Читать книгу Conqueror: The Complete 5-Book Collection - Conn Iggulden - Страница 43

Wen Chao stayed for three days in the camp, discussing terms. He allowed them to press skins of airag on him before he lowered the gold curtains of his litter and Yuan gave the signal for him to be lifted.

Behind the silk hangings, Wen scratched himself, convinced he had picked up lice from the gers. It had been a trial, as he had expected, but they seemed as keen on war with the Tartars as Togrul had hoped. It was no surprise, Wen thought to himself as he was borne over the plains. The tribes raided each other even in winter. Now that the spring had brought the first grass through the frozen ground, they would be at their business in earnest. It had always been their way. Wen smiled to himself as he read the works of Xun Zi and drowsed, occasionally making notes in the margins. The minister had been right to send someone with his diplomatic skills, he thought. Little Zhang could not have brokered such a deal, even with the promises of ponies and armour. The lisping eunuch would certainly have shown his disgust at the wedding ceremony Wen Chao had witnessed the previous day. He shuddered at the thought of the hot drink of milk and blood he had been given. Xun Zi would have applauded his discipline then. The woman Borte had been as stringy and hard as her husband, Wen reflected. Not his taste at all, though the young raider seemed to find her pleasing. What Wen would have given for a night with one of the Willow women! There was no place for sleek, powdered thighs in that hard land and Wen cursed his work yet again, miserably.

On the fourth day out, he was ready to give the order to stop for a meal, when Yuan galloped back from his scouting. Wen listened impatiently from inside the litter as Yuan snapped orders. It was frustrating to play the part of the noble when interesting things were going on around him. He sighed to himself. His curiosity had landed him in trouble more than once before.

When Yuan finally approached the litter, Wen had stowed his scrolls and warmed himself with a draught of the clear fluid the tribes brewed. That, at least, was useful, though it paled in comparison with the rice wine he knew at home.

‘Why do you disturb me this time, Yuan?’, he asked. ‘I was going to take a nap before the meal.’ In fact, one glance at his first guard’s flushed face had set his pulses throbbing. He needed rebalancing, he was sure of it. Too much time amongst the tribes and he would be thinking of taking up a sword himself like a common soldier. They had that effect on even the most cultured of men.

‘Riders, my lord. Tartars,’ Yuan said, touching his forehead to the icy grass.

‘Well? We are in Tartar lands, are we not? It is no surprise to meet a few of them while we travel south to the Kerait. Let them pass, Yuan. If they stand in our way, kill them. You have disturbed me for nothing.’

Yuan bowed his head and Wen spoke quickly to avoid shaming his first guard. The man was as prickly as a eunuch over matters of honour.

‘I spoke rashly, Yuan. You were right to bring it to my attention.’

‘My lord, there are thirty warriors, all of them well armed and riding fresh ponies. They can only be from a larger camp.’

Wen spoke slowly, trying to restrain his patience.

‘I do not see how that affects us, Yuan. They know better than to interfere with a representative of the Chin. Tell them to go around us.’

‘I thought …’ Yuan began. ‘I wondered if you might send a rider back to the camp we left, my lord. To warn them. The Tartars could well be looking for them.’

Wen blinked at his first guard in surprise.

‘You have grown affectionate towards our hosts, I see. It is a weakness in you, Yuan. What do I care if the Tartars and Mongols kill each other? Is that not my task, handed down from the first minister himself? Honestly, I think you forget yourself.’

A warning shout came from one of the other guards and both Wen and Yuan heard the approach of riders. Yuan remained where he was.

Wen closed his eyes for a moment. There was no peace to be had in this land, no silence. Whenever he thought he had found it, someone would go riding past, looking for enemies to kill. He felt a wave of homesickness strike him like a physical force, but crushed it down. Until he was recalled, this was his fate.

‘If it please you, Yuan, tell them we have not seen the raiders. Tell them I am exercising my men ready for spring.’

‘Your will, master.’

Wen watched as the Tartar warriors rode up. They did look as if they were armed for war, he acknowledged, though he cared nothing for Temujin or his ragged gers. He would not have shed a tear if the entire Tartar nation was destroyed, and the Mongol tribes with them. Perhaps then he would be called home at last.

He saw Yuan speak with the leader, a heavy-set man wrapped in thick furs. It made Wen shudder to see such a filthy warrior and he would certainly not lower himself to address him in person. The Tartar seemed angry, but Wen cared nothing for that. His men were chosen from the personal guard of the first minister and any one of them was worth half a dozen screaming tribesmen. Yuan himself had won his sword in a tournament of all the army, standing first amongst his division. In that, at least, Wen had been well served.

