Alakha tugged at Bortai's coat. Below, Bortai glimpsed Khojin's small form among the trees. “Bortai-eke!” the girl cried as she stumbled towards them, panting for breath. “We saw some men far away, and Tolui was going to hide the animals and come for you, and then—” Khojin gasped. “They're our men—about twenty of them.”
Bortai threw dirt on the fire, then scooped up Alakha. She and Yisui followed Khojin down the hill. When they left the trees, Tolui had already ridden out to the men and was leading them towards the grazing animals. Chagadai was with the soldiers. Bortai thrust Alakha at Yisui, then ran to him.
“Mother!” Chagadai shouted. She caught the reins of his horse; he swung himself off and embraced her. “Father will be overjoyed.”
She gazed up at him. “Then he's alive.”
Chagadai nodded. “So are Ogedei and Jochi, and Grandfather Munglik. We rode north to hunt, and found some of our people along a river south of here. They told us you had gone north. I didn't think any of our people would hide this far east.”
“Our enemies wouldn't have thought so, either. I sent most of our people towards the Onon.” She clutched at her son. “Did your father—have you won?”
Chagadai frowned. “You might call it a victory. It cost us much—but I'll tell you later. Fetch the others and bring them here.”
He mounted and trotted back to his men. Bortai noticed then that they had only their mounts, and no spare horses; any victory they had won must have been hard-fought. She hurried up the hill.
After Chagadai's men pitched two small tents, he gave one of them a fresh mount from among Bortai's mares and sent him off with a message for the Khan. Bortai and the other women had carried their few belongings down from the hillside; all of them settled around the fire the men had made near the tents. The mares had been milked, and two men were working a churn; three others sat on horses, keeping guard.
By then, Bortai had heard more about the battle. The Khan's army had been grazing their horses when a dust cloud in the distance warned of the enemy's approach; there had barely been time to collect the herds. By the time the sun was setting, the Kereits were near enough for both armies to make ready; the men had been arranging themselves for battle much of the night.
“A strange thing happened then,” Chagadai said. “One of Jamukha's men came to Father and gave him the Kereit plan of battle. It seems his anda had doubts about the Ong-Khan's stomach for war.”
Bortai pursed her lips. “Jamukha was always fickle.”
“Fickle or not, he may have saved us. The Ong-Khan was going to throw his strongest forces and the bulk of his men at the Uruguds and Mangguds, so Father knew he'd have to hold the line there. Khuyhildar hurled his Mangguds at the enemy—they pushed him back. Jurchedei countercharged, and when he was thrown back, the Mangguds charged again. We finally drove them back—Jurchedei pushed them into retreat, and then the Senggum led another charge at us. It was a foolish thing to do—the Uruguds were in hot pursuit of his father's forces. If he'd sent his men sweeping towards them instead, he might have picked many of them off.”
Tolui's eyes shone; Bortai knew that her youngest son was even sorrier he had not been there. “An arrow struck the Senggum in the face,” Chagadai continued, “and he fell from his horse. All the Kereits surrounded him. We had small hope of breaking through that defence, and the sun was setting. Khuyhildar was wounded, and we'd lost many men, so as soon as it was dark, Father ordered a retreat. We didn't stop until the middle of the night, had no idea what our losses were. We slept on our horses, expecting another attack at any time. Near dawn, Father had some reports. Ogedei was lost, and Borchu and Boroghul—Father was frantic with grief.”
“But you said—” Bortai began.
“We have Grandmother's foster son Boroghul to thank for Ogedei's life.” Hoelun clasped her hands at these words. “Ogedei had an arrow wound in the neck, and Boroghul kept him on his own horse all night, sucking his wound as he made his way after us. Father wept when he saw them. By then, Borchu had reached us safely, too. He'd lost his horse and had to steal one from the Kereit pack animals.” He paused. “Grandmother, prepare yourself. Uncle Khasar was captured—Borchu glimpsed him among the Kereit prisoners.”
