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‘If we stay with the Kerait for five days, how many sets can I have?’ Temujin said, pressing him. Arslan shook his head as he thought.
‘These thin iron plates are not difficult to forge, though each one must be finished by hand. If I leave them rough and have helpers in the forge and women to sew them …’ He paused to think it through. ‘Perhaps three, maybe more.’
‘Then that is your task,’ Temujin said. ‘If Wen Chao will lend us more from his guards, we will have a force of men the Tartars cannot kill. We will make them fear us.’
Wen pursed his mouth as he considered. It was true that the first minister would send gold and horses if he asked. The court did not stint on the materials to bribe the tribes. He was not certain they would be so generous with weapons and armour. Only a fool gave away his advantages in war, for all the promises Wen had made to the young raider. If he allowed Temujin to take his men’s armour, he did not doubt it would raise an eyebrow in the court if they ever heard of it, but what choice did he have? He inclined his head, forcing a smile.
‘They are yours, my lord. I will have them brought to you tonight.’ He repressed a shudder at the thought of Temujin’s men going as well armoured as any soldier of the Chin. Perhaps in time he would have to court the Tartars to have them curb the Mongol tribes. He wondered if he might have extended his stay in the plains, his heart sinking at the thought.
In the gers of the Kerait the following night, Khasar cuffed his youngest brother, sending Temuge spinning. At thirteen years of age, the boy had none of the fire of his older brethren and tears sparkled in his eyes as he steadied himself.
‘What was that for?’ Temuge demanded.
Khasar sighed.
‘How is it that you are our father’s son, little man?’ he demanded. ‘Kachiun would have taken my head off if I tried to hit him like that and he is only a couple of years older than you.’
With a shout, Temuge launched himself at Khasar, only to be knocked flat as his brother cuffed him again.
‘That was a little better,’ Khasar admitted grudgingly. ‘I had killed a man by the time I was your age …’ He stopped, shocked to see that Temuge was snivelling, tears running down his cheeks. ‘You’re not crying? Kachiun, can you believe this little scrap?’
Kachiun lay on a bed in the corner of the ger, ignoring them as he applied a layer of oil to his bow. He paused at the question, looking over to where Temuge was rubbing at his nose and eyes.
‘He’s just a child, still,’ he said, returning to his task.
‘I am not!’ Temuge shouted, red in the face.
Khasar grinned at him. ‘You cry like one,’ he said, taunting. ‘If Temujin saw you like that, he’d leave you for the dogs.’
‘He would not,’ Temuge said, tears appearing in his eyes again.
‘He would, you know. He’d strip you naked and leave you on a hill for the wolves to bite,’ Khasar continued, looking sad. ‘They like the young ones, for the tender meat.’
Temuge snorted in disdain.
‘He said I could ride with him against the Tartars, if I wanted,’ he announced. Khasar knew Temujin had made the offer, but he feigned amazement.
‘What, a little scrap like you? Against those great hairy Tartars? They’re worse than wolves, boy, those warriors. Taller than us and white-skinned, like ghosts. Some people say they are ghosts and they come for you when you fall asleep.’
‘Leave him alone,’ Kachiun murmured.
Khasar considered, subsiding reluctantly. Kachiun took his silence for assent and sat up on the bed.
‘They are not ghosts, Temuge, but they are hard men and good with the bow and the sword. You are not strong enough yet to stand against them.’
‘You were, at my age,’ Temuge said.
There was a line of shining mucus under his nose and Khasar wondered if it would drip down to the boy’s mouth. He watched it with interest as Kachiun swung his legs to the floor to address Temuge.
‘I could fire a bow better than you at your age, yes. I practised every day until my hands were cramped and my fingers bled.’ He patted his right shoulder with his left hand, indicating the compact muscle there. It was larger than his left and writhed whenever he moved.
‘It built my strength, Temuge. Have you done the same? Whenever I see you, you are playing with the children, or talking to our mother.’
‘I have practised,’ Temuge said, sullenly, though they both knew he was lying, or at least skirting the truth. Even with a bone ring to protect his fingers, he was a hopeless archer. Kachiun had taken him out many times and run with him, building his stamina. It did not seem to make the boy’s wind any better. At the end of only a mile, he would be puffing and gasping.
Khasar shook his head, as if weary.
‘If you cannot fire a bow and you are not strong enough to use a sword, will you kick them to death?’ he said. He thought the little boy might leap at him again, but Temuge had given up.
‘I hate you,’ he said. ‘I hope the Tartars kill you both.’ He would have stormed out of the ger, but Khasar deliberately tripped him as he passed, so that he fell flat in the doorway. Temuge ran off without looking back.
‘You are too hard on him,’ Kachiun said, reaching for his bow again.
‘No. If I hear one more time that he is such a “sensitive boy”, I think I will lose my dinner. Do you know who he was talking to today? The Chin, Wen Chao. I heard them chattering about birds or something as I went by. You tell me what that was about.’
‘I can’t, but he is my baby brother and I want you to stop nagging at him like an old woman; is that too much to ask?’
Kachiun’s voice contained a little heat and Khasar considered his response. He could still win their fights, but the last few had resulted in so many painful bruises that he did not provoke one lightly.
‘We all treat him differently, and what sort of a warrior is he as a result?’ Khasar said.
Kachiun looked up. ‘Perhaps he will be a shaman, or a storyteller like old Chagatai.’
Khasar snorted. ‘Chagatai was a warrior when he was young, or so he always said. It’s no task for a young man.’
‘Let him find his own path, Khasar,’ Kachiun said. ‘It may not be where we lead him.’
Borte and Temujin lay together without touching. With blood fresh on their mouths, they had made love on the first night of the punishment raid against the Tartars, though she had cried out in grief and pain as his weight came down on her. He might have stopped then, but she had gripped his buttocks, holding him in her while tears streamed down her face.
It had been the only time. Since that day, she could not bring herself to let him touch her again. Whenever he came to the furs, she would kiss him and curl into his arms, but nothing more. Her monthly blood had not come since leaving the Olkhun’ut, but now she feared for the child. It had to be his, she was almost certain. She had seen the way many dogs would mount a bitch in the camp of the Olkhun’ut. Sometimes the puppies would show the colours of more than one of the fathers. She did not know if the same could apply to her and she did not dare ask Hoelun.
In the darkness of an unfamiliar ger, she wept again while her husband slept, and did not know why.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT