Ruler of the Sky: A Novel of Genghis Khan

by Pamela Sargent

  “What have you learned today?” Bortai asked her husband one evening when they were alone; he had spent much of the day by Hassan's tent.

  “I learned more about those four boys with the traders.”

  Bortai had seen the boys. They had round eyes without folds, unlike any she had seen, and one had hair as red as flames. “What of them?”

  “As I suspected, they're used as bedfellows.”

  Bortai hissed, grateful her sons were still outside. “I'd rather not hear about such things.”

  “If they must travel so long without their women, they have to satisfy their needs somehow, and this way, our women are safe. It's one way of ordering such things.” He gazed past her. “I'm also learning how much lies beyond these lands. Whenever I was in Toghril's camp, I dreamed of having his wealth, and yet from the traders who came there, I heard of distant rulers whose riches would shame his.”

  “So you wish to have more,” she said. “That's natural enough.”

  “Having much means little if you haven't the power to hold it, and wealth tempts enemies.” He paused. “We can be safe only when all who might be enemies are vanquished. God means us to be one ulus.”

  “So you have often said,” she murmured.

  “But I see it more clearly now than I did as a boy when I told you of my dream. Tengri wants me to do more than unite my people—I know it, even harried as I am by my enemies.” His eyes had the distant look that told her he had forgotten she was there. “He means to make one ulus of the world.”

  82

  Khasar found no trace of his brother along the Onon or north of the river. He had fled hastily, the same night Jakha Gambu had spoken to him, and the moon had waned and grown fat again since then. Only his comrades Chakhurkhan and Khali-undar had escaped with him, and they had found no game among the cedars and thick undergrowth of the wild mountains beyond the Onon. Mosquitoes plagued them; their only food was blood drained from the veins of their horses, and Khasar had to chew on his leather harness to assuage his hunger. The weather turned cold; forest spirits howled through the trees.

  Temujin would have gone north-east, putting distance between himself and his Kereit foes while he recovered. Khasar pressed on in that direction, and finally found a recent trail that led towards Lake Baljuna.

  He was so weak by the time he sighted a few distant yurts that he had to halt while the men there rode out to him and his comrades. They were taken to a tent, fed, and given blankets; Khasar slept a dreamless sleep. When he awoke, the sun was above the tent's smoke-hole; a soldier told him that the Khan had arrived there at dawn.

  “They told me you were sleeping,” Temujin said as he entered the yurt. He embraced Khasar, then clasped the hands of the other two men. “I said you weren't to be awakened.” He hugged Khasar again. “I feared for you.”

  “And I for you,” Khasar said. “You couldn't have run much further without leaving the lands we know.”

  “The spirits will favour us again. Teb-Tenggeri brought us rain, and all those with me have sworn new oaths—we drank from the Baljuna to seal them. I have even brought some traders who stopped with their caravan to our cause.”

  “Good,” Khasar said. “They'll be useful as spies.”

  The men sat down. “How did you get away?” Temujin asked.

  “I was in Jakha Gambu's camp. He let me escape, and promised my wife and three sons would be safe. He doesn't want to fight, and distrusts the Ong-Khan's allies.”

  “With good reason,” Temujin said. “Khuchar, Altan, and my anda decided to move against the Ong-Khan. Toghril found out, and his three false friends had to flee west. Daritai came here and told me of their failed plan.”

  Khasar cursed.

  “He swore an oath to me,” Temujin continued. “He knows he'll die if I ever have the slightest suspicion about him, but I need him now.”

  Khasar knew enough not to object. “I heard of your messages from Jakha. You would have had peace except for Nilkha.”

  “I hoped for peace. I didn't expect it.” Temujin stroked his short beard and frowned, then turned towards Chakhurkhan and Khali-undar. “How long will it take you to get strong enough to ride?”

  “We've recovered enough now,” Khali-undar replied.

  “Don't show your pride to me. Rest for another day—I want you sturdy enough for an important mission.”

  Chakhurkhan struck his chest. “We're yours, Temujin. Where do we ride?”

  “Back to the Ong-Khan.”

  Chakhurkhan coughed. “I might have saved myself a hard ride here.”

