Bones Of the Hills c-3

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘It’s done,’ Jochi murmured. He looked up at his father’s general with a bitter twist to his mouth. ‘I’ll just have to kill that great cat now, won’t I?’

  Jelme smiled tightly. Outside, the noise of the crowd had grown in volume and now he could hear Jochi’s name being chanted. It would be a glorious moment, but Jelme knew the boy could not survive it. As the circle was being constructed and the cage lifted down from the cart, he had studied the animal and seen the smooth power of its muscles. Faster than a man and four times as heavy, it would be impossible to stop. He was silent with foreboding as Jochi came to his feet and flexed his shoulders. The khan’s first son had inherited his father’s blinding speed, but it would not be enough. The general saw sweat dripping down Jochi’s face in a fat bead. Genghis had not allowed him room to interpret his orders, but he still struggled against ingrained obedience. Jelme had brought the tiger to the khan. He could not simply send a boy to his death. When he spoke at last, his voice was barely a murmur.

  ‘I will be on the walls with a good bow. If you fall, try to hang on and I’ll kill it.’ He saw a flicker of hope in the young man’s eyes at that. Jelme recalled the only hunt he had seen in Koryo, when a tiger had taken a shaft in the heart and still disembowelled an experienced net man.

  ‘You cannot show fear,’ Jelme said softly. ‘No matter what happens. If you are to die tonight, die well. For your father’s honour.’

  In response, Jochi turned a furious gaze on the general.

  ‘If he depends on me for his honour, he is weaker than I realised,’ Jochi snapped.

  ‘Nevertheless, all men die,’ Jelme went on, ignoring the outburst. ‘It could be tonight, next year or in forty years, when you are toothless and weak. All you can do is choose how you stand when it comes.’

  For an instant, Jochi’s face cracked into a smile.

  ‘You are not building my confidence, general. I would value those forty years.’

  Jelme shrugged, touched at the way Jochi showed courage.

  ‘Then I should say this: kill it and your brother will kneel to you in front of the tribes. Your name will be known and, when you wear its skin, all men will look on you with awe. Is that better?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Jochi replied. ‘If I am killed, be ready with your bow. I do not want to be eaten.’ With a deep breath, he showed his teeth for an instant, then ducked under the low doorway and out into the night. His people roared to see him, the sound filling the plains and drowning the growls of the waiting tiger.

  The crowd parted to let him through and Jochi did not see their staring, cheering faces as he approached the walls of the ring. The light from torches fluttered and spat as he climbed lithely to the top, then leapt to the grass below. The tiger watched him with a terrifying focus and he did not want to open the cage. Jochi looked up at the faces of his people. His mother was the only woman he could see and he could barely meet her eyes in case it unmanned him. As his gaze drifted over her, he saw Borte’s hands twitch on the wood, as if she wanted to reach out to her first-born son.

  His father’s face was set and unreadable, but his uncle Kachiun nodded to him as their eyes met. Tsubodai wore the cold face and, in doing so, hid the pain Jochi knew he would be feeling. The general could do nothing to thwart the khan’s will, but Jochi knew he at least would not relish the fight. On instinct, Jochi bowed his head to the general and Tsubodai returned the gesture. The tiger roared and opened his great mouth to gnaw at a bar in frustration, angered by the ring of baying men. The animal was a young male, Jochi saw, unscarred and inexperienced. He felt his hands shake and the familiar dry mouth before battle. His bladder made itself felt and he took a strong grip on the wolf’s-head sword of his father. It was a fine blade and he had wanted it for a long time. He had not known his grandfather Yesugei and only hoped the old man’s spirit would give him strength. He stood tall and another deep breath brought calm.

  Chagatai watched him with eyes that shone in the torchlight. Jochi held his gaze for a time, showing the boy his contempt before he turned to the cage. The noise of the warriors swelled as he approached the bars and raised his hand to the iron pin that held the door shut. The tiger seemed to sense his intention and stood waiting. Their eyes met and Jochi murmured a greeting to the big cat.

