The Taychiuts retreated into the wood along the far bank. Hoelun cursed under her breath. Now that they knew someone was here, they might decide to wait them out instead of attacking.
Several men darted from the trees, then ducked down as the boys' arrows arched towards them. The Taychiuts behind the trees answered with another volley; Hoelun shrank against the barricade as arrows struck the ground behind her. The Taychiuts retreated again.
“They may storm the hill,” Khasar said softly.
Temujin shook his head. “That would cost them. I think they'll cross downriver and attack us from the side unless—”
“Hoelun!”
She started, recognizing Targhutai's voice. “Hoelun!” Khasar aimed in the direction of the voice; Temujin pulled his brother's bow down. “I see the markings on your arrows! I know it's you and your fledgelings who are hiding from us!”
“Mother,” Temujin whispered, “go and hide yourself now.”
“Hoelun!” Targhutai cried. “We aren't here to fight with you! Send out Temujin—he's the one we want. Surrender the boy, and the rest of you may go free!”
So he would settle for her oldest son. Having Yesugei's heir would be enough of a triumph for him.
“Send out the boy!” Targhutai shouted. “I don't need the rest of your wretched brood—I only want the one who thought he could take his father's place! I swear by Koko Mongke Tengri that the rest of you will be safe when he's in my hands!”
Belgutei crept towards her. “He may not honour that oath, Hoelun-eke,” he said.
“We can't let him take Temujin.” Khasar aimed his bow. “Shall we lure them out and then give them our answer?”
“No.” Hoelun clutched at Temujin's arm. “If he's speaking the truth, you have to get away.”
“And abandon you?”
“The rest of us are no use to him without you. You're Yesugei's oldest son—you must survive to avenge your father.”
Temujin stared at her without speaking. “Listen to Hoelun-eke,” Belgutei said. “We can hold them off while you escape.”
“Farewell, Mother.” Temujin took her in his arms. “I promise—”
She pushed him away. “Go!”
He crept towards the horses, mounted a gelding, then touched his hat briefly before he rode away. The trees would conceal him; he might escape to Jamukha's camp. If he reached the Kereit lands, perhaps Toghril Khan would finally be moved to protect him.
“Temujin!” Targhutai called out. “Do you want your mother and brothers to suffer because of you? Give yourself up!”
Hoelun said, “Answer him.” Khasar loosed his arrow; it arched over the river and struck the ground above the bank.
“Don't be a fool!” Targhutai cried. “Surrender yourself, and the others will go unharmed. Resist, and all of you will be ashes scattered in the wind!”
“Mother, you must hide,” Khasar whispered. “Belgutei and I can try to lead them away from you. They may cross the river elsewhere, then surround us. You have to think of the others. If you can keep them safe until one of us returns, or Jamukha can find you—”
She touched his cheek. “Very well.” She picked up some dried game and skins of water, then tucked them under her coat.
Belgutei was creeping towards the horses, Khasar at his heels, when a shout came from below. “He's getting away!” a man called out. “Look there, up on the mountainside!”
Khasar spun around, his face pale, then hurried back to her side. Other Taychiuts shouted to one another. They had spotted Temujin, or he had deliberately shown himself to save the rest of them. Hoelun listened to the sound of hooves as the Taychiuts, hidden by the trees, rode up river after her son.
They stayed by the barricade. Khasar crept down the slope and returned to tell Hoelun and Belgutei that their enemies had left no guard behind. The air turned colder that night; Hoelun slept against one of the horses while the two boys took turns on watch.
In the morning, she made her way up to the cliff. “Temujin's ridden away,” she said as the children crawled through the crevice. “Our enemies have gone after him—they claim he's the only one they want.” She reached for Sochigil and pulled her through the opening. “But we're not safe yet. When they fail to catch him, they may come back for us.”
Temulun rubbed her eyes. Khachigun stamped his feet and shook out his arms. “What'll we do?” he asked.
“Stay at the barricade by day and sleep here at night, and you're all to run here at the first sign of their approach.”