  “Toghril's surprised me too often,” Temujin said. “It's time I surprised him and paid him back for his faithlessness. You two will ride to his ordu, and my army will follow you south. You'll deliver a message to him, and you'll be my eyes. We'll make camp along the Kerulen, and when you return to me, you'll tell me everything you've seen in the Kereit camp. We won't be surprised this time.”

  “And what is your message to be?” Khali-undar asked.

  “It won't be a message from me, but from Khasar.” Temujin smiled. “You'll say the following. 'I've looked everywhere for my brother, and cannot find his tracks. My only shelter is the sky, my only pillow the hard ground. I long for my wife and children, who are in your hands. Give me assurances that they're safe, and I'll return to you and offer you my sword.' “

  “Will the Ong-Khan believe that?” Chakhurkhan asked.

  “He'll believe it,” Khasar said. “He'll be grateful Temujin saved him a battle by going into hiding. Even Jakha will believe it. I told him I couldn't ride against my brother, but if Temujin's disappeared, I have no choice but to return to him.” He grinned, admiring the plan, devious and treacherous as it was.

  “Toghril will be lulled,” Temujin said, “and then we'll close the trap and rid ourselves of that old man.”

  83

  “I can hardly wait,” Ibakha murmured. “Khasar's sure to be with us by the next full moon.”

  Sorkhatani peered at her sewing, barely able to hear her sister over the wind howling outside and the chattering of the servants. Jakha Gambu, who had thought it wise to keep his distance from the Ong-Khan after Khasar's escape, had moved their camp closer to Toghril's after learning that the Mongol would return to them.

  The Ong-Khan's ordu was now three days' ride away, just beyond a mountain pass. Khasar's envoys had met Toghril there, and Jakha Gambu had been summoned by the Ong-Khan just after the two messengers had departed. All was forgiven; Jakha had been careless in allowing three captives to escape, but no harm was done, since they would now swear an oath to Toghril.

  Spring and summer had certainly been eventful, with a hard-won victory against the Mongols and then a plot against her uncle. Sorkhatani knew her father had been dreading war, and now he would not have to fight. Khasar would not be coming back if he held out any hope for his brother Temujin.

  Not that Ibakha would be thinking of that. She had wept after Khasar's escape, as if he had betrayed her, but that was forgotten now. Sorkhatani frowned. Khasar probably would ask for her sister if Jakha Gambu dropped a few hints. He could not be completely indifferent to her beauty, and the marriage would bind him more closely to the Kereits. Sorkhatani made up her mind to speak to her father on her sister's behalf.

  A few days later, Jakha Gambu's camp learned that a Mongol army had attacked the Ong-Khan. Kereit soldiers rode to them, warning them to flee, but Mongols were already at their heels. The enemy fanned out around the camping circle, cutting off escape. The terrified people, knowing a defence was futile, were herded into enclosures of wagons and ropes.

  One of Sorkhatani's cousins, wounded, deprived of his weapons, and penned in near her and her sister, told of a battle that had raged for three days. The Ong-Khan, already feasting while awaiting Khasar's arrival, had been completely unprepared as the Mongols closed around his camp. The fighting was fierce, and the enemy had the advantage of surprise; many Kereits, drunk and unable to reach their horses, were
forced to fight on foot. After the third day of fighting, word had spread through the Kereit ranks that Toghril and Nilkha had fled with a few men under cover of darkness; some others had managed to escape through the narrow mountain pass. By now, Sorkhatani's cousin supposed, the Kereits had been forced to surrender.

  Keuken Ghoa wept, fearing for her husband. Ibakha raged, her love for Khasar now ashes. He had lied and trapped their uncle; he had never intended to return to her. Both offences seemed equally evil in her mind. Sorkhatani, frightened as she was, prayed for mercy. The Mongols were not looting, but waiting for orders before they sorted out prisoners and booty. Many among the Kereits had once fought with Genghis Khan; perhaps he would remember that.

  Two days after the Mongols had taken his camp, Jakha Gambu returned with a Mongol general and more Mongol troops. As his people, still under guard, were brought before him, he announced that the Kereits had surrendered, without conditions. Genghis Khan, however, had promised not to execute men who had served their Kereit Khan faithfully, since he honoured loyalty to a sworn leader. After offering his people these scraps of hope, he led Keuken Ghoa and his two daughters to their tent, trailed by his Mongol guards.

