The young mare was already nervous, sensing something in the air. She pranced, jerking her head up and down and whinnying aloud, fighting the tight grip of fingers in her mane. Her pale skin was perfect, unmarked by scars or ticks. Mohrol had chosen well and some of the watching warriors were tight-mouthed at such a sacrifice.
Mohrol built a bonfire taller than himself in front of the khan’s ger, then lit a branch of cedar wood, snuffing the flames so that the wood gave off a trail of fragrant white smoke. The shaman walked to Ogedai and held the smoking branch over his body, cleansing the air and blessing the khan for the ritual to come. With slow steps, he made a path around the supine form, muttering an incantation that made the hair on Khasar’s neck stand up. Khasar glanced at his nephew Tolui and found him rapt, fascinated by the shaman. The younger man would never understand how Khasar had once heard Genghis speaking an ancient tongue, with the blood of enemies fresh on his lips.
The darkness seemed to come quickly after looking into the flames of Mohrol’s fire. Thousands of warriors sat in silence and even those who had been injured in the fighting had been moved far away so that their cries of pain would not disturb the ritual. The quiet was so perfect that Khasar thought he could hear their keening cries even so, thin and distant, like birds.
With great care, the mare’s front and rear legs were bound in pairs. Whinnying in distress, she struggled briefly as warriors pushed at her haunches, rolling them so that she could not remain upright. Unable to take a step, she fell clumsily, lying with her head raised. One of the warriors took her muscular neck in his arms, holding her steady. The other gripped the back legs and they both looked up for Mohrol.
The shaman would not be rushed. He prayed aloud, singing and whispering in turn. He dedicated the life of the mare to the earth mother who would receive the blood. He asked again and again for the khan’s life to be spared.
In the middle of the ritual, Mohrol approached the mare. He had two knives and continued to sing and pray as he chose a place below the neck, where the smooth white skin began to sweep down into the mare’s chest. The two warriors braced themselves.
With a quick jerk, Mohrol jammed the blade in to its hilt. Blood streamed out, pumping rich and dark, covering his hands. The mare shuddered and whinnied in panic, snorting and struggling to rise. The warriors sat on her haunches and the blood continued to gout with every beat of her heart, covering the warriors as they struggled to hold her slippery flesh.
Mohrol placed a hand on her neck, feeling how the skin grew cold. The mare was still struggling, but more weakly. He pulled back her lips and nodded at the sight of the pale gums. In a loud voice, the shaman called once more to the spirits of the land and reached out with his second knife. It was a heavy-hilted block of metal, as long as his forearm and fine-edged. He waited until the blood flow was sluggish, then sawed quickly, back and forth across the mare’s throat. The blade disappeared into the flesh. More blood rushed and he watched her pupils grow large and infinitely dark.
Mohrol’s arms were red as he walked over to the khan. Unaware of all that was being done in his name, Ogedai lay unmoving, pale as death. Mohrol shook his head slightly and marked the khan’s cheeks with a red stripe from his finger.
No one dared to speak as he returned to the dead mare. They knew there was magic in sacrifice. As Mohrol brushed a biting insect from his face, many of them made a sign against evil at the thought of spirits gathering like flies on carrion.
Mohrol did not look discouraged as he nodded to the men to drag the dead animal away and bring in the next. He knew the mares would struggle as they smelled the blood, but he could at least spare them the sight of a dead horse.
Once again he began the chant that would end in sacrifice. Khasar looked away and many of the warriors drifted off rather than witness such wealth being ruined with a blade.
The second mare seemed quieter than the first, less spirited. She allowed herself to be walked in, but then she sensed something. In just a moment, she was panicking, whinnying loudly and using all her strength to pull the rein away from the man holding her. As they heaved in opposite directions, the halter snapped and she was free. In the darkness, she cannoned into Tolui, knocking him to the ground.
She did not get far. The warriors spread their arms and herded her, turning her around until they were able to get a new halter on and lead her back.