The three children hurried down the hill. Sochigil took Hoelun by the arm. “We should try to get away,” she said, “before they come back.”
Hoelun said, “We must stay together now.”
Sochigil's grip tightened around her wrist. “Your youngest children would be safer away from here.”
“I can't leave,” Hoelun said. “If they return for us, at least I'll know Temujin escaped.”
“Then stay, and I'll take the youngest ones with me.” The other woman's voice was unusually firm.
“You'd do that?” Hoelun asked.
“If Belgutei comes with us.” Sochigil halted; then faced her. “You did what you could for your son. Let me save the only child I have left.”
Hoelun pulled away and moved on; Sochigil walked behind her in silence. Hoelun did not speak until they reached the barricade, then went to Khasar and Belgutei. “Listen to me,” she said. “Sochigil-eke will leave with Temuge and Temulun. Belgutei, you'll ride with them. Go to where the Kimurgha River meets the Onon, and wait for us there. When you feel you've waited long enough, seek out Jamukha and ask for refuge.”
Belgutei frowned. “What if the Taychiuts come back? You can't hold them off without my help.”
“It's unlikely we could hold them off with you, but we can keep them from following you.” She glanced at Khachigun. “I'd send you with them, but we may need you here. I know you'll be as brave as Khasar.”
Khachigun drew himself up. “You can count on me, Mother.”
Hoelun picked up Temulun, wondering if she would ever see her daughter again, then carried her to the horses.
After Sochigil and Belgutei left with the children, Khasar led the four remaining horses to the river to drink while Khachigun collected the fallen arrows. When night came, they ate a few birds' eggs Khasar had climbed a tree to fetch. Hoelun wanted to save what food they had for as long as possible.
Her sons took turns climbing into a tree to keep watch by day. At night, she took a turn on guard. They rarely spoke. The boys honed their knives, sharpened their spearpoints, and tested their bows while she dug for roots. She hoped their enemies had not found the wagons and tent panels, but did not dare to leave the refuge to find out.
Every day that passed meant that Temujin was further from them, with the Taychiuts on his trail. Her hopes would rise, then fall when she thought of the perils her son faced. He had gone up the slope, towards the higher reaches of Mount Tergune, perhaps meaning to hide in the thick, upper forest until he could make a break.
At night, when a breeze rustled the horse-tails of Yesugei's tugh, Hoelun sometimes heard the whisper of the sulde that lived in the standard, and that spirit's murmured promise to protect them. The sulde was the guardian of her husband's clan, as Temujin was now the clan's heart; the voice promised her that she would live to press the tugh into her oldest son's hands. But during the day, the sulde was silent, and the voices of the forest spirits sighed mournfully amid the stirring trees.
By the eleventh day inside the barricade, their food was nearly gone. Khachigun was watching from a tree when Khasar came to Hoelun and sat down.
“We can't stay here, Mother,” he said. “We could have escaped during the time we've waited. Targhutai might have given up the chase and gone back to his camp.”
“And if we leave now, we might meet our enemies. They might even be waiting for us to follow Sochigil, or to ride after your brother. Temujin would come here for us once he's certain they're
gone.”
Khasar shook his head. “I think—”
Khachigun suddenly dropped from the tree and hastened to them. “They're coming,” he said, “along the river. I saw Temujin's horse.”
Khasar jumped to his feet and took out his bow. “I hope they stay in the open,” he muttered. “They'll pay for whatever they did to him.”
Hoelun rose; her legs shook. “Stay near the horses,” she said to the younger boy, “and keep them quiet.” She reached for her own bow.
Targhutai's men were soon within sight. They rode along the bank below the slope; one of them led Temujin's grey gelding. She drew back her bowstring and aimed at Targhutai's heart, then saw her son. They had bound his arms and legs and slung him across another horse; she saw him twist, as if trying to free himself.
Khasar took aim. “No,” she whispered. “If we shoot, they'll kill him.”
“They may anyway.”
“We won't risk it.”