With furious glances at the litter, the Tartars blustered and pointed their swords, while Yuan sat his horse impassively, shaking his head. Only their youthful pride prevented them from riding away and Wen wondered if he would indeed be called out to remind them of his status. Even unwashed Tartars knew the Chin representative was not to be touched and he was relieved when the warriors finished their display and rode on without looking back. A small part of him was disappointed that they had not decided to draw swords. Yuan would have butchered them. Idly, Wen wondered if Temujin was ready for such a force. He decided he did not care. If they found the Mongol camp, one or the other would prevail. Either way, there would be fewer tribesmen to trouble his sleep.

When they were gone, Wen found his digestion had become disturbed. Blowing air from his lips in irritation, he called for Yuan to set up the small pavilion he used to empty his bowels away from prying eyes. He did all he could to make himself comfortable, but the pleasures of the court haunted his dreams and he had not had a woman in a long, long time. Perhaps if he wrote humbly to little Zhang, he could arrange his recall. No. He could not bear the thought.

The Tartar raiders came in hard and fast as soon as they heard the warning horns sound. They kicked their ponies into a gallop and each man rode with a bow ready to send death down the throat of anyone standing in the way.

Temujin and his brothers came skidding out of their gers while the first horn notes still echoed. The warriors moved to their positions without panic. Those on the main path pulled wooden barriers up from the ground, jamming staffs under them to keep them solid. Riders would not be able to gallop right between the gers. They would have to jink around the obstacles, and be forced to slow down.

Temujin saw his men ready their arrows, laying them down on the frozen ground. They were finished moments before they sighted the first enemy in his stinking furs.

The Tartars rode three abreast, high in the saddle as they searched for targets. Temujin saw they were relying on fear and confusion, and he showed his teeth as he watched them come. He felt the ground shudder underneath his feet and he wished he had the sword Arslan had made for him. In its place was a Tartar blade of poor quality. It would have to serve.

The first riders saw the barrier in their path. Two swung their mounts around it, interfering with the third. They saw the men in its shadow and released their shafts from instinct, hammering them uselessly into wood. As soon as they struck, Kachiun and Khasar rose above the edge and loosed, the bow strings humming. The arrows punched through the riders, slamming two of the Tartars into the hard ground at full gallop. They did not rise again.

At first, it was a massacre. The Tartars who galloped behind their fellows found their way blocked by riderless ponies and the dead. Two of them leapt the barricade before Kachiun and Khasar could set another arrow. The riders found themselves in an open space, with drawn bows all around. They had barely time to shout before dark shafts impaled them, cutting off their war cries and sending them spinning out of the saddles.

Another of the Tartars tried to leap the first barrier. His pony missed the jump and crushed it flat, snapping the staff that held it upright. Khasar rolled away, but Kachiun’s leg was caught and he swore in pain. He lay helpless on his back as more galloped in, knowing he could measure his life in moments.

A rider saw Kachiun struggling and drew back on his bow to pin him to the ground. Before he could loose, Arslan stepped out from one side and ripped a sword across his throat. The Tartar collapsed, his pony veering wildly. Arrows whined around them as Arslan yanked Kachiun free. Khasar was on one knee, sending shaft after shaft into the Tartars, but he had lost his calm and six men broke through, untouched by any of them.

Temujin saw them coming. Without the first barrier, the men could ride straight down the left of the main path. He saw two of his men face them and fall with Tartar arrowheads sticking out of their backs. The second barrier group turned to send arrows after them and, behind, another group of six broke past his brothers. The raid was hanging in the balance, despite his preparations.

He waited until a Tartar had loosed his shaft before stepping out and chopping his blade into the man’s thigh. Blood spattered him as the man screamed, yanking wildly on his reins. Out of control, the Tartar turned his pony into a ger, which collapsed with a crackle of broken wood, catapulting him over the pony’s head.

The first group of six turned their bows on Temujin, forcing him to leap for cover. A snarling warrior rode at him, his bow bent to send the spiked arrow down into his chest. Temujin rolled, coming up with his sword outstretched. The man yelled as the blade buried itself in his gut and the arrow buzzed over Temujin’s head. The shoulder of the pony hit Temujin as it passed, knocking him flat. He rose groggily and looked around him.

The camp was in chaos. The Tartars had lost a lot of men, but those who lived were riding around in triumph, looking for targets. Many of them had dropped their bows and drawn swords for the close work. Temujin saw two kick their mounts at Arslan and he scrabbled for his own bow to send a shaft after them. The first arrow he touched was broken and the rest were scattered. He found one that would do, after a moment’s frenzied search. He could hear his mother yelling and, as he turned to see, Borte darted out from a ger, rushing after little Temulun. His young sister was running in panic and neither of them saw the Tartar bearing down on them. Temujin held his breath, but Arslan was armed and ready for his attackers. He made his choice.