  ‘You are strong and fast,’ he said under his breath, ‘and so am I. If I kill you, I will carry your skin in pride to the end of my days.’ He yanked on the pin and threw back the cage door, moving quickly away. The crowd fell silent, every warrior staring at the striped shape that came sliding out like oil.

  Jochi backed for six long strides and stood with his sword held forwards and down, ready to lunge. His heart hammered in his chest and he felt heavy-footed and clumsy in comparison with this beast he had come to kill.

  At first, the tiger ignored him. It padded around the walls, looking for a way out. Its tail twitched in irritation and discomfort as the crowd resumed their roaring. Jochi looked on as the animal stretched to its full length against a wall, its clawed feet digging furrows in the hard wood. In the cage, its strength and grace had been less obvious. Moving, it was simply deadly and Jochi swallowed nervously, waiting to be attacked.

  It was aware of him. He saw its golden eyes pass over his and then fasten as it sank into a crouch, its head up. Its tail lashed on the grass and once more the crowd fell silent.

  Jochi offered up his soul to the sky father. No man could stand against such a monster, he was certain. The shaking in his hands died away and he stood waiting.

  The tiger attacked. When it came, it was with such an explosion of speed that Jochi was almost caught motionless. In three steps, it went from a statue to a blur and leapt straight at him.

  Jochi did not try to use the sword. He threw himself to one side and was still too slow. The shoulder of the beast caught him and sent him rolling on the grass, desperate to regain his feet. He caught a glimpse of the animal landing and turning at impossible speed before it was on him once more. A jaw larger than his head clamped on his armoured left arm and he cried out in pain and shock as the pressure came on. He brought his right arm forward, thrusting the blade into the tawny chest as he went over backwards. They rolled together and the crowd went berserk, bellowing encouragement to the brave man fighting below.

  Jochi felt pummelling blows as the cat’s rear paws raked him. His armour protected his belly, though the iron scales went flying as they caught in claws as long as his fingers. He felt the bones in his arm grind and the lower limbs of the tiger kept up their strikes, thumping and battering him on the grass. The animal’s breath was hot on his face as he shoved his sword in again and again, stronger in his terror than he had ever been. He could not rise with its weight on him and when the tiger tried to release his arm to bite again, he jammed the armoured sleeve deeper into its throat despite the pain.

  The tiger coughed around the obstruction, wrenching its head from side to side to free its teeth. Jochi hung on as tendons tore, tears of agony filling his eyes. Had he hurt it? He did not know. The steel blade stabbed and stabbed, lost in the thick fur. He felt new pain in his legs as the beast clawed his armour to tatters. His sword was knocked from his hand and he drew a knife, plunging it into the matted neck as his left arm gave way.

  Jochi screamed as stinking blood fountained over his face, blinding him. He could see nothing and the watching warriors were far away, their voices like the whispering of leaves. He felt death coming in a great wind, but he still worked the knife in deeper, sawing back and forth.

  The tiger slumped suddenly, its weight pinning him. Jochi was lost in a world of pain and he did not see Tsubodai and Jelme leap down into the circle, bows drawn. He heard his father’s voice, but he could not make out the words over the rasping breath of the tiger so close to his face. It still lived, but the blows to his belly and legs had stopped. Its panting filled the world and he worked his blade mindlessly even then.

  As Jelme covered him with a bow, Tsubodai used his foot to shove t
he tiger off the broken warrior. The great head lolled as it fell on its side, but the chest still rose and fell and the eyes sparkled with rage and hatred. Blood gouted from its throat and the white chest was slick and foul with it. All those around the ring watched as the animal struggled to regain its feet, then collapsed, falling still at last.

  Tsubodai reached down to Jochi, knocking away the hand that came blindly at him with a knife. The young man’s left arm hung limp and his legs were gouged and dribbling blood from gashes right to his calves and feet. Not an inch of skin showed under the mask of blood that had almost drowned him. Tsubodai took away Jochi’s knife and cleared his eyes with his thumbs, so that Jochi could see. Even then, the young man was clearly dazed, unaware that he had survived.

  ‘Can you stand? Can you hear me?’ Tsubodai shouted to him.