  “Temujin has agreed to meet with me,” he said to his wife, “and I mean to offer him my daughters. Bringing them to him will assure him that I intend to serve him now.”

  Ibakha gaped at him. “You'd give us to him?” She gulped for air. “After what he and his brother did?”

  Sorkhatani caught her sister's arm. “Silence,” their father said. “He can enslave us and take all that we own, and I'm trying to avoid that. We'll leave today—bring only what you need for the journey.”

  Keuken Ghoa stared blankly at her husband. “But they'll need servants, and household goods, and all the other things brides require. We can't get all that together in a day.”

  Jakha scowled. “My dear wife, the Khan will decide what I own now, and I can't offer him things I may no longer possess. Pray that he finds our girls to his liking.” He spun around and left the tent.

  “I won't go!” Ibakha collapsed on the floor in a fit of weeping; Keuken Ghoa wrung her hands.

  Sorkhatani knelt and grabbed her sister by the wrists. “Listen—can't you see Father's thinking of us, too? Would you rather be under the Mongol Khan's protection, or here when his men start enjoying their spoils?”

  Ibakha whimpered, then wiped her nose. “However deceitful Genghis Khan was,” Sorkhatani continued, “you have to admit he was clever, and we might have fared far worse. He had a lot of reasons to hate Uncle Toghril and Cousin Nilkha. Stop thinking of yourself for once, and think of our people. You won't help them if you displease the Mongol Khan, and he'll do as he likes with us anyway.”

  Ibakha pouted. Sorkhatani should have known that any appeal to reason could not touch her. “Think of everything he could give you,” she went on. “You'd have a tent much finer than this. When he sees what a beauty you are, he'll surely want to keep you for himself.”

  Ibakha tilted her head. “Do you think so?”

  “Really, Ibakha.” Sorkhatani sighed. “Think of how others have suffered. We have to submit to the Mongols now—all we can hope for is mercy for our people. Be grateful you have the chance to win the love of their Khan.”

  “Your sister may be right,” their mother said. Keuken's face was calm; the terror and grief of the past days had seemingly fled her childlike mind. “He's really the best husband you could have now.”

  “But he won't want you with a red, swollen face and tears pouring from your eyes.” Sorkhatani got up and pulled Ibakha to her feet. “Father's waiting.”

  The outlying circles of the Ong-Khan's camp could be seen in the distance as they left the mountain pass. Sorkhatani glanced at her mother and sister. Ibakha was smiling as she leaned from her saddle to whisper to Keuken Ghoa. She was now enthralled with the prospect of becoming the Khan's wife; Khasar was quite forgotten.

  The escort of Mongols riding with them led them towards the north end of the camp, skirting the tents and wagons. Burned tatters of felt flapped where other tents had once stood, and the frosty ground was trampled and marked by hooves. Mongols now watched over the Ong-Khan's herds; the people in the camp went about their tasks with bowed heads. Processions of wagons and mourners moved towards the mountains to bury the dead. Yet Sorkhatani had expected worse—heads on pikes, widows lining the trails to wail for their men.

  They stopped near a large tent that had belonged to one of her uncle's Noyans, dismounted, and passed between the fires. A long line of horses was tethered to a rope next to the tent. Two young soldiers led their horses away as Jakha Gambu approached the Khan's guards.

  A man climbed the steps to the entrance and shouted out her father's name. Sorkhatani was suddenly filled with dread. Ibakha's full lips were curved in a smile, her large brown eyes aglow; she was too great a fool to be fearful.

  Sorkhatani kept her eyes down as she followed the others inside, then knelt on the carpeted floor, barely hearing her father's words of greeting. The tent was crowded with men, some standing and others seated. Her father and mother pressed their foreheads to the floor; she and her sister did the same.

  Two booted feet moved towards them; hands reached down for Jakha Gambu and pulled him up. “I welcome you, Jakha,” a soft voice said. “Whatever has passed, you're still a comrade who rode with me many times.”