Temujin heaved back on the string, aiming at the lone warrior bearing down on Borte. He heard a sudden thunder and another Tartar was riding at him, sword already swinging to take off his head. There was no time to dodge, but Temujin dropped to his knees as he let go, struggling to adjust his aim. The arrow went skipping over the ground, wasted. Then something hit him hard enough to shake the world and he fell.

Jelme stepped up to his father’s side as the two Tartars bore down on them.

‘Go left,’ Arslan snapped at his son, even as he stepped to the right.

The Tartars saw them move, but the father and son had left it to the very last moment and they could not adjust. Arslan’s blade tip found the neck of one man as Jelme cut the other, almost taking his head off. Both Tartars were dead in a heartbeat, their ponies hammering past without direction.

The Tartar leader had not survived the first attack on the barricades and there were barely a dozen left of the original force. With the hill backing on to the camp, there was no chance to ride through and away, so those that still lived shouted and wheeled, cutting at anything against them. Arslan saw two pulled out of their saddles and knifed as they writhed, screaming. It was a bloody business, but the main Tartar force had been destroyed. The few survivors lay low on the saddles as they galloped back the way they had come, shafts whistling after them.

Arslan saw one coming back from the other side of the camp and he readied himself to kill again, standing perfectly still in the pony’s path. In the last moment, he saw the kicking legs of a captive across the saddle and spoiled his own blow. His left hand snapped out to yank Borte free, but his fingers caught only an edge of cloth and then the man was past. Arslan saw Khasar was following the rider with an arrow on the string, and he shouted.

‘Hold, Khasar. Hold!’

The order rang across a camp that was suddenly quiet after the roaring Tartars. Not more than six made it away and Arslan was already running for the ponies.

‘Mount up!’ he roared. ‘They have one of the women. Mount!’

He looked for Temujin as he ran, then saw a limp figure and skidded to a stop in horror. Temujin lay surrounded by dead men. A pony with a broken leg stood shivering next to him, its sides streaked with whitish sweat. Arslan ignored the animal, pushing it away as he knelt beside the young man he had rescued from the Wolves.

There was a lot of blood and Arslan felt his heart contract in a painful spasm. He reached down and touched the flap of flesh that had been torn free from Temujin’s scalp. With a shout of joy, he saw it still bled into the pool that lay around his head. Arslan lifted Temujin free of the blood that covered half his face.

‘He is alive,’ Arslan whispered.

Temujin remained unconscious as Arslan carried him to a tent. His brothers galloped out after the raiders, sparing only a glance for the figure in Arslan’s arms. They were grim-faced and angry as they passed him, and Arslan did not pity any Tartars they caught that day.

Arslan laid Temujin down in his mother’s ger, surrendering him to her. Temulun was crying bitterly in a corner, the sound almost painful. Hoelun looked up from her son as she reached for her needle and thread.

‘Comfort my daughter, Arslan,’ she said, concentrating on her task.

Arslan ducked his head in acknowledgement, going over to the little girl.

‘Would you like to be picked up?’ he asked her.

Temulun nodded through her tears and he jerked her into the air. She looked up at him and he forced himself to smile. The reaction to killing was setting in and he felt himself grow light-headed as his pounding heart beat too fast for stillness and quiet. Hoelun pushed the bone needle through the first piece of Temujin’s scalp and Arslan saw the little girl wince and her mouth open to resume crying.

‘It’s all right, little one, I’ll take you to Eluin. She has been looking for you,’ he said. He did not want the girl to see the bodies outside but, equally, he could not stay in the ger and do nothing. He hoped Eluin was still alive.

As he turned to leave, he heard Temujin give a shuddering gasp. When Arslan looked, he saw Temujin’s eyes were open and clear, watching Hoelun as she stitched with quick, neat hands.

‘Lie still,’ Hoelun said, when her son tried to get up. ‘I need to do this well.’

Temujin subsided, his gaze finding Arslan at the door. ‘Tell me,’ he ordered.

‘We broke the attack. They have Borte,’ Arslan replied.

As he spoke, Hoelun tugged at the thread and a whole section of Temujin’s scalp wrinkled. Arslan bounced Temulun in his arms, but she had quieted again and seemed content to play with a silver button on his deel.