  Jochi flailed, leaving a bloody print on the general’s deel robe. Tsubodai took his wrist and lifted him to his feet. Jochi could not stand on his own and he was a dead weight on the general until Jelme dropped his bow and took him under an armpit. The two generals supported the khan’s son between them and turned him to face his father.

  ‘He lives, my lord khan!’ Tsubodai declared in triumph.

  There was awe in the faces around the circle, as Jelme had predicted. Only Chagatai struggled to hide his fury. Jelme saw the bitterness in the young man he had trained for three years and his mouth became hard. Jochi deserved much honour for his courage and Jelme conferred briefly with Tsubodai, letting him take the full weight as he stepped away. The general reached down to the bloody sword that lay on the grass, taking it in his hand.

  ‘He has earned this blade, my lord, has he not?’ he said, holding it up so that the wolf’s-head hilt was visible to all. The warriors bellowed their approval, thumping the sides of the ring. Genghis showed them nothing, his face a mask.

  Jelme stood waiting as the khan’s son bled. The khan’s thoughts swirled, pride and bloodlust mingling with irritation. He too had expected Jochi to die and he had not planned for this outcome. His headache returned as he stared down into the circle and his mouth tasted sour. At last, he nodded and Jelme bowed to his will.

  Unheard by those around the ring, Jelme spoke to Jochi as he pressed the blade into unfeeling fingers.

  ‘They will remember this, boy,’ he said into Jochi’s ear. The young man gave no sign that he heard and Jelme realised he was unconscious.

  ‘His wounds may kill him yet,’ Tsubodai said to Jelme.

  The general shrugged.

  ‘That is in the hands of the sky father. What matters is that he stood face to face with that beast. No one who saw it will forget.’

  As he spoke, Jelme looked up once more to Chagatai. The bitter face had vanished and he sighed. He was shifting his grip on Jochi’s limp form when voices were raised outside the rim. Genghis had snapped an order into the darkness and the crowd swirled around a point hidden from those who stood in the ring. As Jelme looked to Genghis, the khan raised a hand, keeping him there with Tsubodai and his burden.

  Chagatai appeared once more at his father’s side, staggering as warriors pressed him forward. They had all heard his terms and it seemed Genghis would not let him vanish into the darkness. The khan didn’t look at him, but a muttered order made Chagatai flush and climb over the wooden barrier. Jelme and Tsubodai watched in silence as Chagatai leapt down and approached them. An older man could have done it with a flourish, giving and receiving honour in a grand gesture. Chagatai lacked the skill to turn the situation to his advantage. He stood before his unconscious brother, shaking with anger and humiliation.

  In silence, Chagatai looked up once more at his father. There was no reprieve. He dropped quickly to one knee and the crowd roared and hooted. Chagatai rose more slowly, his face cold as he stalked to the wooden walls and accepted a hand to heave him back over.

  Jelme nodded wearily to himself.

  ‘I think you had the better son to train, my friend,’ he murmured to Tsubodai.

  ‘I hope his father knows it,’ Tsubodai replied.

  The two men shared a glance of understanding before they called warriors down to begin skinning the tiger. The meat would feed as many as possible, half-burned scraps forced into the mouths of warriors. There were many who desired the speed and ferocity of such an animal. Jelme wondered if Chagatai would taste the meat that night, or just his own rage.

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was another three days before Genghis came to see Jochi. After the riotous night that followed the fight with the tiger, almost all the camp had slept and Genghis himself had risen only to vomit for an entire day and night after three spent solidly drinking. Another day had been spent in moving the great host back to the banks of the river Orkhon. Jelme’s camp had been a fine place to feast Arslan’s life, but the herds and horses needed water and sweet grass. With his customary vitality, Genghis had recovered during the ride, though his bowels remained watery as he stood before the ger of the shaman, Kokchu. It depressed him to think he would once have thrown off the effects of so much drink in just a night’s sleep.

  Genghis opened the small door onto a peaceful scene that reminded him of the death of his father. He swallowed acid and ducked inside, his gaze hard as he looked over the bandaged figure in the shadows. Kokchu was washing Jochi and he twisted round in irritation before he saw who it was. The shaman came to his feet and bowed low before the khan.

