Bones Of the Hills c-3

by Conn Iggulden

  ‘I do not want to speak of this tonight,’ Genghis snapped, letting her hand fall.

  ‘Husband,’ she said, begging. ‘I can hear them crying out.’

  He had listened when she held the key to Kokchu’s treachery. He had listened when she urged him to name Ogedai as heir. Her eyes implored him.

  Genghis growled deep in his throat, suddenly furious with her.

  ‘You cannot understand, Chakahai,’ he said. She raised her head and he saw her eyes were bright with tears. Despite himself, he went on.

  ‘I take no pleasure in it,’ he said. ‘But I can make this killing a shout that will spread further than I can ride. Word will go out from here, Chakahai, as fast as any bird. They will say I slaughtered every living thing in Herat, that my vengeance was terrible. My name alone will bring fear to those who would stand against me.’

  ‘Just the men…’ Chakahai began.

  Genghis snorted.

  ‘Men always die in war. Their kings expect it. I want them to know that if they resist me, they are putting their hand in the mouth of a wolf. They will lose everything and they can expect no mercy.’ He reached out once more and took her face in his hand, so she could feel the hard callus of his palm.

  ‘It is good that you weep for them, Chakahai. I would expect it from a wife of mine and a mother to my children. But there will be blood tomorrow, so that I do not have to do it again, a hundred times and more. These Arabs do not send me tribute because they recognise my right to rule. They bow their heads because if they do not, I will visit fury on them and see all they love turned to ashes.’

  Tears streamed from her and Genghis stroked her cheek gently.

  ‘I would like to give you what you want, Chakahai. Yet if I did, there would be another city next year and a dozen more after that. This is a hard land and the people are used to death. If I am to rule them, they must know that to face me is to be destroyed. They must be afraid, Chakahai. It is the only way.’

  She did not reply and Genghis found himself suddenly aroused by her tear-stained face. He put the plate of food on the floor of the ger for the morning and lifted her onto the low bed beside him, feeling his shoulder creak. She shuddered as his mouth found hers and he did not know if it was from lust or fear.

  At dawn, Genghis left Chakahai in the ger and went out to watch the killing. He had given the task to the tumans of his sons Ogedai and Tolui. Twenty thousand warriors had cleaned and sharpened their swords for the work, but even so many would be exhausted by the time it was done.

  The prisoners sat huddled together in the morning shadow of the broken city as the tumans surrounded them. Many of them prayed aloud and those who faced the grim warriors held out their hands and screamed until the blades fell. It was not quick. The warriors moved amongst them and had to bring the swords down many times as the prisoners writhed in their bonds and struggled to get away. Men and women clambered over each other and the warriors were drenched in blood. Many of the blades were ruined on bone, the steel edges cracked or bent. Noon came and the killing went on, the smell of blood strong in the still air. Warriors left the mass of living and dead, gasping as they drank warm, sour water before walking in again.

  The afternoon sun was powerful as they finished at last and the plain fell silent. The tumans of Genghis’ sons were staggering with weariness, as if they had fought a long and bitter battle. Their officers sent them to the river to wash away the blood and clean and oil their weapons. The city stood silent above them, empty of all life.

  The man who had fallen from the walls had wept for part of the day, though his tears dried quickly in the heat until he sobbed drily and no more came. His broken ankle had been splinted and he was given a horse and supplies by a nameless Mongol officer, following the orders of the khan. The man rode away as the flies and birds gathered above Herat. Genghis watched him go, knowing he would take the news to all those who had ears to hear.

  Genghis thought of Chakahai’s tears as he stood in the shadow of Herat. He had not told her where he would take the nation. The families knew he intended to go home, but one other place had long ceased to send tribute and he would take his army there before he saw those hills and rivers again. Xi Xia was where he had first met the pale daughter of a king, the region a stepping stone that had led him to an emperor’s capital. Like the elders of Herat and Balkh, Chakahai’s father had thought the khan would not survive the Arab armies sent against him.

