat with pleasure. She did not speak as he ate with his fingers, relaxing visibly after a long day. The peaceful sounds of the families could be heard around them as thousands of warriors ate and rested with their wives and children, ready for another day of riding.
Genghis finished the meal and yawned, his jaw cracking. He handed the plate back to her and she bowed her head.
‘You are tired,’ she said.
He chuckled, patting the bed beside him.
‘Not too tired,’ he replied.
Despite having borne four children for him, she had kept her slight figure, the legacy of her race. He thought briefly of Borte’s thickening waist as he reached for Chakahai and fumbled the knot of her sash. Gently, she removed his hands.
‘Let me, husband,’ she said.
Her voice trembled, but he was oblivious as she let the deel robe and buttoned tunic fall open to reveal white flesh beneath. He reached inside the cloth, taking her around the bare waist with strong hands. She could feel the hardness of his fingers digging into her flesh and she gasped slightly, pleasing him. Their breath mingled and she knelt before him to remove his boots. He did not see her take a long knife from one of them and, if she shook, he assumed it was at his touch on her breasts. He watched her nipples grow firm in the cool air and he lowered his face to them, tasting the bitter jasmine on her skin.
Khasar and Kachiun were sitting their horses at the edge of the encampment, keeping an eye on the immense herd of animals that accompanied the nation. The brothers were in a light mood, enjoying the last of the day and chatting idly before they went back to their families and an evening meal.
It was Kachiun who saw Genghis first. He chuckled at something Khasar had said while watching Genghis mount and take the reins of his favourite mare. Khasar turned to see what had caught his brother’s interest and both men fell silent as Genghis walked the horse through the gers of their people, taking a path away from them.
At first, they did nothing and Khasar finished a story involving the wife of one of his senior officers and the proposition she had made. Kachiun barely smiled at the tale and Khasar looked again to see that Genghis had reached the edge of the gers, his pony taking him out onto the grassy plain alone.
‘What is he doing?’ Kachiun wondered aloud.
Khasar shrugged. ‘Let’s find out,’ he said. ‘You are a poor audience for my troubles, brother. Genghis will see the humour in them.’
Kachiun and Khasar moved at a trot across the vast encampment, picking their way to intercept Genghis as he left the nation behind. The light was dimming and the plain was lit in gold, the air warm. They were relaxed as they drew close to him and called a greeting.
Genghis did not respond and Kachiun frowned for the first time. He moved his horse closer, but Genghis did not look at him. His face was bright with sweat and Kachiun exchanged a glance with Khasar as they fell in on either side of the khan and matched their pace to his.
‘Genghis?’ Khasar said.
Still there was no response and Khasar subsided, willing to let his brother explain in his own time. The three of them walked their mounts far onto the empty grass, until the gers were just a whitish hump behind them and the bleating of animals faded to a distant murmur.
Kachiun noted the sweat pouring off the khan. His brother was unnaturally pale and Kachiun’s stomach clenched as he feared some terrible news.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Genghis? What’s wrong?’
His brother rode on as if he had not heard and Kachiun felt worry bloom in him. He wondered if he should turn the khan’s horse with his own, ending this plodding trek away from the families. The khan held the reins loosely, barely exerting a control on the mare. Kachiun shook his head at Khasar in confusion.
The last light of day was on them when Genghis slumped to one side and slid from the saddle. Khasar and Kachiun gaped in dawning shock and Kachiun cried out as he leapt down and reached for his brother.
In the dim light, they had not seen the spreading stain at his waist, a dark slick of blood that marked the saddle and the mare’s side. As he fell, his deel came open, so that they could see a terrible wound.
Kachiun heaved Genghis into his arms, pressing his hand over the swelling blood in a vain attempt to stem the flow of life. Wordlessly, he looked up at Khasar, who still sat his horse, rooted in shock.
Genghis closed his eyes, the pain of the fall rousing him from his stupor. His breathing was ragged and Kachiun held him tighter.
‘Who did this, brother?’ Kachiun said, sobbing. ‘Who did this to you?’ He did not send Khasar for a physician. The brothers had seen too many wounds.
Khasar dismounted woodenly, his legs suddenly weak. He knelt with Kachiun and reached out to take Genghis’ hand in his own. The blood on the skin was already growing cold. A warm wind blew across the empty plain, bringing dust and the smell of rice fields.
Genghis stirred in Kachiun’s embrace, his head lolling back so that it rested on his shoulder. His face was almost white as his eyes opened. There was a spark of recognition there and Kachiun gripped him tighter, desperately willing the blood to stop. When Genghis spoke, it was barely a whisper.
‘I am pleased you are here, with me,’ he said. ‘Did I fall?’