  Sorkhatani forced herself to look up. He was taller than Khasar; she saw the strength in his arms as he embraced her father. The braids trailing below his helmet, his moustaches, and his short beard all shone like dark copper, and his eyes gleamed with gold. Khasar was only a shadow of this man, who might have been forged by God in Heaven. He wore a plain woollen robe, a tattered leather belt, and worn trousers; he had none of the jewels and ornaments she had seen on the Ong-Khan. He did not need such things; she would have known what he was even if he had been clothed in rags. He turned towards her for a moment. His pale eyes seemed to peer into her soul, and she knew why his men followed him.

  When the other men had all greeted her father, the Khan sent most of them away, then led Jakha Gambu to the back of the tent, seating him at his right. Keuken Ghoa was given the cushion to the left of the Khan; Ibakha and Sorkhatani sat near her. The Khan's general Borchu had remained behind, along with the Noyans Subotai, Jelme, and Jebe.

  “Khasar would have been here to greet you,” the Khan said, “but he is enjoying a reunion with his family. You kept them safe. He's grateful for that, as am I.”

  “I expected you to claim my brother's tent,” Jakha said.

  “I gave the tent, its servants, and everything in it to the horseherders Kishlik and Badai.” The Khan served bits of meat from his knife. “I've also given them the right to claim the game they take during great hunts instead of sharing it out.”

  “They must have served you well.”

  “They did,” Borchu said. “They warned Temujin when Nilkha was preparing to surprise him in the night. That allowed us to escape and fight you.”

  The Khan was generous, to give such a prize to common herders. Sorkhatani's hand trembled as she took meat from the Khan's knife.

  “My men will secure the surrender of all the Kereit camps soon,” the Khan said, “but it was never my wish to fight you, comrade. You were dutiful to your brother, and I won't punish you for that. I haven't forgotten that you once fought with me, and always meant to spare your life. Know now that I'll leave you all your herds and possessions as well. You'll remain chief of those in your encampments, but will serve me. The Kereits will no longer be a separate ulus, but part of mine, and will become members of Mongol clans.”

  “It's more than we deserve,” Jakha Gambu said. “Toghril was my brother, but he was easily swayed and abandoned us in the end. I'll serve you now, my Khan.”

  Ibakha was staring at the Khan; her eyes had the same glazed look with which she had once regarded Khasar. He studied her for a moment, then smiled at Sorkhatani; her
heart fluttered.

  “Khasar told me of the beauty of Ibakha Beki and Sorkhatani Beki,” the Khan said. “I see his eyes are still sharp.” Ibakha blushed; Sorkhatani struggled to stay calm. “I'm surprised he didn't ask me if he could claim them for his spoils.”

  “I brought them to you,” Jakha Gambu said, “in the hope you'll find them worthy. I would consider myself honoured if you took them into your ordu.”

  The Khan leaned forward. “Ibakha Beki,” he said; Ibakha started. “Your father has spoken for you, but can you find it in your heart to become my wife willingly?”

  Ibakha giggled and blushed still more; Sorkhatani heard the men chuckle. The Khan was toying with them, for there was no need to ask such a question.

  “But of course.” Ibakha covered her mouth and batted her long eyelashes. “I would be honoured, as any woman would—my heart would be yours.”

  “And you, Sorkhatani Beki?”

  She met his eyes. Surely he saw how she felt; she doubted that much escaped his notice. “My father has spoken,” she said, “and I know where my duty lies. I've been an obedient daughter, and pray that I would also be a worthy wife.”

  “But you haven't answered my question,” he said. “I asked what was in your heart.”

  Her cheeks burned, answering his question silently. “My feelings, whatever they are, can't change my obligations,” she said. “I shall do my duty to my husband, and give him no cause to complain about me.”

  The Khan laughed. “I see I won't have an answer from you,” he said, “but then it isn't fitting for a maiden to be too open about such thoughts.”

  Ibakha frowned, looking bewildered. Say what you will do, Sorkhatani thought; don't torment us this way.

  “Jakha Gambu,” he said at last, “your daughters please me, and it will give me joy to bind your family to mine. I wish to take your beautiful Ibakha as my wife.” Ibakha sighed softly. “Sorkhatani Beki also pleases me with both her beauty and her discretion. My youngest son will need a wife before long. It is my wish to betroth your younger daughter to my son Tolui—they're near the same age, and can have time to become acquainted before they're wed.”