  Genghis smiled lightly to himself as he gave orders for the nation to break camp at last. He had been too long away from the Chin lands and Xi Xia would be the bloody example to bring them to heel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The nation travelled east together, burning a trail of fire and blood through the Arab cities and towns. The tumans went ahead of the families, riding against cities that were still little more than ruins from their first experience of the Mongol khan. As survivors began to rebuild their lives and homes, the tumans came sweeping in again to slaughter and burn.

  For those who travelled on the carts of the nation, the landscape was marked in plumes of dark smoke, growing as they came closer and finally left behind while fresh black threads appeared in the distance. They moved through desolation and Genghis was well pleased at the sight. He had no more use for Arab cities, nor those who lived in them. The destruction he brought would make the land a desert for a generation or more and they would not rise again in challenge. Only Samarkand and Merv were left intact, for others to rule in his name. Even then, Temuge had been forced to beg for a garrison to keep Samarkand safe, with its libraries and palace. Genghis was leaving Arab lands and it was not long before the least of those in the gers knew they were heading back to war with the Chin. Twelve years had passed since the fall of Yenking and Genghis longed to see his ancestral enemies once more. The nation had grown in strength and this time nothing in the world would stop him placing his foot on the Chin throat.

  Six moons grew from crescents to full by the time they skirted a great desert to the south. The Mongol homeland lay north over mountains and Genghis hungered to see his own land, but pressed on. The nation travelled more than two thousand miles into a cold winter that only refreshed families who had grown sick of the endless heat. Xi Xia lay further into the east, but Genghis revelled in the changing landscape, taking delight in the waterlogged fields of green rice almost as if he were coming home. The hunting improved and they swept the land clean of anything that moved, taking herds of yaks and goats as easily as they fired villages on the edges of Chin land.

  On a warm evening, with the sun setting in a cloudless sky, Chakahai came once again to the khan’s ger. He looked up in pleasure to see her and she felt the strength of the new vitality that infused him. He wore a tunic and trousers that left his arms bare and she could see the web of scars on them, right to the fingers.

  He smiled as he saw the platter of food she had brought and took it from her, breathing in the aroma of fresh meat with pleasure. She did not speak as he ate with his fingers, relaxing visibly after a long day. The peaceful sounds of the families could be heard around them as thousands of warriors ate and rested with their wives and children, ready for another day of riding.

  Genghis finished the meal and yawned, his jaw cracking. He handed the plate back to her and she bowed her head.

  ‘You are tired,’ she said.

  He chuckled, patting the bed beside him.

  ‘Not too tired,’ he replied.

  Despite having borne four children for him, she had kept her slight figure, the legacy of her race. He thought briefly of Borte’s thickening waist as he reached for Chakahai and fumbled the knot of her sash. Gently, she removed his hands.

  ‘Let me, husband,’ she said.

  Her voice trembled, but he was oblivious as she let the deel robe and buttoned tunic fall open to reveal white flesh beneath. He reached inside the cloth, taking her around the bare waist with strong hands. She could feel the hardness of his fingers digging into her flesh and
she gasped slightly, pleasing him. Their breath mingled and she knelt before him to remove his boots. He did not see her take a long knife from one of them and, if she shook, he assumed it was at his touch on her breasts. He watched her nipples grow firm in the cool air and he lowered his face to them, tasting the bitter jasmine on her skin.

  Khasar and Kachiun were sitting their horses at the edge of the encampment, keeping an eye on the immense herd of animals that accompanied the nation. The brothers were in a light mood, enjoying the last of the day and chatting idly before they went back to their families and an evening meal.

  It was Kachiun who saw Genghis first. He chuckled at something Khasar had said while watching Genghis mount and take the reins of his favourite mare. Khasar turned to see what had caught his brother’s interest and both men fell silent as Genghis walked the horse through the gers of their people, taking a path away from them.

  At first, they did nothing and Khasar finished a story involving the wife of one of his senior officers and the proposition she had made. Kachiun barely smiled at the tale and Khasar looked again to see that Genghis had reached the edge of the gers, his pony taking him out onto the grassy plain alone.

