LITMIR.BIZ

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what he did to us?’ she demanded, fighting Kachiun’s grip.

      Temujin shook his head. ‘He is a guest in my camp, mother. When we have fought the Tartars, I will have the Wolves from him, or he will have the Olkhun’ut.’

      Eeluk turned to him then and Temujin smiled bitterly.

      ‘Is that not what you want, Eeluk? I do not see more gers in your camp than when you left us on the plains to die. The sky father has abandoned the Wolves under your hand, but that will change.’

      Eeluk chuckled and flexed his shoulders.

      ‘I have said all I came to say. When we ride, you will know a better man holds your wing. After that, I will have a hard lesson for you and I will not let you live a second time.’

      ‘Go back to your gers, Eeluk,’ Temujin said. ‘I will begin training your men at dawn.’

      As the Tartars came south into the green plains, smaller tribes fled before their numbers. Some never paused as they sighted the host Temujin had assembled, skirting them so that they appeared as dark moving specks drifting across the hills far away. Others added their number to his warriors, so that the army grew daily in a trickle of furious riders. Temujin had sent messengers to the Naimans, the Oirats, any of the great tribes who could be found. Either they could not be reached or they would not come. He understood their reluctance, even as he scorned it. The tribes had never fought together in all their history. To have bound even three into a single force was astonishing. They had trained together until he thought they were as ready as they could ever be. Yet in the evenings he had been called time and again to forbid blood feuds, or punish fighting bands as they remembered grievances from generations before.

      He had not visited the gers of the Wolves. Not one of the old families had spoken up for his mother when she was left to die with her children. There had been a time when he would have given anything to walk amongst the people he had known as a boy, but as Hoelun had discovered before him, they were not the same. While Eeluk ruled them, it would not bring him peace.

      On the twentieth dawn after the arrival of the Olkhun’ut, the scouts came racing in to report the Tartar army on the horizon, less than a day’s march away. With them came another family of wanderers, driven before them like goats. Temujin blew the signal to assemble and there was quiet in the camps as the warriors kissed their loved ones goodbye and mounted their horses. Many of them chewed packages of hot mutton and bread to give them strength, pressed into their hands by daughters and mothers. The wings formed, with Eeluk’s Wolves taking the left and Kachiun and Khasar leading the Olkhun’ut on the right. Temujin held the Kerait in the centre, and as he looked right and left along the line of horsemen, he was satisfied. Eight hundred warriors waited for his signal to ride against their enemies. The forges of the Kerait and Olkhun’ut had been fired night and day and almost a third of them wore armour copied from the sets Wen Chao had given them. Their horses were protected by leather aprons studded with overlapping plates of iron. Temujin knew the Tartars had seen nothing like them. He waited while the women moved back, seeing Arslan reach down and kiss the young Tartar girl he had captured then taken for a wife. Temujin looked around, but there was no sign of Borte. The birth was overdue and he had not expected her to come out of the gers. He remembered Hoelun telling him that Yesugei had ridden out on the night of his own birth and he smiled wryly at the thought. The circle turned, but the stakes had grown. He had done everything he could and it was not hard to imagine his father watching his sons. Temujin caught the eye of Khasar and Kachiun, then found Temuge in the second rank to his left. He nodded to them and Khasar grinned. They had come a long way from the cleft in the hills where every day survived was a triumph.

      When they were ready, the shaman of the Olkhun’ut rode to the front on a mare of pure white. He was thin and ancient, his hair turned the colour of his mount. Every eye was on him as he chanted, raising his hands to the sky father. He held the fire-cracked shoulder blade of a sheep and he gestured with it as if it was a weapon. Temujin smiled to himself. The shaman of the Kerait had not been as thirsty for war and Temujin had chosen the right man for the ritual.

      As they watched, the shaman dismounted and pressed himself on the earth, embracing the mother who ruled them all. The chant was thin on the breeze, but the ranks of warriors sat in perfect stillness, waiting for the word. At last, the old man peered at the black lines on the bone, reading them as he ran his gnarled fingers along the fissures.

      ‘The mother rejoices,’ he called. ‘She yearns for the Tartar blood we will release into her. The sky father calls us on in his name.’ He broke the shoulder blade in his hands, showing surprising strength.

      Temujin filled his lungs and bellowed along the line. ‘The land knows only one people, my brothers,’ he shouted. ‘She remembers the weight of our steps. Fight well today and they will run before us.’

      They raised their bows in a great roar and Temujin felt his pulses beat faster. The shaman mounted his mare and passed back through the ranks. Out of superstitious fear, none of the warriors would meet the eye of the old man, but Temujin nodded to him, bowing his head.

      On the edges of the lines, riders carried small drums and they began to beat them, the noise matching his thumping heart. Temujin raised his arm and then dropped it to the right. He caught Khasar’s eye as his brother trotted clear with a hundred of the best Olkhun’ut warriors. Every one of them wore the armoured panels. At the charge, Temujin hoped they would be unstoppable. They rode away from the main force, and as he watched them, Temujin prayed they would meet again.

      When the line was silent and Khasar’s hundred were almost a mile away, Temujin dug in his heels and the Kerait, Wolves and Olkhun’ut went forward together, leaving the women and children, leaving the safety of the camp behind.

      CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

      Though they had all known the enemy they faced, it was still a shock to see the vast expanse of the Tartar force. They moved like a slow stain across the land, a dark mass of riders, carts and gers. Temujin and his brothers had scouted them five hundred miles to the north and still it was disturbing. Yet they did not falter. The men who rode with the sons of Yesugei knew they were ready for the battle. If there was fear in the ranks, it did not show as they kept the cold face. Only the constant checking of arrows revealed the strain as they heard the Tartar warning horns sound in the distance.

      Temujin rode through a green valley, his mare made strong on good spring grass. Again and again, he bellowed orders to check the more impetuous of his leaders. Eeluk was the worst of them and his left wing crept ahead and had to be reined in until Temujin half-believed it was a deliberate flouting of his orders. Ahead, they saw the Tartars boil around the gers, their thin shouts lost in the distance. The sun was bright and Temujin could feel the warmth on his back like a blessing. He checked his own arrows yet again, finding them ready in the quiver as they had been before. He wanted to hit the Tartars at full gallop, and knew he must leave the acceleration until the last possible instant. The Tartars had been coming south for at least three moons, riding every day. He hoped they would not be as fresh as his own warriors, nor as hungry to kill.

      At a mile away, he eased his weight forward, raising the beat of the hooves below him to a canter. His men followed perfectly, though once more Eeluk was straining to be first into the killing. Temujin blew on the signal horn and caught Eeluk’s furious glance at him as they eased back into line. The noise of hooves filled his ears and Temujin could hear the excited cries of his warriors around him, their eyes tight against the increasing pressure of the wind. He fitted the first arrow to his string, knowing that the air would soon be full of them. Perhaps one would find his throat and send him dying to the ground below in a last embrace. His heart pounded and he lost his fear in the concentration. The first arrows came whining in from the Tartars, but he did not give the signal to gallop. It had to be perfect. As the armies grew closer, he chose his moment.

      Temujin dug in his heels, calling ‘Chuh!’ to his mount. The mare responded with a surge of speed, almost leaping forward. Perhaps she felt the excitement as they did. The

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