Tolui rose to his feet with no more than bruises, dusting himself off. He saw Mohrol looking strangely at him, and he shrugged under the shaman’s stare. The chanting began again and the second mare was hobbled quickly, ready for the knives. It would be a long night and the bitter smell of blood was already strong.
THIRTEEN
The ground around the khan was sodden red. Blood from a dozen mares had soaked into the earth until the soil could take no more and it pooled. Fat black flies buzzed and dipped all around them, driven to frenzy by the smell. Mohrol was dark with it, his bare arms and deel still wet as the torches guttered out and the sun began to rise. His voice was hoarse, his face filthy. Mosquitoes had gathered in clouds in the warm, damp air. The shaman had exhausted himself, but the khan lay motionless on the pallet, with eyes like shadowed holes.
The warriors were sleeping on the grass, waiting for news. They had not taken the mares for meat, and the bodies lay sprawled in a heap, their thin legs outstretched as their bellies began to swell with gas. No one knew whether the sacrifice might be lessened if they consumed the meat, so it would be left to rot untouched as the camp moved on. Many of them had left the scene of the slaughter for their own gers and women, unable to watch such fine mares being killed any longer.
In the dawn, Mohrol knelt on the wet grass and his knees sank into the soft ground. He had killed twelve horses and he felt leaden, weighed down by death. He refused to let his despair show while the khan lay helpless, his face marked with a script of dry blood. Mohrol felt light-headed as he knelt, and his voice began to fail completely, so that he whispered the ancient spells and divinations, rhythmic chants that rolled over and over until the words blurred into a stream of sound.
“The khan is in chains,” he croaked. “Lost and alone in a cage of flesh. Show me how to break his bonds. Show me what I must do to bring him home. The khan is in chains …”
The shaman could feel the weak dawn sunlight on his closed eyes. He had grown desperate, but he thought he could sense the whisper of spirits around the still figure of Ogedai. In the night, Mohrol had taken the khan’s wrist and checked for a pulse, he was so still. Yet, without warning, Ogedai would jerk and twist, his mouth opening and closing, his eyes bright for a few moments with something like awareness. The answer was there, Mohrol was certain, if he could only find it.
“Tengri of the blue sky, Erlik of the underworld, master of shadows, show me how to break the chains,” Mohrol whispered, his voice scratching. “Let him see his mirror soul in water; let him see his shadow soul in sunlight. I have given you blood in rivers, sweet mares bleeding their lives into the ground. I have given blood to the ninety-nine gods of white and black. Show me the chains and I will strike them free. Make me the hammer. By the ninety-nine, by the three souls, show me the way.” He raised his right hand to the sun, splaying the fingers that were his mark and his vocation. “This is your ancient land, spirit lords of the Chin. If you hear my voice, show me how you will be appeased. Whisper your needs into my ears. Show me the chains.”
Ogedai moaned on the bier, his head falling to one side. Mohrol was with him in an instant, still chanting. After such a night, with the dawn still gray and the dew half frozen on the red grass, he could feel the spirits around the khan. He could hear them breathe. His mouth was dry from a bitter paste that left a black crust on his lips. He had soared with it in the darkness, but there had been no answers, no flash of light and understanding.
“What will you take to let him go? What do you want? This flesh is the cage for the khan of a nation. Whatever you want you may have.” Mohrol took a deep breath,
close to collapse. “Is it my life? I would give it. Tell me how to break the chains. Were the mares not enough? I can have a thousand more brought to mark his skin. I can weave a web of blood around him, a skein of dark threads and dark magic.” He took faster breaths, forcing his body to pant, raising the heat within him that might lead to more powerful visions. “Shall I bring virgins to this place? Shall I bring slaves or enemies?” His voice fell lower, so that no one else could hear. “Shall I bring children to die for the khan? They would give their lives gladly enough. Show me the chains that I may strike them away. Make me the hammer. Is it a kinsman that he needs? His family would give their lives for the khan.”
Ogedai moved. He blinked rapidly, and as Mohrol watched in astonishment, the khan began to sit up, falling backwards as his right arm crumpled. The shaman caught him and tipped his own head back to howl in triumph like a wolf.