  ‘What is he doing?’ Kachiun wondered aloud.

  Khasar shrugged. ‘Let’s find out,’ he said. ‘You are a poor audience for my troubles, brother. Genghis will see the humour in them.’

  Kachiun and Khasar moved at a trot across the vast encampment, picking their way to intercept Genghis as he left the nation behind. The light was dimming and the plain was lit in gold, the air warm. They were relaxed as they drew close to him and called a greeting.

  Genghis did not respond and Kachiun frowned for the first time. He moved his horse closer, but Genghis did not look at him. His face was bright with sweat and Kachiun exchanged a glance with Khasar as they fell in on either side of the khan and matched their pace to his.

  ‘Genghis?’ Khasar said.

  Still there was no response and Khasar subsided, willing to let his brother explain in his own time. The three of them walked their mounts far onto the empty grass, until the gers were just a whitish hump behind them and the bleating of animals faded to a distant murmur.

  Kachiun noted the sweat pouring off the khan. His brother was unnaturally pale and Kachiun’s stomach clenched as he feared some terrible news.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Genghis? What’s wrong?’

  His brother rode on as if he had not heard and Kachiun felt worry bloom in him. He wondered if he should turn the khan’s horse with his own, ending this plodding trek away from the families. The khan held the reins loosely, barely exerting a control on the mare. Kachiun shook his head at Khasar in confusion.

  The last light of day was on them when Genghis slumped to one side and slid from the saddle. Khasar and Kachiun gaped in dawning shock and Kachiun cried out as he leapt down and reached for his brother.

  In the dim light, they had not seen the spreading stain at his waist, a dark slick of blood that marked the saddle and the mare’s side. As he fell, his deel came open, so that they could see a terrible wound.

  Kachiun heaved Genghis into his arms, pressing his hand over the swelling blood in a vain attempt to stem the flow of life. Wordlessly, he looked up at Khasar, who still sat his horse, rooted in shock.

  Genghis closed his eyes, the pain of the fall rousing him from his stupor. His breathing was ragged and Kachiun held him tighter.

  ‘Who did this, brother?’ Kachiun said, sobbing. ‘Who did this to you?’ He did not send Khasar for a physician. The brothers had seen too many wounds.

  Khasar dismounted woodenly, his legs suddenly weak. He knelt with Kachiun and reached out to take Genghis’ hand in his own. The blood on the skin was already growing cold. A warm wind blew across the empty plain, bringing dust and the smell of rice fields.

  Genghis stirred in Kachiun’s embrace, his head lolling back so that it rested on his shoulder. His face was almost white as his eyes opened. There was a spark of recognition there and Kachiun gripped him tighter, desperately willing the blood to stop. When Genghis spoke, it was barely a whisper.

  ‘I am pleased you are here, with me,’ he said. ‘Did I fall?’

  ‘Who did this, brother?’ Kachiun said, his eyes filling with tears.

  Genghis did not seem to hear him.

  ‘There is a price for all things,’ he said.

  His eyes closed again and Kachiun coughed out a sound without words, consumed with grief. Once more, the khan roused and when he spoke, Kachiun pressed his ear to his brother’s lips to hear.

  ‘Destroy Xi Xia,’ Genghis said. ‘For me, brother, destroy them all.’ The breath continued in a rush and the yellow eyes lost their fire as the khan died.

  Khasar stood without knowing he did so, his gaze fastened on the two men who sprawled together, suddenly so small on the vast plain. With anger, he rubbed at the tears in his eyes, breathing in sharply to hold back a wave of sorrow that threatened to crush him. It had come with such brutal quickness that he could not take it in. He swayed as he looked down, seeing how his hands were covered in the khan’s blood.

  Slowly, Khasar drew his sword. The sound made Kachiun look up and he saw his brother’s boyish face set in rage that threatened to spill over at any moment.

  ‘Wait, Khasar!’ Kachiun said, but his brother was deaf to anything he might say. He turned to his horse, gently cropping at the grass. With a leap, he startled the animal into a flat run back to the gers of the people, leaving Kachiun alone, still rocking the body in his arms.