Hoelun used a cloth to dab blood out of her son’s eyes. The scalp wound was still bleeding heavily, but the stitching helped. She pushed the needle through another bit of flesh and felt Temujin tense.

‘I need to be up, mother,’ he murmured. ‘Are you nearly finished?’

‘Your brothers have gone after the last of them,’ Arslan said quickly. ‘With such a wound, there is no point in following them, not yet. You have lost a lot of blood and there’s no point in risking a fall.’

‘She is my wife,’ Temujin replied, his eyes growing cold. His mother bent forward as if to kiss him, instead biting off the end of the thread in his skin. He sat up as soon as she moved away, raising his fingers to the line of stitches.

‘Thank you,’ he said. His eyes lost their hard focus then and Hoelun nodded as she rubbed at the dried blood on his cheek.

Arslan heard Eluin’s voice outside the ger and stepped through the door to pass Temulun into her care. He returned, looking grim, as Temujin tried to stand. The young khan swayed, taking hold of the central spar of the ger to keep himself upright.

‘You cannot ride today,’ Arslan told him. ‘All you could do is follow the tracks of your brothers. Let them find her.’

‘Would you?’ Temujin demanded. He had closed his eyes against the dizziness and Arslan’s heart swelled to see his determination. He sighed.

‘No, I would go after them. I will bring your pony and fetch my own.’

He ducked out of the ger and Hoelun stood and took Temujin’s free hand in her own.

‘You will not want to hear what I have to say,’ she murmured.

Temujin opened his eyes, blinking against a fresh trail of blood.

‘Say whatever you have to,’ he replied.

‘If your brothers cannot run them down before night, they will hurt her.’

‘They will rape her, mother. I know. She is strong.’

Hoelun shook her head.

‘You do not know. She will be ashamed.’ She paused for a moment, wanting him to understand. ‘If they have hurt her, you will have to be very strong. You cannot expect her to be the same, with you or any man.’

‘I will kill them,’ Temujin promised, rage kindling in him. ‘I will burn them and eat their flesh if they do.’

‘That will bring you peace, but it will not change anything for Borte,’ Hoelun said.

‘What else can I do? She cannot kill them as I could, or force them to kill her, even. Nothing that happens is her fault.’ He found himself crying and wiped angrily at bloody tears on his cheeks. ‘She trusted me.’

‘You cannot make this right, my son. Not if they escape your brothers. If you find her alive, you will have to be patient and kind.’

‘I know that! I love her; that is enough.’

‘It was,’ Hoelun persisted. ‘It may not be enough any longer.’

Temujin stood in the cold wind, his head throbbing. As Arslan brought the ponies, he looked around, smelling blood on the breeze. The camp was littered with broken bodies. Some still moved. One Tartar lay on his back as if dead, but his fingers plucked at two arrow shafts in his chest, twitching like pale spiders. Temujin drew a knife from his belt and staggered over to him. The man could only have been moments from death, but Temujin still knelt at his side and placed the point of his blade onto the pulsing throat. The touch of it stilled the scrabbling fingers and the Tartar turned his eyes mutely onto Temujin. As he met them, Temujin pushed slowly downwards, cutting the windpipe and breathing in a gust of bloody air.

When he rose, Temujin was still unsteady. The sun seemed too bright and, without warning, he turned and vomited. He heard Hoelun speaking to him, but it was through a roaring sound that he could not clear. She and Arslan were arguing about him going out and Temujin could see Arslan’s face frowning in doubt.

‘I will not fall,’ Temujin said to both of them, taking hold of his saddle horn. ‘Help me up, here. I have to follow them.’

It took both of them to heave him into the saddle, but once there, Temujin felt a little more secure. He shook his head, wincing at the pain crashing behind his eyes.

‘Jelme?’ he called. ‘Where are you?’

Arslan’s son was spattered with drying blood, his sword still bare as he walked around corpses to reach them. Temujin watched him come, dimly aware that he had never seen Jelme angry before.

‘While we are gone, you must move the camp,’ Temujin said, slurring his words. His head felt too large, lolling on his shoulders. He did not hear what Jelme said in reply.

‘Travel by night. Take them into the hills, but move south towards the Kerait. If Togrul has the men to match us, I will burn the Tartars from the face of the world. I will look for you when I have found my wife.’

‘Your will, my lord,’ Jelme said. ‘But if you do not come back?’ It had to be said, but Temujin winced again as the pain became overwhelming.

‘Then find that valley we talked about and raise sons and sheep,’ he said at last.

He had done his duty as khan. Jelme was a fine leader and those who looked to Temujin for leadership would be safe. He took a firm grip on the reins. He could not be far behind his brothers. All that was left was vengeance.