Khasar glared at her, but she grabbed his wrist and held on until the men had ridden past. As long as Temujin was alive, he had a chance. Targhutai lifted his head. The chieftain had captured her son, but had not taken his life; she could still hope.
She watched until the men disappeared around a bend in the river. Khasar jerked back his arm and pushed her away. “I could have drawn some blood.”
“They would have had all our lives then.” She got up, went to the tugh, and knelt. “Protect my son,” she whispered, then clutched the standard to her.
32
Khadagan nudged a lamb closer to the flock, then saw the captive boy. He was pulling a wagon; the wide flat collar of a kang, a wooden yoke, rested on his broad shoulders. His arms, bent at the elbows, were bound by the wrists to the wings of the yoke, where his hands drooped above two holes in the collar. Someone had lashed him to the wagon's long poles. He strained as the wagon rolled slowly forward.
Chaghan moved to Khadagan's side and giggled. Khadagan glared at her cousin. “Don't laugh at him,” she said.
Chaghan rolled her eyes. One of the women with the flock beckoned to the girls.
The boy had been with them for over a month, ever since Targhutai Kiriltugh had captured him. Khadagan had watched from a distance while men thrust spears between the captive's legs to make him trip or gave him heavy sacks to haul. Killing him might have been more merciful than yoking him and moving him from tent to tent, where he was often beaten and deprived of food. But some whispered that Targhutai feared taking his life, even that a shaman had warned him not to shed the boy's blood.
Several small boys ran towards the prisoner and danced around him as they pelted him with dirt clods and dung. The sight enraged Khadagan; she halted, then strode towards the boys.
One boy grabbed another by the arm. “Leave him alone!” he shouted.
The other boy pulled away from him. “What do you care, Chirkoadai?” Two boys grabbed Chirkoadai and wrestled him to the ground; a third threw a pat of dung at the prisoner.
“Stop it!” Khadagan cried. She knocked one boy aside, then pulled another off Chirkoadai. A boy shoved her away; she slapped him. A fist caught her in the stomach, and she fell near the captive's feet.
As she stood up, the yoked boy lifted his head and shook back his long unbraided hair. The cold look in his pale eyes made her shiver; she could almost imagine him bursting from his yoke to strike back. His expression warmed as he suddenly smiled at her.
A boy came at Khadagan, but Chirkoadai pushed him away. The others were gathering around the prisoner. “Leave him alone!” Chirkoadai screamed.
“What's he to you?” one boy asked.
Chirkoadai glared at him. “Another boy.”
One of the boys picked up a stone, but Khadagan grabbed his arm before he could throw it. “Stop it,” she said. “You wouldn't treat a dog this way.” She raised her fists, ready to fight them all. “Bullies.”
A Taychiut man bore down on them; the boys scattered. “Get going,” the man said as he climbed into the wagon.
Khadagan hurried back to the sheep. “Brave Khadagan,” Chaghan murmured; a few of the girls giggled.
“Come along,” Chaghan's mother shouted to them. Khadagan kept her eyes down as she followed the flock.
When the ewes were milked, Khadagan picked up her buckets and carried them towards her father's yurt. The sheep, including those that belonged to her father, would rest by her uncle's yurt that night.
Her father's tent stood near a bank overlooking the Onon. Wide spaces separated it from a circle of yurts to the south and the edge of the Taychiut camp to the north. Horses were tethered to a long rope behind the yurt, where several men were churning large leather sacks of mare's milk into kumiss. The rhythmic drumming of the churns grew louder as she approached; the men hummed as they pushed the long sticks inside the sacks.
Her father, Sorkhan-shira, had led his small band to the Taychiuts last autumn. Targhutai Kiriltugh claimed tribute from her father's clan, the Suldus, and some said he might grow as powerful as his grandfather Ambaghai Khan. Khadagan supposed that they were better off here, but she had seen Sorkhan-shira frown sometimes when he spoke of Targhutai, as if he had doubts about the man he had joined.