Hoelun-eke moaned; Bortai reached for her hand.
“We knew we might be pursued,” Chagadai went on. “We retreated towards the Khingans. The horses, those we had left, were exhausted by then, and we were hoping only for a little time to graze them before meeting the enemy again. But still they didn't come, and then a Targhut chief rode to Father to say he had left the Kereits to join us. He also brought tales of discord in the Kereit camp. The Ong-Khan's furious with the Senggum for provoking this war, and one of the Kereit Noyans convinced Toghril to leave us for now, and gather us up later—the phrase he used was collect us like dung-cakes.” Chagadai cleared his throat. “He told the Ong-Khan we were weak, that we had almost nothing left. He's not far wrong.”
“And where is my oldest son now?” Hoelun asked.
“Moving west along the Khalkha. He divided the army in two—what's left of it. We have less than three thousand men. Half are hunting north of the river, and half south, and that's what has happened since I last saw you.” Chagadai's face sagged. “We can call it a victory, but it feels much like defeat.”
79
They rode south-west; the men hunted along the way. In a few days, they had caught up with the Mongol rearguard. The soldiers had few spare horses, and many had no tents. When Bortai learned that Temujin was camped east of Lake Buyur, she ordered two men to ride with her and left the others with the rearguard.
It took her three days to reach him. Temujin was outside his field tent talking to Jurchedei when she arrived. The men here seemed as discouraged as those she had seen along the way; they gazed passively at the Khan's tugh as they passed his tent, as though wondering if the standard's spirit had abandoned them.
Temujin embraced her, then led her inside. “I had word from two scouts this morning,” he said as they sat down. “Most of our people, those who escaped, are hiding in the mountains near the northern Onon. It seems the Kereits didn't stop to do much looting while chasing us, so it might have been worse. The scouts say the enemy's withdrawn towards the Kerulen.” He swallowed. “Khuyhildar's flown to Heaven. I told him not to hunt until he healed, but he insisted—he said he'd fought for me, and he would hunt for me. His wounds reopened. We buried him a few days ago.”
“I am sorry,” she said, seeing him struggle against his tears.
“Khasar's a prisoner, and no one has seen his family.”
“Chagadai told me about Khasar.”
“I can pray he's still a prisoner, that Toghril still has enough feeling to spare a son of his anda.” He let out a breath. “You did well, Bortai—you saved those I entrusted to you.”
“I didn't do well. Almost everything we had was left behind, and the long ride made Yisui lose her child.”
“You saved her and the others,” he said. “I'm grateful for that. The rest we can win again.”
She leaned closer to him, feeling more heartened. His face was thinner, his eyes sorrowful, but his soft voice still had its edge. “Little Khojin never lost faith in you,” she murmured.
He patted her hand. “Perhaps I should have listened to you when you warned me against Toghril.”
She would not have brought that up, but was pleased he remembered it. “This wasn't the Ong-Khan's doing,” she said, “but his son's, and Jamukha must have had a hand in it.”
“Yet he sent a messenger to me on the eve of battle.” Temujin sighed. “Maybe he was remembering our old ties. I regret what has passed, and perhaps he does, too.”
She did not want to talk about Jamukha. One of Temujin's braids was loose, trailing down his back; she looped it and secured it under his helmet.
“Bortai, I think you know what I must do now.”
She tensed; he wanted her to say it, to give her assent.
“If you ha
d fallen,” she said at last, “I meant to go to my father's people. Now I'm thinking your men and horses could recover among the Onggirats if they'll allow us to stay here in their lands. Those of our people still in hiding could join us then.”
“I've been thinking the same thing.” He rested a hand on her shoulder. “You know what this means.”
“I know.”
“They may reject my message, and then we'd have to fight them and take what we need.”
“Yes.” She had known when she married him that her first loyalty had to be to him.