“Is it his son?” Mohrol went on desperately as he held the khan. “His daughters? His uncles or friends? Give me the sign, strike off the chains!”
At the shaman’s howl, men had jerked from sleep all around them. Hundreds came running from all directions. The news spread and as they heard, men and women raised their hands and cheered, hammering pots or swords together, whatever they had. They crashed out a rippling thunder of joy, and Ogedai sat up, flinching from it.
“Bring me water,” he said, his voice weak. “What is happening?” He opened his eyes and saw the field of blood and the corpse of the last mare lying dark in the dawn light. Ogedai could not understand what had happened, and he rubbed his itching face, staring in confusion at the flakes of dried blood on his palms.
“Raise a fresh ger for the khan,” Mohrol ordered, his voice barely a wheeze, but growing stronger in his jubilation. “Make it clean and dry. Bring food and clean water.”
The ger was raised around Ogedai, though he was able to sit up. The weakness in his arm drained away in slow stages. By the time the rising sun was blocked by felt and wood, he was drinking water and calling for wine, though Mohrol would not hear of it. The shaman’s authority had grown with his success, and the khan’s servants could not ignore his stern expression. For just a short time, the shaman could overrule his own khan. Mohrol stood tall with a new dignity and visible pride.
Khasar and Tolui joined Ogedai in the new ger, as the most senior men in the camp. The khan was still pale, but he smiled weakly at their worried expressions. His eyes were sunken and dark and his hand quivered as Mohrol handed him a bowl of salt tea, telling him to drink it all. The khan frowned and licked his lips at the thought of wine, but he did not protest. He had felt death pressing and it had frightened him, for all he thought he had prepared for it.
“There were times when I could hear everything, but not respond,” Ogedai said, his voice like an old man’s breath. “I thought I was dead then, with spirits in my ears. It was …” His eyes darkened as he sipped and he did not go on to tell them of the sick terror he had felt, trapped in his own body, drifting in and out of consciousness. His father had told him never to speak of his fears. Men were fools, Genghis had said, always imagining others were stronger, faster, less afraid. Even in his weakness, Ogedai remembered. The terror of that dark had hurt him, but he was still the khan.
Servants laid sheets of rough felt on the bloody ground around him. The thick mats drew up the blood in an instant, becoming heavy and red. More were brought in and piled on top of the lower layers until the whole floor of the ger was covered. Mohrol knelt then at Ogedai’s side and reached out to examine his eyes and gums.
“You have done well, Mohrol,” Ogedai said. “I did not expect to be coming back.”
Mohrol frowned. “It is not over, my lord. The sacrifice of mares was not enough.” He took a long breath and fell silent while he bit at a ragged nail on his hands, tasting the specks of blood there. “The spirits of this land are full of bile and hatred. They released their grip on your soul only when I spoke of another in your place.”
Ogedai looked blearily at the shaman, struggling not to show his fear.
“What do you mean? My head is full of wasps, Mohrol. Speak clearly, as if to a child. I will understand you then.”
“There is a price for your return, lord. I do not know how long you have before they snatch you back into the darkness. It could be a day, or even a few more breaths, I cannot tell.”
Ogedai stiffened. “I cannot go through that again, do you understand, shaman? I could not breathe …” He felt his eyes prickle and rubbed furiously at them. His own body was a weak vessel, it always had been. “Bring me wine, shaman.”
“Not yet, my lord. We have just a little time and you need to think clearly.”
“Do what you must, Mohrol. I will pay any price.” Ogedai had seen the dead mares and he shook his head wearily, looking through the walls of the ger to where he knew they still lay. “You have my own herds, my slaughtermen, whatever you need.”
“Horses are not enough, my lord, I’m sorry. You came back to us …”
Ogedai looked up sharply. “Speak! Who knows how much time I have!”
For once, the shaman stammered, hating what he had to say.
“Another sacrifice, lord. It must be someone of your own blood. That was the offer that pulled you back from death. That was the reason you returned.”
Mohrol was so intent on watching Ogedai’s response that he did not sense Khasar coming toward him until he was heaved into the air to face the older man.