  Chakahai sat on the bed, running a hand over the spots of blood on the blanket and staring at the red mark. She moved as if in a trance, unable to believe she still lived. Tears spilled down her cheeks at the memory of Genghis’ expression. As she had cut him, he had gasped, pulling away with the knife deep in him. He had looked at her in simple astonishment. Chakahai had watched as he yanked out the blade and tossed it to one corner of the ger, where it still lay.

  ‘Why?’ he had said.

  The tears fell freely from her as she crossed to the knife and took it in her hands.

  ‘Xi Xia is my home,’ she had replied, already weeping. He could have killed her then. She did not know why he had not. Instead, he had risen to his feet, still looking at her. He knew he was dying, she was certain. The knowledge had been clear in his yellow eyes and the sudden paleness of his face. She had watched as he fastened the deel around the wound, pulling it tight over a growing spot of blood. He had left her alone with the knife and she lay on the bed and wept for the man she had known.

  Khasar came back to the camp, his horse galloping into the paths through the gers with no care for those who scattered from his way. Those who saw him froze as they understood something was wrong. No more than a few had seen the khan leave the families to ride out, but more saw Khasar return, his face terrible in its fury.

  He reached the khan’s ger. It seemed just moments since he had seen Genghis leave it, but everything had changed. Khasar jumped down before the horse halted, staggering slightly as he bounded up the steps and kicked open the door to the gloom within.

  He breathed hard at what he saw there. Chakahai lay on the low bed, her eyes glassy. Khasar took two steps to stand over her, seeing the cut at her throat and the bloody knife that had fallen from her hands. It was a peaceful scene and it offended him.

  He made an inarticulate bellow, reaching for her flesh so that she was jerked from the bed and fell limply to the floor. Mindless, Khasar plunged his sword into her chest, hacking at her until he was spattered and panting and her head was severed.

  When he appeared at the broken door once again, the khan’s guards had gathered, alerted by his shout. They took one look at the blood on his face and his wild eyes and for an instant Khasar thought they would charge him.

  ‘Where is the khan?’ one of them demanded, raising a bow so that the arrow centred on Khasar’s chest.

  Khasar could not ignore the threat, though he could
hardly bring himself to speak. He gestured vaguely to the darkening plain outside the ring of campfires and torches that had sprung up all around.

  ‘He is dead,’ he said. ‘He lies on the grass and the Chin whore who did it lies behind me. Now get out of my way.’

  He strode down through the guards and in confusion and horror they fell back before him. He did not see one of the men race into the ger to check, his shout of anguish following Khasar as he mounted and raced across the camp. His rage had not been sated in cutting at dead flesh. Chakahai’s ger was nearby and he sought her children, determined to take a price for what she had done.

  The ger was empty when he found it, stalking in and out again in just moments. He saw a Chin servant cowering from the blood-spattered general and grabbed her by the throat as she tried to kneel in terror.

  ‘Chakahai’s children,’ he said, squeezing ruthlessly. ‘Where are they?’

  The woman choked, growing red until he released her. She coughed as she lay on the ground and he raised his sword to kill her.

  ‘With Borte, lord. Please, I know nothing.’

  Khasar was already moving. His horse was skittish at the smell of blood on him and had wandered away. He broke into a run, his sword held low as he loped between the gers, looking for the right one. Tears filled his eyes as he thought of his brother cooling on the plain. There would be a price.

  There were many people around Borte’s ger. Word was already spreading through the camp and warriors and families had abandoned their meals and beds to come out. Khasar hardly saw them, his gaze searching and finally alighting on the home he wanted. He could hear the sounds of life within it, voices and laughter. He did not hesitate and threw himself at the door so that it fell flat, the leather hinges tearing free.

  He ducked inside and stood to face the shocked family of his brother. Borte was there, with Ogedai. He was on his feet before Khasar had straightened, his hand on a sword hilt. Khasar barely registered him as his gaze fell on the four young children Chakahai had borne, two girls and two boys. In the lamplight, they stared at the bloody apparition, frozen.