Temujin shouted to Jurchedei. The Urugud stooped as he came inside, then knelt and sat back on his heels. “I have a mission for you,” the Khan said. “It's time I reminded the Onggirats of my ties to them. We need to recover our strength in their lands, and if they give their oath to me, our army will have more men,”
“They may not give it,” Jurchedei said.
“Then we must attack.” He glanced at Bortai. “They've begun to move on to some of the old Tatar grazing grounds. They may not have much stomach for war, but if they see us as weak, they may risk an attack. We'd better show them we're prepared for battle by approaching them first.”
Jurchedei nodded. “I'll be your envoy, Temujin.”
“Take your best men with you. You'll tell the Onggirats of my love for them, of the beautiful Bortai I found among them, of how she waited faithfully for me until I was strong enough to claim her. You'll say that her father promised me his friendship. You'll remind them that I never made war against them.”
“I'll say all that.”
“And as eloquently as possible,” the Khan said. “If they then say to you that they've always thrived, not on their strength in war, but on the beauty of their daughters, we'll know that they'll surrender and give us their oath. But if they speak of how the falcon returns to his nest after the hunt, we'll strike.”
“I'll ride to their chiefs at once,” Jurchedei said.
Bortai remained in her husband's camp, with the others who had followed her during her flight. A detachment of soldiers and part of the rearguard stayed with them; the rest of the army soon rode out after Jurchedei and his men, prepared to attack if the Onggirats decided to fight. Even in its weakened state, the Khan's army could wound her people; the Onggirat men did not have their experience at war.
She was outside the field tent, helping Khadagan butcher a deer hunters had brought them, when she saw a Mongol rider galloping towards the camp. Bortai went on with her work until the man neared the fires beyond the camp; then she stood up, thrust her knife under her sash, and went inside. In a little while, she would know if there was to be war.
Bortai waited. Some of the guards by the fires who had greeted the rider would be galloping to the camp now, with word of the Onggirats' reply.
A shadow suddenly darkened the doorway. “Bortai,” Khadagan said, “the men aren't rushing for their horses or gathering weapons. It must mean they haven't been ordered to get ready for battle.”
She was afraid to believe it. At last she got up and went outside. A guard trotted towards her; she hurried to him. “Tell me,” she said.
“Good news, Honoured Lady—the Onggirats will surrender to us. Our man said something about one of their chiefs riding here, but I was in the saddle before I could hear more.”
She left him and walked back to the tent, where Khadagan was hanging strips of meat on a line between two poles. Out on the sand-strewn plain, Bortai could see the dust clouds of more riders.
“There will be peace,” she said to Khadagan.
“Good,” the plain-faced woman replied. “We'll have time to prepare this meat properly.”
Bortai laughed. One of the distant riders was galloping towards the camp ahead of his companions, his body bent low over his horse; a memory stirred within her. She continued to watch him until he reached the fires and dismounted to greet the guards with outstretched hands. She knew that rolling gait; her hand rose to her mouth.
“What is it, Bortai?” Khadagan asked.
“Father.” Bortai stepped away from the tent. “My father's come here.”
She was weeping too hard to greet Dei Sechen properly. Somehow, she remembered to introduce Khadagan, then hugged the old man again. Dei's beard and moustaches were completely white, his face wrinkled and leathery, his body shrunken with age, but the arms that held her were still strong.
“Father,” Bortai whispered.
“Terge and Amel summoned the other chiefs to their camp,” he said, “when Temujin's envoys came there. They'd already decided to give their oath to your husband when we arrived, so of course the rest of us agreed. I told them that, as the father of Genghis Khan's first wife, I wished to go to him and offer my oath at once, so Terge and Amel sent me and Anchar as their envoys. Your brother is with Temujin now, and when I heard you were in this camp, I asked if I could go to you.”
“Oh, Father,” she said. “It will be wonderful to see Anchar again.”
He smiled down at her. “The Khan's envoys spoke of his beautiful Bortai, but I thought that beauty had long since become only a memory. I see now it still lives.”
“You flatter me, Father. This flower has faded.”
