Tolui smiled. No commander liked to be seen retreating, but the men would understand far better than Ogedai realised. They could see the wall of Sung soldiers as well as anyone. None of the Mongol warriors were clamouring to be first against that solid border.

As Tolui turned away, a single crack sounded in the distance. He jerked back and saw the puff of smoke rising above the row of Sung cannon. Only one had fired and both men saw a tumbling object rise only a short way and bounce across the ground.

It came to rest just a few hundred paces from the khan and his brother. For a moment, no one moved, then Tolui shrugged and rode over to it. He kept his back straight as he went, knowing he was watched by more men than at the festival in Karakorum.

By the time he returned to Ogedai carrying a cloth bundle, Khasar had ridden across the tumans to see what was happening. He nodded to his nephews and reached for the cloth bag. Tolui shook his head a fraction before he held it out to Ogedai.

The khan kept blinking at it, his vision doubling. Tolui waited for an order, but when none came, he cut the rope around the bag himself and snorted in disgust as he pulled out a mottled head by its hair, its eyes upturned.

Khasar and Tolui both looked blank as it dangled, spinning slowly. Ogedai squinted, frowning as he recognised the administrator from his morning ride. Had it been that very same day? It seemed impossible. There had been no army in Sung lands then, though they must have been marching almost in his wake. The message was as clear as the silent ranks who stood and moved not a foot from the border. He was not to enter Sung lands for any purpose.

Ogedai opened his mouth to speak and a sudden pain flared in his head, worse than anything he had ever known. He made a soft sound in his throat, helplessly. Tolui saw his distress and dropped the bloody object, moving his mount to take his brother by the arm.

'Are you unwell?' Tolui hissed at him.

His brother swayed in the saddle and Tolui feared he might fall in front of the tumans. The khan would never recover from such an omen, not in sight of the enemy. Tolui jammed his horse up against his brother's mount and kept his hand on Ogedai's shoulder to steady him. Khasar fell in on the other side, awkward with worry. Step by painful step, they forced the pony into the Mongol lines, then dismounted as soon as they were surrounded by staring warriors.

Ogedai had been holding on, his hands gripping the saddle horn like death. His face had twisted somehow, his left eye weeping in a constant stream. His other eye was wide and clear with agony, but he did not let go until Tolui began to prise his fingers away. Then he slumped and slid into his brother's arms, his body as limp as a sleeping child.

Tolui stood aghast, staring down at the pale face of his brother. He looked up at Khasar suddenly, seeing his own expression mirrored.

'I have a good shaman in the camp,' Tolui said. 'Send yours to me also, with any Chin or Moslem healers, the best you know.'

For once, Khasar did not argue. His gaze kept drifting to his nephew, aware but helpless. It was a fate that made Khasar shudder.

'Very well, general,' he said. 'But we must put some distance between that army and ours before they decide to test our strength.'

'Command the tumans, uncle. I will take my brother.'

Tolui gestured and Khasar helped him heave Ogedai onto Tolui's pony, making the animal snort at the double weight. Tolui gripped his brother around the chest, holding him in place. Ogedai's legs dangled loosely and his head lolled as Tolui broke into a trot.

As the sun set, the warriors of the khan were still moving slowly towards their camp, more than a hundred miles north across the plain. Behind them, the Sung soldiers lit torches all along the line, making a false horizon they could see for many miles as they retreated. Chagatai reined in at the top of a hill, reaching down to pat his mare and rub her ears. Two tumans halted behind him, his sons and wives waiting patiently with them. He had chosen the high place deliberately, wanting a view of the khanate Genghis had won and Ogedai had granted to him. Chagatai could see for many miles and his breath caught in his throat at the sheer vastness of the land he now owned. It was the only true wealth.

Many years had passed since the armies of Genghis had stormed through the region. The marks of that violent passage would take generations to vanish. He smiled at the thought. His father had been a thorough man. Some of the cities would remain ruins for ever, dust-blown and empty of all but ghosts. Yet Ogedai's gift was not a false one. The citizens of Samarkand and Bukhara had rebuilt their walls and markets. Of all peoples, they knew the khan's shadow was long, his vengeance unforgiving. Under that protective wing, they had grown and gambled on peace.

Chagatai squinted into the setting sun and saw black lines in the far distance, caravans of carts, oxen and camels stretching to the east and west. They were heading for Samarkand, a blur of white on the horizon. Chagatai cared little for traders, but he knew the roads kept cities alive, made them strong. Ogedai had given him a land of good earth, of rivers and fine herds. The vista before him was enough to make him wonder at his own ambition. Was it not enough to rule such a land, with water and good grass? He smiled. For the son and heir of Genghis, no, it was not enough.

A hot wind blew across the hill as the sun set and he closed his eyes and faced it, enjoying the breeze as it tugged at his long, black hair. He would build a palace on the river. He would hunt with arrows and falcons along the hills. He would make a home in his new lands, but he would not sleep or dream. He had spies and informants with Ogedai, Tsubodai, all the men of power in the nation. There would come a time when he would put aside the khanate of milk and honey and reach once again for what he had been promised. It was in his blood to be khan, but he was no longer a foolish young man. With such a dominion, he could wait for the call.

He thought of the women such cities produced, soft of flesh and fragrant. Their beauty and youth was not worked out of them in the life of the plains. Perhaps that was the purpose of cities, to keep women soft and fat instead of hard. It was a good enough reason to let them exist. As he prepared to ride on, he chuckled at the thought of the wolf entering the sheepfold. He would not ride with fire and destruction. The shepherd did not frighten his own pretty lambs.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The ger stank of something unpleasant, the air thick. Tolui and Khasar sat on low beds in the corner, watching uncomfortably as Ogedai's shaman manipulated the khan's limbs. Mohrol was a man of powerful build, short and stocky with a thick grey tuft of beard at the point of his chin. Khasar had tried not to stare at his right hand, which had marked him from birth as one who would never hunt or fish. A sixth finger, brown and twisted against the others, had made Mohrol a shaman.

The status of his craft had suffered hugely since the betrayal of Genghis years before by one whose name was no longer spoken. Yet Mohrol had conferred only briefly with robed healers and other shamans before sending them away. The khan's own shaman still had some power to command, at least among those of his own craft.

Mohrol seemed unaware of the two men watching him. He straightened and bent each of Ogedai's limbs, letting them fall limp while he worked his thumbs into the joints and murmured to himself. He took particular care with the head and neck. As the generals waited, Mohrol sat on the bed with his legs crossed and pulled Ogedai's head and shoulders into his lap, so that the khan stared sightlessly upward. The shaman's thin fingers tested and pressed the bones of his skull, clasping the dome of Ogedai's head while Mohrol looked into the middle distance. Khasar and Tolui could make nothing of it as Mohrol nodded and tutted to himself.