“You little …” Khasar’s mouth worked in rage, sending flecks of spit onto Mohrol’s face as he held the shaman and shook him like a dog with a rat. “I have heard these games before from men like you. We broke the back of the last one and left him for the wolves. You think you can scare my family? My family? You think you can demand a blood debt for your shabby spells and incantations? Well, after you, shaman. You die first and then we’ll see.”
As he spoke, Khasar had drawn a short skinning knife from his belt, keeping his hand low. Before anyone could speak, he flicked his wrist, cutting into Mohrol’s groin. The shaman gasped and Khasar let him fall onto his back. He wiped blood from the knife, but kept it ready in his hand as Mohrol writhed, his hands cupped.
Ogedai rose slowly from his pallet. He was thin and weak, but his eyes were furious. Khasar looked coldly at him, refusing to be cowed.
“In my camp, you cut my own shaman, Uncle?” Ogedai growled. “You have forgotten where you are. You have forgotten who I am.”
Khasar stuck his chin out defiantly, but he put away the blade.
“See him clearly, Ogedai … my lord khan,” Khasar replied. “This one wants my death, so he whispers that it has to be one of your blood. They are all hip-deep in games of power, and they have caused my family—your family—enough pain. You should not listen to a word from him. Let us wait a few days and see how you recover. You will be strong again, I’d bet my own mares on it.”
Mohrol rolled to his knees. The hand he pressed to his groin was red with fresh blood, and he felt sick and shaky with the pain. He glared at Khasar.
“I do not know the name yet. It is not my choice. I wish it were.”
“Shaman,” Ogedai said softly. “You will not have my son, even if my own life depends on it. Nor my wife.”
“Your wife is not your blood, lord. Let me cast another divination and find the name.”
Ogedai nodded, easing himself back down to the pallet. Even that small exertion had brought him to the edge of fainting.
Mohrol got to his feet like an old man, hunched over against the pain. Khasar smiled coldly at him. Spots of blood fell from between the shaman’s legs, vanishing instantly into the felt.
“Do it quickly then,” Khasar said. “I do not have patience for your kind, not today.”
Mohrol looked away from him, frightened by a man who used violence as easily as breathing. He could not untie his robe and examine the wound with Khasar leering at him. He felt ill and the gash throbbed and burned. He shook his head, t
rying to clear it. He was the khan’s shaman and the divination had to be correct. Mohrol wondered what would happen if the spirits gave him Khasar’s name. He did not think he would live long after that.
As Khasar watched with contempt, Mohrol sent his servants running for tapers of incense. Soon the air of the ger was thick, and Mohrol added other herbs to his burning bowl, breathing in a coolness that made the ache in his groin just a distant irritation. After a time, even that faded and was gone.
At first Ogedai coughed as the harsh smoke entered his lungs. One of the servants dared Mohrol’s disapproval at last, and a skin of wine appeared at the khan’s feet. He drank it like a man dying of thirst, and a bloom of color came back to his cheeks. His eyes were bright with fascination and dread as Mohrol clutched the bones for divination, holding them to the four winds and calling for the spirits to guide his hand.
At the same time, the shaman took a pot of gritty black paste and rubbed a stripe of it along his tongue. It was dangerous to release his spirit again so soon, but he steeled himself, ignoring the way his heart fluttered in his chest. The bitterness brought tears to his eyes, so that they shone in the gloom. When Mohrol closed his mouth, his pupils grew enormous, like the eyes of dying horses.
The blood was slowly seeping into the layers of felt, and the smell of it was pungent. With the narcotic incense, the exhausted men could hardly stand it, but Mohrol seemed to thrive in the thick air, the paste giving strength to his flesh. His voice rolled out a chant as he moved the bag of bones to the north, east, south, and west, over and over, calling for the spirits of home to guide him.
The Khan Series 5-Book Bundle: Genghis: Birth of an Empire, Genghis: Bones of the Hills, Genghis: Lords of the Bow, Khan: Empire of Silver, Conqueror Page 145
