She did not get far. The warriors spread their arms and herded her, turning her around until they were able to get a new halter on and lead her back.

Tolui rose to his feet with no more than bruises, dusting himself off. He saw Mohrol was looking strangely at him and he shrugged under the shaman's stare. The chanting began again and the second mare was hobbled quickly, ready for the knives. It would be a long night and the bitter smell of blood was already strong.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The ground around the khan was sodden red. Blood from a dozen mares had soaked into the earth until the soil could take no more and it pooled. Fat, black flies buzzed and dipped all around them, driven to frenzy by the smell. Mohrol was dark with it, his bare arms and deel still wet as the torches guttered out and the sun began to rise. His voice was hoarse, his face filthy. Mosquitoes had gathered in clouds in the warm, damp air. The shaman had exhausted himself, but the khan lay motionless on the pallet, with eyes like shadowed holes.

The warriors were sleeping on the grass, waiting for news. They had not taken the mares for meat and the bodies lay sprawled in a heap, their thin legs outstretched as their bellies began to swell with gas. No one knew whether the sacrifice might be lessened if they consumed the meat, so it would be left to rot untouched as the camp moved on. Many of them had left the scene of the slaughter for their own gers and women, unable to watch such fine mares being killed any longer.

In the dawn, Mohrol knelt on the wet grass and his knees sank into the soft ground. He had killed twelve horses and he felt leaden, weighed down by death. He refused to let his despair show while the khan lay helpless, his face marked with a script of dry blood. Mohrol felt light-headed as he knelt and his voice began to fail completely, so that he whispered the ancient spells and divinations, rhythmic chants that rolled over and over until the words blurred into a stream of sound.

'The khan is in chains,' he croaked. 'Lost and alone in a cage of flesh. Show me how to break his bonds. Show me what I must do to bring him home. The khan is in chains…'

The shaman could feel the weak dawn sunlight on his closed eyes. He had grown desperate, but he thought he could sense the whisper of spirits around the still figure of Ogedai. In the night, Mohrol had taken the khan's wrist and checked for a pulse, he was so still. Yet without warning Ogedai would jerk and twist, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes bright for a few moments with something like awareness. The answer was there, Mohrol was certain, if he could only find it.

'Tengri of the blue sky, Erlik of the underworld, master of shadows, show me how to break the chains,' Mohrol whispered, his voice scratching. 'Let him see his mirror soul in water, let him see his shadow soul in sunlight. I have given you blood in rivers, sweet mares bleeding their lives into the ground. I have given blood to the ninety-nine gods of white and black. Show me the chains and I will strike them free. Make me the hammer. By the ninety-nine, by the three souls, show me the way.' He raised his right hand to the sun, splaying the fingers that were his mark and his vocation. 'This is your ancient land, spirit lords of the Chin. If you hear my voice, show me how you will be appeased. Whisper your needs into my ears. Show me the chains.'

Ogedai moaned on the bier, his head falling to one side. Mohrol was with him in an instant, still chanting. After such a night, with the dawn still grey and the dew half-frozen on the red grass, he could feel the spirits around the khan. He could hear them breathe. His mouth was dry from a bitter paste that left a black crust on his lips. He had soared with it in the darkness, but there had been no answers, no flash of light and understanding.

'What will you take to let him go? What do you want? This flesh is the cage for the khan of a nation. Whatever you want you may have.' Mohrol took a deep breath, close to collapse. 'Is it my life? I would give it. Tell me how to break the chains. Were the mares not enough? I can have a thousand more brought to mark his skin. I can weave a web of blood around him, a skein of dark threads and dark magic.' He took faster breaths, forcing his body to pant, raising the heat within him that might lead to more powerful visions. 'Shall I bring virgins to this place? Shall I bring slaves or enemies?' His voice fell lower, so that no one else could hear. 'Shall I bring children to die for the khan? They would give their lives gladly enough. Show me the chains that I may strike them away. Make me the hammer. Is it a kinsman that he needs? His family would give their lives for the khan.'

Ogedai moved. He blinked rapidly, and as Mohrol watched in astonishment, the khan began to sit up, falling backwards as his right arm crumpled. The shaman caught him and tipped his own head back to howl in triumph like a wolf.

'Is it his son?' Mohrol went on desperately as he held the khan. 'His daughters? His uncles or friends? Give me the sign, strike off the chains!'

At the shaman's howl, men had jerked from sleep all around them. Hundreds came running from all directions. The news spread and as they heard, men and women raised their hands and cheered, hammering pots or swords together, whatever they had. They crashed out a rippling thunder of joy and Ogedai sat up, flinching from it.

'Bring me water,' he said, his voice weak. 'What is happening?' He opened his eyes and saw the field of blood and the corpse of the last mare lying dark in the dawn light. Ogedai could not understand what had happened and he rubbed his itching face, staring in confusion at the flakes of dried blood on his palms.

'Raise a fresh ger for the khan,' Mohrol ordered, his voice barely a wheeze, but growing stronger in his jubilation. 'Make it clean and dry. Bring food and clean water.'

The ger was raised around Ogedai, though he was able to sit up. The weakness in his arm drained away in slow stages. By the time the rising sun was blocked by felt and wood, he was drinking water and calling for wine, though Mohrol would not hear of it. The shaman's authority had grown with his success and the khan's servants could not ignore his stern expression. For just a short time, the shaman could overrule his own khan. Mohrol stood tall with a new dignity and visible pride.

Khasar and Tolui joined Ogedai in the new ger, as the most senior men in the camp. The khan was still pale, but he smiled weakly at their worried expressions. His eyes were sunken and dark and his hand quivered as Mohrol handed him a bowl of salt tea, telling him to drink it all. The khan frowned and licked his lips at the thought of wine, but he did not protest. He had felt death pressing and it had frightened him, for all he thought he had prepared for it.

'There were times when I could hear everything, but not respond,' Ogedai said, his voice like an old man's breath. 'I thought I was dead then, with spirits in my ears. It was…' His eyes darkened as he sipped and he did not go on to tell them of the sick terror he had felt, trapped in his own body, drifting in and out of consciousness. His father had told him never to speak of his fears. Men were fools, Genghis had said, always imagining others were stronger, faster, less afraid. Even in his weakness, Ogedai remembered. The terror of that dark had hurt him, but he was still the khan.

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.'