  The shade was a relief after the hard sunlight and Genghis relaxed slightly, pleased to be away from the bustling camp.

  ‘Has he woken?’ he asked.

  Kokchu shook his head solemnly.

  ‘Only for moments, lord. His wounds have let a fever into his body and he wakes and cries out before sleeping once more.’

  Genghis came closer, drawn by memories. At Jochi’s side lay the sword he had won, a blade that Genghis himself had inherited. In its scabbard, it brought back many memories and he could not help but sniff the air for the scent of rot. It was painful to recall the time he had come to his father as he died, the wasted body racked with poison. Genghis breathed deeply over the supine form of his son. Kokchu watched him closely and Genghis returned the stare rather than let it rest on him unchallenged.

  ‘Will he live, shaman? I have lost count of the times I have been asked.’

  Kokchu looked back at the young warrior lying so still. The chest barely rose and fell, and he could not say. He gestured at the bandages wrapping both legs and the splinted arm.

  ‘You see his wounds, lord. The beast broke two bones in his lower arm as well as three ribs. He has dislocated a finger on his right hand, though that is minor enough. The gashes have swollen and weep pus.’ He shook his head. ‘I have seen men recover from worse.’

  ‘Have you sealed the cuts?’ Genghis asked.

  Kokchu hesitated, before speaking too quickly. In the fall of Yenking, he had taken books on medicine and magic that were worth more than all the gold and jade. He had not expected to have his treatment challenged and spoke without his usual confidence.

  ‘I have Chin texts that are astonishing, lord, for what they know of the body. Their practice is to pour boiling wine into a gash before stitching. I have done that, as well as poultices to bring out the fever.’

  ‘Then you have not sealed them in the manner of our people,’ Genghis replied, his eyes cold. ‘Have an iron brazier brought to the ger and burn the cuts properly. I have seen it work.’

  Kokchu knew better than to argue further.

  ‘Your will, lord.’ For the father, he would press red iron against each wound, though he now considered it a crude practice, beneath a man of his learning. He hid his distaste and Genghis seemed satisfied. Kokchu saw that the khan intended to leave and spoke again, still trying to understand the man who led the tribes.

  ‘The pain will be intense, lord. If it wakes him, shall I give him a message from you?’

  Genghis turned his pale eyes on the shaman. He left without another word.

 
The generals gathered in the khan’s ger, half as high again and twice as wide as any other in the camp. Khasar and Kachiun had come with Temuge, though he would only be responsible for the camp itself and would not ride with them. Tsubodai, Jelme and Chagatai had been summoned and took their places on the ring of low beds that served as couches for the khan’s council. The ger was as bare as that of the poorest herder and they were all reminded that Genghis cared nothing for wealth or its trappings.

  The last pair to enter before Genghis was Arslan and the young man he had chosen as his successor. Jebe, the arrow, seemed unimpressed by the presence of so many leaders of his people in one place. As Arslan gestured for him to take a seat, he nodded to them as if he had every right to be there. The other men merely watched him, though they greeted Arslan openly, putting aside the cold face to show their appreciation of the old man. He also would not ride with them. All the men present knew that Arslan had tied packs to three mares and three stallions and that his wife and a small herd would travel into the wilderness.

  Jelme’s eyes were bright with pride for his father and he made a point of vacating his seat for Arslan. The two men exchanged glances, and though they did not speak, Arslan too seemed moved that the moment was finally upon him.

  When Genghis entered the ger, the men within sat subtly straighter. He took his place on a pile of saddles and blankets facing the door and gestured to a servant for a cup of goat’s milk to calm his stomach.

  Arslan waited until the khan had finished the drink before speaking.

  ‘My lord, I commend this man to you, Jebe, whom you named.’

  Genghis looked across the ger at the new face, taking in his breadth of shoulder. Jebe wore an open robe over a bare chest and his reddish skin shone with health and mutton fat. Even sitting, he seemed poised and alert, a warrior born. He made Genghis feel old.