“It wilts only a little, child.” He bowed to Khadagan, then followed Bortai inside the tent. “Your mother is well. To see you again will give her great joy.”
“And have you taken another wife during these past years?”
Dei shook his head. “I'm much too old to think of other wives now, and Shotan's too set in her ways to accept one.”
Her father sat down facing the doorway; she took a bottle from the pole where it hung, then sat down next to him. “I'm sorry to have so little to give you.” Bortai scattered a few drops. “We lack many things still.”
“You'll grow fatter in our lands.”
“Father, I told Temujin to turn to your people. He would have done so anyway, but it was easier for him to know that I agreed. He would have attacked you if the chiefs had refused his request. I knew that when I gave him my advice.”
“As did we when we heard his message. I am grateful it didn't come to that.” He drank, then handed her the jug. “Things aren't as they were with us, daughter. Our younger men are no longer so willing to thrive only on the beauty of our girls. They've heard many tales of the prowess of Genghis Khan. Some of them wanted to fight with the Tatars against him, to prove themselves against a worthy adversary, and we had to restrain them.”
“It was good that you did,” she said.
“And others, like your brother Anchar, talked of what they might win for themselves if they served him. I've known for some time that our more peaceful ways would soon pass, that the young men dreamed of more than raids and skirmishes. They speak of how Genghis Khan has made mighty warriors of the most commonplace herders, and generals of men who might once have been little more than horse thieves.”
“He needs you now,” Bortai said, “but you'll be joining him when his fortunes are at their lowest.”
Dei nodded. “And if we help him win more, he'll reward us for that. The young men have also heard tales of his generosity to his followers.” The old man stroked his beard. “War would have come to us eventually—our beautiful girls are no longer enough of a shield. Better to have Anchar fighting with his sister's husband than against him.”
She said, “Anchar once hoped to be his general,”
“Yes—Temujin showed what he was even as a boy. I knew he was destined for greater things. I didn't know then that it would mean the end of our people.”
“But it isn't,” Bortai said. “You've joined him, and when he's stronger—”
“No doubt he will grow stronger. Weakened as he is, he may win in time. But even that will bring an end to us as we are.” Her father sighed. “Didn't he fly to you with the sun and moon when you dreamed of him? Our people will become one of his talons.” His face sagged, showing his years. “We won't be Onggirats any more, but Mongols.”
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Sorkhatani gazed out at the steppe. The riders were tiny black forms rippling in the heat as they galloped over the sparse yellow grass; she glimpsed the blue borders of her father's coat through the dust clouds sifting around him.
Jakha Gambu had gone to her uncle's ordu several days ago. He had thought the campaign against the Mongols was a mistake, but had ridden off to fight. He had returned from the war with tales of how his brother Toghril had raged at the Senggum, blaming him for the men the Kereits had lost.
Jakha had gone back to the Ong-Khan's camp to do what he could to mend the breach between father and son and to assure Toghril of his loyalty. Sorkhatani's father often said it was not wise to rouse Toghril's suspicions, and the Ong-Khan had killed other brothers to assure himself of his throne.
Their servants had settled the sheep near a tent. Sorkhatani's sister Ibakha was staring at the mares tethered just outside the camp. Khasar and his son Yegu were with the men milking the mares; Ibakha's blush deepened.
“Ibakha,” Sorkhatani said sharply. Her sister started, then knelt by a ewe. Ever since Khasar had been brought there, Ibakha sought any excuse to be near him, but she had been equally taken months before with an Uighur trader who had stopped at their camp.
Her sister, Sorkhatani thought, had to be the silliest girl she knew. Ibakha knew that Khasar could not marry her as long as he was a prisoner and hostage, which did not stop her from ogling him.
Milk spurted through Sorkhatani's fingers into her bucket. Perhaps she could speak to her father about Ibakha; he sometimes listened to her. His child with a woman's wisdom—that was what he called Sorkhatani. She would tell him that Ibakha was too beautiful to remain unwed much longer.
Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan Page 45