Her brother Chimbai was outside, pouring butter from a sack of churned milk into a jug. Chilagun, her other brother, dragged a sack towards a wagon. A cart heaped with newly shorn wool stood next to the yurt's entrance; the doorway was open, its flap rolled up. Khadagan carried the buckets inside.
Khaghar was sitting by the hearth, poking listlessly at the burning fuel. The old woman, the widow of one of Sorkhan-shira's kinsmen, was the only servant they had left.
“We need more fuel,” Khaghar said as she looked up.
“Then you'll gather some.” Khadagan set down her buckets and handed the old woman a basket. Khaghar got to her feet slowly, mumbled under her breath, and left the tent.
Khadagan was used to the work. Once, her father had two servants for his household, but one had been carried off by the same fever that had taken the life of Khadagan's mother. Perhaps her father would find another woman soon. She wanted to see the sorrow banished from his face by a new wife, who would also relieve Khadagan of some of her chores. Chimbai was sixteen, old enough to be wed, and Chilagun was almost fourteen. When her brothers had their own tents and wives, she might win a few moments for herself before she began serving her own husband.
She went to the hearth. Perhaps she should be grateful for her extra burdens. Other girls of twelve were still learning some of the skills she had already mastered. Her proficiency at such tasks would have to draw a suitor, since her mother had failed to pass on her beauty to Khadagan. She rarely looked into the polished piece of metal her mother had owned; she saw herself every time she looked at her brothers' plain faces, small dark eyes, and thin mouths.
The milk was simmering in the kettle when she heard her father's voice. Khadagan crossed to the entrance and peered outside. Two Taychiuts were speaking to Sorkhan-shira; the captive boy stood between them.
“What am I to do with him?” her father asked.
“Guard him,” one of the Taychiuts replied. “Keep him in that kang—he's a tricky one. Took three men to subdue him when he was caught, and he's tried to escape, kang and all.”
“Targhutai Kiriltugh is taking a lot of trouble over this boy,” Sorkhan-shira said.
The Taychiut shrugged. “Don't waste any pity on him. Targhutai won't spill his blood himself, but he won't mourn if he dies on your watch.”
“He might have given the boy an honourable death—had him strangled, stamped to death under a carpet, or tied in a sack and thrown to the river spirits.” Khadagan heard a slight tone of mockery in her father's voice. “He wouldn't have had to shed his blood.” He sighed. “Wait here while I fetch my sons.” As Sorkhan-shira walked away, the boy lifted his head. His gold-flecked, greenish-brown eyes widened as he gazed at Khadagan. She turned away and went back to the hearth.
She was skim
ming the milk when her brothers entered with the yoked prisoner. “Father says we have to guard him,” Chimbai said. “He's called Temujin.”
“I know his name.” Khadagan glanced at the boy as he sat down awkwardly. A dark bruise marred his broad forehead. His trousers were torn at the knees, and his tattered shirt hung loosely on his tall frame. “He looks hungry.”
“I'd welcome some kumiss,” Temujin said.
“Then you'll have it,” Khadagan said.
Chilagun shrugged. “You see what our sister's like,” he said. “Inside our tent, she even tells our father what he should do sometimes.”
“Your sister's kind,” Temujin said. “I haven't had much kindness shown me here.”
Their kumiss sat in sacks and jugs against one wall. Khadagan picked up a jug and carried it to him. Chilagun took it from her, scattered a few drops, then held it to the boy's lips while he drank. “Do they ever let you out of that kang?” Chilagun asked.
“No.”
“Even when you sleep?”
“No. Targhutai may cripple me if he keeps me yoked—that is, if beatings don't kill me first.”
“It'd be easier for him to do away with you,” Chimbai said.
“He'd rather leave that to others. In the meantime, he can show his clan how helpless I am.”
“Helpless!” Chimbai chuckled as he sat down. “That's not what I heard. The son of one warrior told me about the trouble they had catching you. He said your family held them off from behind a barricade while you got away. They weren't expecting women and children to put up much of a battle.”
Temujin's face was solemn. “At least my mother and brothers may be safe now.” He paused. “I was told you're Suldus.”
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 18
